\ % 9 » ' t LADY CLARA FERE DE FERE. The Works Alfred Tennyson, Poet Laureate, With Photographic Illustrations By Payne Jennings. LONDON: SUTTABY & CO., Amk.N CORNER. MDCCCLXXXVII. THE WORKS OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON POET LAUREATE ILontrott MACMILLAN AND CO. AND NEW YORK 1887 Printed by R. & R. Clark, January 1SS4. Reprinted April 1884; February, October, i8Sj ; May, December, 1886 ; 1S87. CONTENTS To the Queen . Juvenilia . Claribel Nothing will Die All Things will Die Leonine Elegiacs Supposed Confessions ol Sensitive Mind The Kraken Song . Lilian Isabel Mariana To- Madeline Song—The Owl Second Song—To the Sam Recollections of the Arab Ode to Memory Song . A Character The Poet . The Poet’s Mind The Sea-Fairies The Deserted House The Dying Swan A Dirge Love and Death The Ballad of Oriana Circumstance The Merman The Mermaid Adeline Margaret . Rosalind . Eleanore . ‘ My life is full of weary Early Sonnets 1. Sonnet to 2. Sonnet to J, M, K. 3. ‘ Mine be the strengt 4. Alexander. 5. Buonaparte an Night a Seconc days 5 of spirit Juvenilia— Early Sonnets continued— 6. Poland. 7. ‘ Caress’d or chidden ’ 8. * The form, the form alone is eloquent’ 9. ‘Wan sculptor, weepest thou’ . 10. * If I were loved, as I desire to be ’., n. The Bridesmaid . The Lady of Shalott, and other The Lady of Shalott. Mariana in the South The Two Voices The Miller’s Daughter Fatima CEnone The Sisters To- . The Palace of Art Lady Clara Vere de Vere The May Queen New-Year’s Eve . Conclusion The Lotos-Eaters Choric Song , A Dream of Fair Women The Blackbird . The Death of the Old Year To J. S. . , On a Mourner . ‘ You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease ‘ Of old sat Freedom on the heights ‘ Love thou thy land ’ England and America in 1782 The Goose English Idylls and other Poems The Epic . Morte d’Arthur. The Gardener’s Daughter; or, the Pic Dora. Audley Court . Walking to the Mail. Edwin Morris ; or, the Lake St. Simeon Stylites . Poems: 27 29 30 36 39 40 44 44 44 49 50 5 1 52 54 54 56 61 62 62 63 64 64 64 66 66 67 68 ures 72 77 79 81 83 85 IV CONTENTS. PAGE English Idylls and other Poems contd .— The Talking Oak 88 Love and Duty. 92 The Golden Year 94 Ulysses 95 Tithonus 96 Locksley Hall . 98 Godiva .... The Day-Dream . 104 Prologue . 104 The Sleeping Palace 104 The Sleeping Beauty i °5 The Arrival 106 The Revival 106 The Departure . 107 Moral 107 L’Epvoi 107 Epilogue . 108 Amphion 108 St. Agnes’ Eve 109 Sir Galahad . IIO Edward Gray in Will Waterproof’s Lyrical Monologue in Lady Clare . 114 The Captain. «5 The Lord of Burleigh . 116 The Voyage . 117 Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 118 A Farewell . 119 The Beggar Maid 119 The Eagle . 119 ‘ Move eastward, happy earth, and leave ’ 119 ‘ Come not, when I am dead ’ 119 The Letters . 120 The Vision of Sin . 120 To-, after reading a Life and Letters 123 To E. L., on his Travels in Greece 124 ‘ Break, break, break ’ . 124 The Poet’s Song . 124 Enoch Arden, and other Poems Enoch Arden .... The Brook .... Aylmer’s Field .... Sea Dreams . . Lucretius ..... 125 i 39 142 156 161 The Princess; a Medley Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington The Third of February, 1852 The Charge of the Light Brigade Ode sung at the Opening of the International Exhibition....... A Welcome to Alexandra .... 165 218 221 222 223 223 PAGE A Welcome to Her Royal Highness Marie Alexandrovna, Duchess of Edinburgh 224 The Grandmother , 225 Northern Farmer. Old Style 228 Northern Farmer. New Style 231 The Daisy .... 233 To the Rev. F. D. Maurice 234 Will. 235 In the Valley of Cauteretz . 235 In the Garden at Swainston 235 The Flower .... 235 Requiescat .... 236 The Sailor Boy 236 The Islet .... 236 Child-Songs .... 237 1. The City Child . 237 2. Minnie and Winnie 237 The Spiteful Letter 237 Literary Squabbles 237 The Victim .... . 238 Wages ..... 239 The Higher Pantheism 239 The Voice and the Peak 240 1 Flower in the crannied wall ’ 240 A Dedication 240 Experiments : Boadicea .... . 241 In Quantity 243 Specimen of a Translation of the Iliad in Blank Verse . 243 The Window ; or, the Song of the Wrens : The Window .... . 244 On the Hill .... . 244 At the Window .... . 244 Gone. • 245 Winter. . 245 Spring ..... • 245 The Letter .... • 245 No Answer .... • 245 The Answer .... . . 246 Ay ..... . . 246 When ..... . . 246 Marriage Morning . . 246 In Memoriam A. H. H. . . 247 Maud : A Monodrama ■ 286 Idylls of the King: Dedication .... • ^ • 308 The Coming of Arthur . * . . * , 309 The Round Table • 3 i 7 Gareth and Lynette • 3 i 7 The Marriage of Geraint • 34 i CONTENTS. v Idylls of the King —Round Table contd. PAGE PAGE Geraint and Enid .... • 354 Ballads and other Poems cotitinued— Merlin and Vivien.... • 369 The Defence of Lucknow 622 Lancelot and Elaine • 384 Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobham . 624 The Holy Grail .... • 4°7 Columbus. 628 Pelleas and Ettarre . 422 The Voyage of Maeldune 632 The Last Tournament . • 432 De Profundis: Guinevere. • 445 The Two Greetings . . . 635 The Passing of Arthur • 456 The Human Cry. 636 To the Queen ..... ■ 463 Queen Mary . • 465 Sonnets : Harold . • 538 Prefatory Sonnet to the ‘ Nineteenth The Lover’s Tale .... • 579 Century ’. 636 To the Rev. W. H. Brookfield 636 To Alfred Tennyson, my Grandson 602 Montenegro. 636 Ballads and other Poems : To Victor Hugo ..... 637 The First Quarrel .... . 602 Rizpah. Translations, etc. The Northern Cobbler . 607 Battle of Brnnanburh .... 637 The Revenge ': A Ballad of the Fleet . 610 Achilles over the Trench .... 639 The Sisters. . 612 To the Princess Frederica of Hanover on The Village Wife ; or, the Entail . 617 her Marriage ..... 640 In the Children’s Hospital . 620 Sir John Franklin. 640 Dedicatory Poem to the Princess Alice . 621 To Dante 640 TO THE QUEEN. Revered, beloved—O yoti that hold * A nobler office upon earth Than arms, or power of brain, or birth Could give the warrior kings of old, Victoria,—since your Royal grace To one of less desert allows This laurel greener from the brozos Of him that utter'd nothing base ; And should your greatness, and the care That yokes with empire, yield you time To make demand of modern rhyme If aught of ancient worth be there ; Then—while a sweeter music wakes. And thro' wild March the throstle calls. Where all about your palace-walls The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — Take, Madam, this poor book of song; For tho' the faults were thick as dust In vacant chambers, I could trust Your kindness. May you rule us long. And leave us rulers of your blood As noble till the latest day ! May children of our children say, ‘ She wrought her people lasting good; ‘ Her court was pure j her life serene ; God gave her peace ; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen ; ‘ And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet 1 By shaping some august decree, Which kept her throne unshaken still. Broad-based upon her people's will, And compass'd by the inviolate seal March 1851. JUVENILIA. CLARIBEL. A MELODY. I. Where Claribel low-lieth The breezes pause and die, Letting the rose-leaves fall: But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, Thick-leaved, ambrosial, With an ancient melody Of an inward agony. Where Claribel low-lieth. II. At eve the beetle boometh Athwart the thicket lone : At noon the wild bee hummeth About the moss’d headstone : At midnight the moon cometh, And looketh down alone. Her song the lintwhite swelleth, The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, The callow throstle lispeth, The slumbrous wave outwelleth, The babbling runnel crispeth, The hollow grot replieth Where Claribel low-lieth. NOTHING WILL DIE. When will the stream be aweary of flowing Under my eye? When will the wind be aweary of blowing Over the sky? When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting ? When will the heart be aweary of beating ? And nature die ? Never, oh ! never, nothing will die ; The stream flows, The wind blows, The cloud fleets, The heart beats, Nothing will die. Nothing will die; All things will change Thro’ eternity. ’Tis the world’s winter ; Autumn and summer Are gone long ago ; Earth is dry to the centre, But spring, a new comer, A spring rich and strange, Shall make the winds blow Round and round, Thro’ and thro’, Here and there, Till the air And the ground Shall be fill’d with life anew. The world was never made ; It will change, but it will not fade. So let the wind range ; For even and morn Ever will be Thro’ eternity. Nothing was born; Nothing will die; All things will change. ALL THINGS WILL DIE—LEONINE ELEGIACS. 3 ALL THINGS WILL DIE. Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing Under my eye ; Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing Over the sky. One after another the white clouds are fleeting; Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating Full merrily; Yet all things must die. The stream will cease to flow ; The wind will cease to blow ; The clouds will cease to fleet; The heart will cease to beat; For all things must die. All things must die. Spring will come never more. Oh!' vanity ! Death waits at the door. See ! our friends are all forsaking The wine and the merrymaking. We are call’d—we must go. Laid low, very low, In the dark we must lie. The merry glees are still; The voice of the bird Shall no more be heard, Nor the wind on the hill. Oh ! misery ! Hark ! death is calling While I speak to ye, The jaw is falling, The red cheek paling, The strong limbs failing ; Ice with the warm blood mixing ; The eyeballs fixing. Nine times goes the passing bell : Ye merry souls, farewell. The old earth Had a birth, As all men know, Long ago. And the old earth must die. So let the warm winds range, And the blue wave beat the shore; For even and morn Ye will never see Thro’ eternity. All things were born. Ye will come never more, For all things must die. LEONINE ELEGIACS. Low-flowing breezes are roaming the broad valley dimm’d in the gloaming: Thoro’ the black - stemm’d pines only the far river shines. Creeping thro’ blossomy rushes and bowers of rose-blowing bushes, Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and fall. Barketh the shepherd - dog cheerly ; the grasshopper carolleth clearly ; Deeply the wood-dove coos; shrilly the owlet halloos; Winds creep ; dews fall chilly: in her first sleep earth breathes stilly : Over the pools in the burn water-gnats murmur and mourn. Sadly the far kine loweth : the glimmer¬ ing water outfloweth: Twin peaks shadow’d with pine slope to the dark hyaline. Low-throned Hesper is stayed between the two peaks ; but the Naiad Throbbing in mild unrest holds him beneath in her breast. The ancient poetess singeth, that Hes¬ perus all things bringeth, Smoothing the wearied mind : bring me my love, Rosalind. Thou comest morning or even ; she cometh not morning or even. False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet Rosalind ? SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND. O God ! my God ! have mercy now. I faint, I fall. Men say that Thou 4 CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MIND. Didst die for me, for such as me , Patient of ill, and death, and scorn, And that my sin was as a thorn Among the thorns that girt Thy brow, Wounding Thy soul.—That even now, In this extremest misery Of ignorance, I should require A sign ! and if a bolt of fire Would rive the slumbrous summer noon While I do pray to Thee alone, Think my belief would stronger grow ! Is not my human pride brought low ? The boastings of my spirit still ? The joy I had in my freewill All cold, and dead,and corpse-like grown? And what is left to me, but Thou, And faith in Thee ? Men pass me by ; Christians with happy countenances— And children all seem full of Thee ! And women smile with saint-like glances Like Thine own mother’s when she bow’d Above Thee, on that happy morn When angels spake to men aloud, And Thou and peace to earth were born. Goodwill to me as well as all— I one of them : my brothers they : Brothers in Christ—a world of peace And confidence, day after day ; And trust and hope till things should cease, And then one Heaven receive us all. How sweet to have a common faith ! To hold a common scorn of death ! And at a burial to hear The creaking cords which wound and eat Into my human heart, whene’er Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear, With hopeful grief, were passing sweet! Thrice happy state again to be The trustful infant on the knee ! Who lets his rosy fingers play About his mother’s neck, and knows Nothing beyond his mother’s eyes. They comfort him by night and day ; They light his little life alway ; He hath no thought of coming woes ; He hath no care of life or death ; Scarce outward signs of joy arise, Because the Spirit of happiness And perfect rest so inward is ; And loveth so his innocent heart, Her temple and her place of birth, Where she would ever wish to dwell, Life of the fountain there, beneath Its salient springs, and far apart, Hating to wander out on earth, Or breathe into the hollow air, Whose chillness would make visible Her subtil, warm, and golden breath, j Which mixing with the infant’s blood, Fulfils him with beatitude. Oh ! sure it is a special care Of God, to fortify from doubt, To arm in proof, and guard about With triple-mailed trust, and clear Delight, the infant’s dawning year. Would that my gloomed fancy were As thine, my mother, when with brows Propt on thy knees, my hands upheld In thine, I listen’d to thy vows, For me outpour’d in holiest prayer— For me unworthy !—and beheld Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew The beauty and repose of faith, And the clear spirit shining thro’. Oh ! wherefore do we grow awry From roots which strike so deep ? why dare Paths in the desert ? Could not I Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt, To the earth—until the ice would melt Here, and I feel as thou hast felt ? What Devil had the heart to scathe Flowers thou hadst rear’d—to brush the dew From thine own lily, when thy grave Was deep, my mother, in the clay ? Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I So little love for thee ? But why Prevail’d not thy pure prayers ? Why pray To one who heeds not, who can save But will not ? Great in faith, and strong Against the grief of circumstance Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive Thro’ utter dark a full-sail’d skiff, Unpiloted i’ the echoing dance CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MIND. 5 Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low Unto the death, not sunk ! I know At matins and at evensong, That thou, if thou wert yet alive, In deep and daily prayers would’st strive • To reconcile me with thy God. Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold At heart, thou wouldest murmur still— ‘ Bring this lamb back into Thy fold, My Lord, if so it be Thy will.’ Would’st tell me I must brook the rod And chastisement of human pride ; That pride, the sin of devils, stood Betwixt me and the light of God ! That hitherto I had defied And had rejected God—that grace Would drop from his o’er-brimming love, As manna on my wilderness, If I would pray—that God would move And strike the hard, hard rock, and thence, Sweet in their utmost bitterness, Would issue tears of penitence Which would keep green hope’s life. Alas ! I think that pride hath now no place Nor sojourn in me. I am void, Dark, formless, utterly destroyed. Why not believe then ? Why not yet Anchor thy frailty there, where man Hath moor’d and rested ? Ask the sea At midnight, when the crisp slope waves After a tempest, rib and fret The broad-imbased beach, why he Slumbers not like a mountain tarn ? Wherefore his ridges are not curls And ripples of an inland mere ? Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can Draw down into his vexed pools All that blue heaven which hues and paves The other ? I am too forlorn, Too shaken : my own weakness fools My judgment, and my spirit whirls, Moved from beneath with doubt and fear. ‘Yet,’ said I, in my morn of youth, The unsunn’d freshness of my strength, When I went forth in quest of truth, ‘ It is man’s privilege to doubt, If so be that from doubt at length, Truth may stand forth unmoved of change, An image with profulgent brows, And perfect limbs, as from the storm Of running fires and fluid range Of lawless airs, at last stood out This excellence and solid form Of constant beauty. For the Ox Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills The horned valleys all about, And hollows of the fringed hills In summer heats, with placid lows Unfearing, till his own blood flows About his hoof. And in the flocks The lamb rejoiceth in the year, And raceth freely with his fere, And answers to his mother’s calls From the flower’d furrow. In a time, Of which he wots not, run short pains Thro’ his warm heart ; and then, from whenc§ He knows not, on his light there falls A shadow ; and his native slope, Where he was wont to leap and climb, Floats from his sick and filmed eyes, And something in the darkness draws His forehead earthward, and he dies. Shall man live thus, in joy and hope As a young lamb, who cannot dream, Living, but that he shall live on ? Shall we not look into the laws Of life and death, and things that seem, And things that be, and analyse Our double nature, and compare All creeds till we have found the one, If one there be?’ Ay me ! I fear All may not doubt, but everywhere Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God, Whom call I Idol ? Let Thy dove Shadow me over, and my sins Be unremember’d, and Thy love Enlighten me. Oh teach me yet Somewhat before the heavy clod Weighs on me, and the busy fret Of that sharp-headed worm begins In the gross blackness underneath. O weary life ! O weary death ! O spirit and heart made desolate ! O damned vacillating state 1 6 THE ICRAKEN—SONG—LILIAN—ISABEL. THE KRAKEN. Below the thunders of the upper deep ; Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep The Kraken sleepeth : faintest sunlights flee About his shadowy sides: above him swell Huge sponges of millennial growth and height; And far away into the sickly light, From many a wondrous grot and secret cell Unnumber’d and enormous polypi Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green. There hath he lain for ages and will lie Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep, Until the latter fire shall heat the deep ; Then once by man and angels to be seen, In roaring he shall rise and on the sur¬ face die. SONG. The winds, as at their hour of birth, Leaning upon the ridged sea, Breathed low around the rolling earth With mellow preludes, ‘ We are free. ’ The streams through many a lilied row Down-carolling to the crisped sea, Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow At ween the blossoms, ‘ We are free.’ LILIAN. i. Airy, fairy Lilian, Flitting, fairy Lilian, When I ask her if she love me, Claps her tiny hands above me, Laughing all she can ; She’ll not tell me if she love me, Cruel little Lilian. II. When my passion seeks Pleasance in love-sighs, She, looking thro’ and thro’ me Thoroughly to undo me, Smiling, never speaks : So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, From beneath her gathered wimple Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Till the lightning laughters dimple The baby-roses in her cheeks ; Then away she flies. III. Prythee weep, May Lilian ! Gaiety without eclipse Wearieth me, May Lilian : Thro’ my very heart it thrilleth When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter trilleth : Prythee weep, May Lilian. IV. Praying all I can, If prayers will not hush thee, Airy Lilian, Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, Fairy Lilian. ISABEL. Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, Clear, without heat, undying, tended by Pure vestal thoughts in the trans¬ lucent fane Of her still spirit; locks not wide-dispread, Madonna-wise on either side her head ; Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign The summer calm of golden charity, Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, Revered Isabel, the crown and head, The stately flower of female fortitude, Of perfect wifehood and pure lowli- head. ISABEL — MARIANA. 7 ii. The intuitive decision of a bright And thorough-edged intellect to part Error from crime ; a prudence to withhold ; The laws of marriage character’d in gold Upon the blanched tablets of her heart; A love still burning upward, giving light To read those laws ; an accent very low In blandishment, but a most silver flow Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, Right to the heart and brain, tho’ unde¬ scried, Winning its way with extreme gentle¬ ness Thro’ all the outworks of suspicious pride ; A courage to endure and to obey ; A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, Crown’d Isabel, thro’ all her placid life, The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife. ill. The mellow’d reflex of a winter moon ; A clear stream flowing with a muddy one, Till in its onward current it absorbs With swifter movement and in purer light The vexed eddies of its wayward brother: A leaning and upbearing parasite, Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite With cluster’d flower-bells and am¬ brosial orbs Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other— Shadow forth thee:—the world hath not another (Tho’ all her fairest forms are types of thee, And thou of God in thy great charity) Of such a finish’d chasten’d purity. MARIANA. ‘ Mariana in the moated grange.’ Measure for Measure. With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds look’d sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch ; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, ‘ My life is dreary, He cometh not,’ she said ; She said, ‘ I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !’ Her tears fell with the dews at even ; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, ‘ The night is dreaxy, He cometh not,’ she said ; She said, ‘ I am aweary, aweaiy, I would that I were dead !’ Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow : The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen’s low Came to her : without hope of change, In sleep she seem’d to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed mom About the lonely moated grange. She only said, * The day is dreary, He cometh not,’ she said ; She said, ‘ I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !’ About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blacken’d waters slept, And o’er it many, round and small, The cluster’d marish-mosses crept. 8 MARIANA — MADELINE. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark : For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, ‘ My life is dreary, He cometh not,’ she said ; She said, ‘ I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ’ And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, ‘ The night is dreary, He cometh not,’ she said ; She said, ‘ I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ’ All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creak’d ; The blue fly sung in the pane ; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d, Or from the crevice peer’d about. Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without. She only said, ‘ My life is dreary, He cometh not,’ she said ; She said, ‘ I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ’ The sparrow’s chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then, said she, ‘ I am very dreary, He will not come,’ she said ; She wept, ‘ I am aweary, aweary, Oh God, that I were dead !’ TO -. i. Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn, Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain The knots that tangle human creeds, The wounding cords that bind and strain The heart until it bleeds, Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn Roof not a glance so keen as thine : If aught of prophecy be mine, Thou wilt not live in vain. II. Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit; Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow: Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords Can do away that ancient lie ; A gentler death shall Falsehood die, Shot thro’ and thro’ with cunning words. ill. Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch, Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need, Thy kingly intellect shall feed, Until she be an athlete bold, And weaiy with a finger’s touch Those writhed limbs of lightning speed; Like that strange angel which of old, Until the breaking of the light, Wrestled with wandering Israel, Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, And heaven’s mazed signs stood still In the dim tract of Penuel. MADELINE. i. Thou art not steep’d in golden languors, No tranced summer calm is thine, Ever varying Madeline. Thro’ light and shadow thou dost range, Sudden glances, sweet and strange, Delicious spites and darling angers, And airy forms of flitting change. song: the owl. 9 II. Smiling, frowning, evermore, Thou art perfect in love-lore. Revealings deep and clear are thine Of wealthy smiles : but who may know Whether smile or frown be fleeter ? Whether smile or frown be sweeter, Who may know ? Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow Light-glooming over eyes divine, Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine, Ever varying Madeline. Thy smile and frown are not aloof From one another, Each to each is dearest brother ; Hues of the silken sheeny woof Momently shot into each other. All the mystery is thine ; Smiling, frowning, evermore, Thou art perfect in love-lore, Ever varying Madeline. hi. A subtle, sudden flame, By veering passion fann’d, About thee breaks and dances : When I would kiss thy hand, The flush of anger’d shame O’erflows thy calmer glances, And o’er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown: But when I turn away, Thou, willing me to stay, Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest; But, looking fixedly the while, All my bounding heart entanglest In a golden-netted smile ; Then in madness and in bliss, If my lips should dare to kiss Thy taper fingers amorously, Again thou blushest angerly ; And o’er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown. SONG—THE OWL. i. When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round ; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. II. When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay ; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits, SECOND SONG. TO THE SAME. I. Thy tuwhits are lull’d, I wot, Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, Which upon the dark afloat, .So took echo with delight, So took echo with delight, That her voice untuneful grown, Wears all day a fainter tone. II. I would mock thy chaunt anew ; But I cannot mimick it; Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, With a lengthen’d loud halloo, Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o. RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free In the silken sail of infancy, The tide of time flow’d back with me, The forward-flowing tide of time ; And many a sheeny summer-morn, Adown the Tigris I was borne, IO RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. By Bagdat’s shrines of fretted gold, High-walled gardens green and old ; True Mussulman was I and sworn, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Anight my shallop, rustling thro’ The low and bloomed foliage, drove The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove The citron-shadows in the blue : By garden porches on the brim, The costly doors flung open wide, Gold glittering thro’ lamplight dim, And broider’d sofas on each side : In sooth it was a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Often, where clear-stemm’d platans guard The outlet, did I turn away The boat-head down a broad canal From the main river sluiced; where all The sloping of the moon-lit sward Was damask-work, and deep inlay Of braided blooms unmown, which crept Adown to where the water slept. A goodly place, a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. A motion from the river won Ridged the smooth level, bearing on My shallop thro’ the star-strown calm, Until another night in night I enter’d, from the clearer light, Imbower’d vaults of pillar’d palm, Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb Heavenward, were stay’d beneath the dome Of hollow boughs.—A goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Still onward ; and the clear canal Is rounded to as clear a lake. From the green rivage many a fall Of diamond rillets musical, Thro’ little crystal arches low Down from the central fountain’s flow Fall’n silver-chiming, seemed to shake The sparkling flints beneath the prow. A goodly place, a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Above thro’ many a bowery turn A walk with vary-colour’d shells Wander’d engrain’d. On either side All round about the fragrant marge From fluted vase, and brazen urn In order, eastern flowers large, Some dropping low their crimson bells Half-closed, and others studded wide With disks and tiars, fed the time With odour in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Far off, and where the lemon grove In closest coverture upsprung, The living airs of middle night Died round the bulbul as he sung; Not he : but something which possess’d The darkness of the world, delight, Life, anguish, death, immortal love, Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress’d, Apart from place, withholding time, But flattering the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Black the garden-bowers and grots Slumber’d : the solemn palms were ranged Above, unwoo’d of summer wind : A sudden splendour from behind Flush’d all the leaves with rich gold-green, And, flowing rapidly between Their interspaces, counterchanged The level lake with diamond-plots Of dark and bright. A lovely time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, Grew darker from that under-flame : So, leaping lightly from the boat, With silver anchor left afloat, In marvel whence that glory came Upon me, as in sleep I sank In cool soft turf upon the bank, Entranced with that place and time, So worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. ODE TO MEMORY. i Thence thro’ the garden I was drawn— A realm of pleasance, many a mound, And many a shadow-chequer’d lawn Full of the city’s stilly sound, And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round The stately cedar, tamarisks, Thick rosaries of scented thorn, Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks Graven with emblems of the time, In honour of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. With dazed vision unawares From the long alley’s latticed shade Emerged, I came upon the great Pavilion of the Caliphat. Right to the carven cedarn doors, Flung inward over spangled floors, Broad-based flights of marble stairs Ran up with golden balustrade, After the fashion of the time, And humour of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. The fourscore windows all alight As with the quintessence of flame, A million tapers flaring bright From twisted silvers look’d to shame The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream’d Upon the mooned domes aloof In inmost Bagdat, till there seem’d Hundreds of crescents on the roof Of night new-risen, that marvellous time To celebrate the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Then stole I up, and trancedly Gazed on the Persian girl alone, Serene with argent-lidded eyes Amorous, and lashes like to rays Of darkness, and a brow of pearl Tressed with redolent ebony, In many a dark delicious curl, Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; The sweetest lady of the time, Well worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Six columns, three on either side, Pure silver, underpropt a rich Throne of the massive ore, from which Down-droop’d, in many a floating fold, Engarlanded and diaper’d With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr’d With merriment of kingly pride, Sole star of all that place and time, I saw him—in his golden prime, The Good Haroun Alraschid. ODE TO MEMORY. ADDRESSED TO --. I. Thou who stealest fire, From the fountains of the past, To glorify the present; oh, haste, Visit my low desire ! Strengthen me, enlighten me ! I faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. II. Come not as thou earnest of late, Flinging the gloom of yesternight On the white day; but robed in soften’d light Of orient state. Whilome thou earnest with the morning mist, Even as a maid, whose stately brow The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss’d, When, she, as thou, Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, Which in wintertide shall star The black earth with brilliance rare. III. Whilome thou earnest with the morning mist, And with the evening cloud, Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast (Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind Never grow sere, 12 ODE TO MEMORY. When rooted in the garden of the mind, Because they are the earliest of the year). Nor was the night thy shroud. In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. The eddying of her garments caught from thee The light of thy great presence ; and the cope Of the half-attain’d futurity, Tho’ deep not fathomless, Was cloven with the million stars which tremble O’er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. Small thought was there of life’s distress; For sure she deem’d no mist of earth could dull Those spirit - thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful: Sure she was nigher to heaven’s spheres, Listening the lordly music flowing from The illimitable years O strengthen me, enlighten me ! I faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. IV. Come forth, I charge thee, arise, Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes ! Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines Unto mine inner eye, Divinest Memory ! Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall Which ever sounds and shines A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side, The seven elms, the poplars four That stand beside my father’s door, And chiefly from the brook that loves To purl o’er matted cress and ribbed sand, Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, In every elbow and turn, The filter’d tribute of the rough woodland, O ! hither lead thy feet ! Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds, Upon the ridged wolds, When the first matin-song hath waken’d loud Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, What time the amber morn Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. v. Large dowries doth the raptured eye To the young spirit present When first she is wed ; And like a bride of old In triumph led, With music and sweet showers Of festal flowers, Unto the dwelling she must sway. Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, In setting round thy first experiment With royal frame-work of wrought gold ; Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay, And foremost in thy various gallery Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls Upon the storied walls ; For the discovery And newness of thine art so pleased thee, That all which thou hast drawn of fairest Or boldest since, but lightly weighs With thee unto the love thou bearest The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, Ever retiring thou dost gaze On the prime labour of thine early days : No matter what the sketch might be ; Whether the high field on the bushless Pike, Or even a sand-built ridge Of heaped hills that mound the sea, Overblown with murmurs harsh, Or even a lowly cottage whence we see Stretch’d wide and wild the waste enor¬ mous marsh, Where from the frequent bridge, Like emblems of infinity, The trenched waters run from sky to sky; Or a garden bower’d close SONG—A CHARACTER—THE POET. 13 With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, Or opening upon level plots Of crowned lilies, standing near Purple-spiked lavender: Whither in after life retired From brawling storms, From weary wind, With youthful fancy re-inspired, We may hold converse with all forms Of the many-sided mind, And those whom passion hath not blinded, Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. My friend, with you to live alone, Were how much better than to own A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! O strengthen me, enlighten me ! I faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. SONG. I. A spirit haunts the year’s last hours Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers : To himself he talks ; For at eventide, listening earnestly, At his work you may hear him sob and sigh In the walks ; Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers : Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. II. The air is damp, and hush’d, and close, As a sick man’s room when he taketh repose An hour before death ; My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath Of the fading edges of box beneath, And the year’s last rose. Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. A CHARACTER. With a half-glance upon the sky At night he said, ‘ The wanderings Of this most intricate Universe Teach me the nothingness of things.’ Yet could not all creation pierce Beyond the bottom of his eye. He spake of beauty : that the dull Saw no divinity in grass, Life in dead stones, or spirit in air ; Then looking as ’twere in a glass, He smooth’d his chin and sleek’d his hair, And said the earth was beautiful. He spake of virtue : not the gods More purely, when they wish to charm Pallas and Juno sitting by : And with a sweeping of the arm, And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, Devolved his rounded periods. Most delicately hour by hour He canvass’d human mysteries, And trod on silk, as if the winds Blew his own praises in his eyes, And stood aloof from other minds In impotence of fancied power. With lips depress’d as he were meek, Himself unto himself he sold : Upon himself himself did feed : Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, And other than his form of creed, With chisell’d features clear and sleek. THE POET. The poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above ; Dower’d with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love. *4 THE POET'S MIND. He saw thro’ life and death, thro’ good and ill, He saw thro’ his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will, An open scroll, Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded The secretest walks of fame : The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed And wing’d with flame, Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, And of so fierce a flight, From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, Filling with light And vagrant melodies the winds which bore Them earthward till they lit; Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, The fruitful wit Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew Where’er they fell, behold, Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew A flower all gold, And bravely furnish’d all abroad to fling The winged shafts of truth, To throng with stately blooms the breath¬ ing spring Of Hope and Youth. So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, Tho’ one did fling the fire. Heaven flow’d upon the soul in many dreams Of high desire. Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world Like one great garden show’d, And thro’ the wreaths of floating dark upcurl’d, Rare sunrise flow’d. And Freedom rear’d in that august sunrise Her beautiful bold brow, When rites and forms before his burning eyes Melted like snow. There was no blood upon her maiden robes Sunn’d by those orient skies ; But round about the circles of the globes Of her keen eyes And in her raiment’s hem was traced in flame Wisdom, a name to shake All evil dreams of power—a sacred name. And when she spake, Her words did gather thunder as they ran, And as the lightning to the thunder Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, Making earth wonder, So was their meaning to her words. No sword Of wrath her right arm whirl’d, But one poor poet’s scroll, and with his word She shook the world. THE POET’S MIND. Vex not thou the poet’s mind With thy shallow wit: Vex not thou the poet’s mind ; For thou canst not fathom it. Clear and bright it should be ever, Flowing like a crystal river ; Bright as light, and clear as wind. II. Dark-brow’d sophist, come not anear ; All the place is holy ground ; Hollow smile and frozen sneer Come not here. Holy water will I pour Into every spicy flower Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer. THE SEA-FA TRIES—THE DESERTED HOUSE. 15 In your eye there is death, There is frost in your breath Which would blight the plants. Where you stand you cannot hear From the groves within The wild-bird’s din. In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants. It would fall to the ground if you came in. In the middle leaps a fountain Like sheet lightning, Ever brightening With a low melodious thunder ; All day and all night it is ever drawn From the brain of the purple mountain Which stands in the distance yonder : It springs on a level of bowery lawn, And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, And it sings a song of undying love ; And yet, tho’ its voice be so clear and full, You never would hear it; your ears are so dull; So keep where you are : you are foul with sin ; It would shrink to the earth if you came in. THE SEA-FAIRIES. Slow sail’d the weary mariners and saw, Betwixt the green brink and the running foam, Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest To little harps of gold ; and while they mused Whispering to each other half in fear, Shrill music reach’d them on the middle sea. Whither away, whither away, whither away ? fly no more. Whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore ? Day and night to the billow the fountain calls : Down shower the gambolling waterfalls From wandering over the lea : Out of the live-green heart of the dells They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, And thick ■with white bells the clover-hill swells High over the full-toned sea: O hither, come hither and furl your sails, Come hither to me and to me : Hither, come hither and frolic and play ; Here it is only the mew that wails; We will sing to you all the day : Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, For here are the blissful downs and dales! And merrily, merrily carol the gales, And the spangle dances in bight and bay, And the rainbow forms and flies on the land Over the islands free ; And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand ; Hither, come hither and see ; And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, And sweet is the colour of cove and cave, And sweet shall your welcome be : O hither, come hither, and be our lords, For merry brides are we : We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words: O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten With pleasure and love and jubilee : O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords Runs up the ridged sea. Who can light on as happy a shore All the world o’er, all the world o’er? Whither away ? listen and stay : mariner, mariner, fly no more. THE DESERTED HOUSE. 1. Life and Thought have gone away Side by side, Leaving door and windows wide : Careless tenants they ! i6 THE DYING SWAN—A DIRGE. II. All within is dark as night: In the windows is no light; And no murmur at the door, So frequent on its hinge before. hi. Close the door, the shutters close, Or thro’ the windows we shall see The nakedness and vacancy Of the dark deserted house. IV. Come away : no more of mirth Is here or merry-making sound. The house was budded of the earth, And shall fall again to ground. v. Come away : for Life and Thought Here no longer dwell ; But in a city glorious— A great and distant city—have bought A mansion incorruptible. Would they could have stayed with us ! THE DYING SWAN. i. The plain was grassy, wild and bare, Wide, wild, and open to the air, Which had built up everywhere An under-roof of doleful gray. With an inner voice the river ran, Adown it floated a dying swan, And loudly did lament. It was the middle of the day. Ever the weary wind went on, And took the reed-tops as it went. ii. Some blue peaks in the distance rose, And white against the cold-white sky, Shone out their crowning snows. One willow over the river wept, And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; Above in the wind was the swallow, Chasing itself at its own wild will, And far thro’ the marish green and still The tangled water-courses slept, Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. hi. The wild swan’s death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear ; And floating about the under-sky. Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear ; But anon her awful jubilant voice, With a music strange and manifold, Flow’d forth on a carol free and bold ; As when a mighty people rejoice With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, And the tumult of their acclaim is roll’d Thro’ the open gates of the city afar, To the shepherd who watcheth the even¬ ing star. And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, And the willow-branches hoar and dank, And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, And the silvery marish - flowers that throng The desolate creeks and pools among, Were flooded over with eddying song. A DIRGE. i. Now is done thy long day’s work ; Fold thy palms across thy breast, Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. Let them rave. Shadows of the silver birk Sweep the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. LOVE AND DEATH—THE BALLAD OF OKI AN A. 17 11. Thee nor carketh care nor slander ; Nothing but the small cold worm Fretteth thine enshrouded form. Let them rave. Light and shadow ever wander O’er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. III. Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; Chaunteth not the brooding bee Sweeter tones than calumny ? Let them rave. Thou wilt never raise thine head From the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. IV. Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; The woodbine and eglatere Drip sweeter dews than traitor’s tear. Let them rave. Rain makes music in the tree O’er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. v. Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, Bramble roses, faint and pale, And long purples of the dale. Let them rave. These in eveiy shower creep Thro’ the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. VI. The gold-eyed kingcups fine ; The frail bluebell peereth over Rare broidry of the purple clover. Let them rave. Kings have no such couch as thine, As the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. VII. Wild words wander here and there : God’s great gift of speech abused Makes thy memory confused : But let them rave. The balm-cricket carols clear In the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. LOVE AND DEATH. What time the mighty moon was gather¬ ing light Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, And all about him roll’d his lustrous eyes; When, turning round a cassia, full in view, Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, And talking to himself, first met his sight: ‘You must begone,’ said Death, ‘these walks are mine.’ Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight ; Yet ere he parted said, ‘ This hour is thine : Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree Stands in the sun and shadows all be¬ neath, So in the light of great eternity Life eminent creates the shade of death ; The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall, But I shall reign for ever over all.’ THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. My heart is wasted with my woe, Oriana. There is no rest for me below, Oriana. When the long dun wolds are ribb’d with snow, And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, Oriana, Alone I wander to and fro, Oriana. Ere the light on dark was growing, Oriana, At midnight the cock was crowing, Oriana : C i8 THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. Winds were blowing, waters flowing, We heard the steeds to battle going, Oriana ; Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, Oriana. How could I look upon the day ? They should have stabb’d me where I lay, Oriana— They should have trod me into clay, Oriana. In the yew-wood black as night, Oriana, Ere I rode into the fight, Oriana, While blissful tears blinded my sight By star-shine and by moonlight, Oriana, I to thee my troth did plight, Oriana. 0 breaking heart that will not break, Oriana ! 0 pale, pale face so sweet and meek, Oriana ! Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, And then the tears run down my cheek, Oriana: What wantest thou? whom dost thou seek, Oriana ? She stood upon the castle wall, Oriana : She watch’d my crest among them all, Oriana : She saw me fight, she heard me call, When forth there stept a foeman tall, Oriana, Atween me and the castle wall, Oriana. I cry aloud : none hear my cries, Oriana. Thou comest atween me and the skies, Oriana. I feel the tears of blood arise Up from my heart unto my eyes, Oriana. Within thy heart my arrow lies, Oriana. The bitter arrow went aside, Oriana : The false, false arrow went aside, Oriana : The damned arrow glanced aside, And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, Oriana ! Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, Oriana ! 0 cursed hand ! 0 cursed blow ! Oriana ! 0 happy thou that liest low, Oriana ! All night the silence seems to flow Beside me in my utter woe, Oriana. A weary, weary way I go, Oriana. Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, Oriana. Loud, loud rung out the bugle’s brays, Oriana. Oh ! deathful stabs were dealt apace, The battle deepen’d in its place, Oriana ; But I was down upon my face, Oriana. When Norland winds pipe down the sea, Oriana, I walk, I dare not think of thee, Oriana. Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, I dare not die and come to thee, Oriana. I hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana. They should have stabb’d me where I lay, Oriana ! How could I rise and come away, Oriana ? CIRCUMSTANCE. Two children in two neighbour villages Playing mad pranks along the heathy leas; THE MERMAN—THE MERMAID . 19 Two strangers meeting at a festival; Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall; Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease; Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower, Wash’d with still rains and daisy blos¬ somed ; Two children in one hamlet born and bred; So runs the round of life from hour to hour. THE MERMAN. I. Who would be A merman bold, Sitting alone, Singing alone Under the sea, With a crown of gold, On a throne ? II. I would be a merman bold, I would sit and sing the whole of the day ; I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power; But at night I would roam abroad and play With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, Dressing their hair with the white sea- flower ; And holding them back by their flowing locks I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kiss’d me Laughingly, laughingly ; And then we would wander away, away To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high, Chasing each other merrily. III. There would be neither moon nor star; But the wave would make music above us afar— Low thunder and light in the magic night— Neither moon nor star. We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, Call to each other and whoop and cry All night, merrily, merrily; They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, Laughing and clapping their hands be¬ tween, All night, merrily, merrily : But I would throw to them back in mine Turkis and agate and almondine : Then leaping out upon them unseen I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kiss’d me Laughingly, laughingly. Oh ! what a happy life were mine Under the hollow-hung ocean green ! Soft are the moss-beds under the sea; We would live merrily, merrily. THE MERMAID. I. Who would be A mermaid fair, Singing alone, Combing her hair Under the sea, In a golden curl With a comb of pearl, On a throne ? II. I would be a mermaid fair; I would sing to myself the whole of the day; With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair; And still as I comb’d I would sing and say, ‘ Who is it loves me? who loves not me?’ I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall Low adown, low adown, From under my starry sea-bud crown Low adown and around, And I should look like a fountain of gold 20 ADELINE. Springing alone With a shrill inner sound, Over the throne In the midst of the hall; Till that great sea-snake under the sea From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps Would slowly trail himself sevenfold Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate With his large calm eyes for the love of me. And all the mermen under the sea Would feel their immortality Die in their hearts for the love of me. ill. But at night I would wander away, away, I would fling on each side my low- flowing locks, And lightly vault from the throne and play With the mermen in and out of the rocks ; We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells, Whose silvery spikes arenighest the sea. But if any came near I would call, and shriek, And adown the steep like a wave I would leap From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells; For I would not be kiss’d by all who would list, Of the bold merry mermen under the sea; They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, In the purple twilights under the sea ; But the king of them all would carry me, Woo me, and win me, and marry me, In the branching jaspers under the sea ; Then all the dry pied things that be In the hueless mosses under the sea Would curl round my silver feet silently, All looking up for the love of me. And if I should carol aloud, from aloft All things that are forked, and horned, and soft Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, All looking down for the love of me. ADELINE. Mystery of mysteries, Faintly smiling Adeline, Scarce of earth nor all divine, Nor unhappy, nor at rest, But beyond expression fair With thy floating flaxen hair ; Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes Take the heart from out my breast. Wherefore those dim looks of thine, Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? II. Whence that aery bloom of thine, Like a lily which the sun Looks thro’ in his sad decline, And a rose-bush leans upon, Thou that faintly smilest still, As a Naiad in a well, Looking at the set of day, Or a phantom two hours old Of a maiden past away, Ere the placid lips be cold ? Wherefore those faint smiles of thine, Spiritual Adeline ? hi. What hope or fear or joy is thine ? Who talketh with thee, Adeline ? For sure thou art not all alone. Do beating hearts of salient springs Keep measure with thine own ? Hast thou heard the butterflies What they say betwixt their wings ? Or in stillest evenings With what voice the violet woos To his heart the silver dews? Or when little airs arise, How the merry bluebell rings To the mosses underneath ? Hast thou look’d upon the breath Of the lilies at sunrise ? MARGARET. 21 Wherefore that faint smile of thine, Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? IV. Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, Some spirit of a crimson rose In love with thee forgets to close His curtains, wasting odorous sighs All night long on darkness blind. What aileth thee ? whom waitest thou With thy soften’d, shadow’d brow, And those dew-lit eyes of thine, Thou faint smiler, Adeline ? v. Lovest thou the doleful wind When thou gazest at the skies ? Doth the low-tongued Orient Wander from the side of the morn, Dripping with Sabsean spice On thy pillow, lowly bent With melodious airs lovelorn, Breathing Light against thy face, While his locks a-drooping twined Round thy neck in subtle ring Make a carcanet of rays, And ye talk together still, In the language wherewith Spring Letters cowslips on the hill ? Hence that look and smile of thine, Spiritual Adeline. MARGARET. i. O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, Like moonlight on a falling shower ? Who lent you, love, your mortal dower Of pensive thought and aspect pale, Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-tlower ? From the westward-winding flood, From the evening-lighted wood, From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho’ you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, That dimples your transparent cheek, Encircles all the heart, and feedeth The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound, Like the tender amber round, Which the moon about her spreadeth, Moving thro’ a fleecy night. II. You love, remaining peacefully, To hear the murmur of the strife, But enter not the toil of life. Your spirit is the calmed sea, Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway Remaining betwixt dark and bright : Lull’d echoes of laborious day Come to you, gleams of mellow light Float by you on the verge of night. in. What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet, Sang looking thro’ his prison bars ? Exquisite Margaret, who can tell The last wild thought of Chatelet, Just ere the falling axe did part The burning brain from the true heart, Even in her sight he loved so well ? IV. A fairy shield your Genius made And gave you on your natal day. Your sorrow, only sorrow’s shade, Keeps real sorrow far away. You move not in such solitudes, You are not less divine, But more human in your moods, Than your twin-sister, Adeline. Your hair is darker, and your eyes Touch’d with a somewhat darker hue, And less aerially blue, But ever trembling thro’ the dew Of dainty-woeful sympathies. v. O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, 22 ROSALIND — ELEANORE. Come down, come down, and hear me speak : Tie up the ringlets on your cheek : The sun is just about to set, The arching limes are tall and shady, And faint, rainy lights are seen, Moving in the leavy beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, Where all day long you sit between Joy and woe, and whisper each. Or only look across the lawn, Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn Upon me thro’ the jasmine-leaves. ROSALIND. i. My Rosalind, my Rosalind, My frolic falcon, with bright eyes, Whose free delight, from any height of rapid flight, Stoops at all game that wing the skies, My Rosalind, my Rosalind, My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither, Careless both of wind and weather, Whither fly ye, what game spy ye, Up or down the streaming wind ? II. The quick lark’s closest-caroll’d strains, The shadow rushing up the sea, The lightning flash atween the rains, The sunlight driving down the lea, The leaping stream, the very wind, That will not stay, upon his way, To stoop the cowslip to the plains, Is not so clear and bold and free As you, my falcon Rosalind. You care not for another’s pains, Because you are the soul of joy, Bright metal all without alloy. Life shoots and glances thro’ your veins, And flashes off a thousand ways, Thro’ lips and eyes in subtle rays. Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright, Keen with triumph, watching still To pierce me thro’ with pointed light; But oftentimes they flash and glitter Like sunshine on a dancing rill, And your words are seeming-bitter, Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter From excess of swift delight. III. Come down, come home, my Rosalind, My gay young hawk, my Rosalind : Too long you keep the upper skies ; Too long you roam and wheel at will ; But we must hood your random eyes, That care not whom they kill, And your cheek, whose brilliant hue Is so sparkling-fresh to view, Some red heath-flower in the dew, Touch’d with sunrise. We must bind And keep you fast, my Rosalind, Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind, And clip your wings, and make you love : When we have lured you from above, And that delight of frolic flight, by day or night,. From North to South, We’ll bind you fast in silken cords, And kiss away the bitter words From off your rosy mouth. ELEANORE. i. Thy dark eyes open’d not, Nor first reveal’d themselves to English air, For there is nothing here, Which, from the outward to the inward brought, Moulded thy baby thought. Far off from human neighbourhood, Thou wert born, on a summer mom, A mile beneath the cedar-wood. Thy bounteous forehead was not fann’d With breezes from our oaken glades, But thou wert- nursed in some delicious land Of lavish lights, and floating shades : And flattering thy childish thought The oriental fairy brought, At the moment of thy birth, ELEANORE. 23 From old well-heads of haunted rills, And the hearts of purple hills, • And shadow’d coves on a sunny shore, The choicest wealth of all the earth, Jewel or shell, or starry ore, To deck thy cradle, Eleanore. 11. Or the yellow-banded bees, Thro’ half-open lattices Coming in the scented breeze, Fed thee, a child, lying alone, With whitest honey in fairy gar¬ dens cull’d— A glorious child, dreaming alone, In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, With the hum of swarming bees Into dreamful slumber lull’d. hi. ‘Who may minister to thee ? Summer herself should minister To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded On golden salvers, or it may be, Youngest Autumn, in a bower Grape - thicken’d from the light, and blinded With many a deep-hued bell-like flower Of fragrant trailers, when the air Sleepeth over all the heaven, And the crag that fronts the Even, All along the shadowing shore, Crimsons over an inland mere, Eleanore ! IV. How may full-sail’d verse express, How may measured words adore The full-flowing harmony Of thy swan-like stateliness, Eleanore ? The luxuriant symmetry Of thy floating gracefulness, Eleanore ? Every turn and glance of thine, Every lineament divine, Eleanore, And the steady sunset glow, That stays upon thee ? For in thee Is nothing sudden, nothing single ; Like two streams of incense free From one censer in one shrine, Thought and motion mingle, Mingle ever. Motions flow To one another, even as tho’ They were modulated so To an unheard melody, Which lives about thee, and a sweep Of richest pauses, evermore Drawn from each other mellow-deep ; Who may express thee, Eleanore ? v. I stand before thee, Eleanore ; I see thy beauty gradually unfold, Daily and hourly, more and more. I muse, as in a trance, the while Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. I muse, as in a trance, whene’er The languors of thy love-deep eyes Float on to me. I would I were So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, To stand apart, and to adore, Gazing on thee for evermore, Serene, imperial Eleanore ! VI. Sometimes, with most intensity Gazing, I seem to see Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, Slowly awaken’d, grow so full and deep In thy large eyes, that, overpower’d quite, I cannot veil, or droop my sight, But am as nothing in its light : As tho’ a star, in inmost heaven set, Ev’n while we gaze on it, Should slowdy round his orb, and slowly grow To a full face, there like a sun remain Fix’d—then as slowly fade again, And draw itself to what it was before; So full, so deep, so slow, Thought seems to come and go In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore, 24 EARL Y SONNETS. VII. As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, Roof’d the world with doubt and fear, Floating thro’ an evening atmosphere, Grow golden all about the sky ; In thee all passion becomes passionless, Touch’d by thy spirit’s mellowness, Losing his fire and active might In a silent meditation, Falling into a still delight, And luxury of contemplation : As waves that up a quiet cove Rolling slide, and lying still Shadow forth the banks at will : Or sometimes they swell and move, Pressing up against the land, With motions of the outer sea : And the self-same influence Controlleth all the soul and sense Of Passion gazing upon thee. His bow-string slacken’d, languid Love, Leaning his cheek upon his hand, Droops both his wings, regarding thee, And so would languish evermore, Serene, imperial Eleanore. VIII. But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined, While the amorous, odorous wind Breathes low between the sunset and the moon ; Or, in a shadowy saloon, On silken cushions half reclined ; I watch thy grace ; and in its place My heart a charmed slumber keeps, While I muse upon thy face; And a languid fire creeps Thro’ my veins to all my frame, Dissolvingly and slowly : soon From thy rose-red lips my name Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon, With dinning sound my ears are rife, My tremulous tongue faltereth, I lose my colour, I lose my breath, I drink the cup of a costly death, Brimm’d with delirious draughts of warm¬ est life. I die with my delight, before I hear what I would hear from thee; Yet tell my name again to me, I would be dying evermore, So dying ever, Eleanore. I. My life is full of weary days, But good things have not kept aloof, Nor wander’d into other ways : I have not lack’d thy mild reproof, Nor golden largess of thy praise. And now shake hands across the brink Of that deep grave to which I go : Shake hands once more : I cannot sink So far—far down, but I shall know Thy voice, and answer from below. II. When in the darkness over me The four-handed mole shall scrape, Plant thou no dusky cypress-tree, Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape, But pledge me in the flowing grape. And when the sappy field and wood Grow green beneath the showery gray, And rugged barks begin to bud, And thro’ damp holts new-flush’d with may, Ring sudden scritches of the jay, Then let wise Nature work her will, And on my clay her darnel grow ; Come only, when the days are still, And at my headstone whisper low, And tell me if the woodbines blow. EARLY SONNETS. i. TO-. As when with downcast eyes we muse and brood, And ebb into a former life, or seem To lapse far back in some confused dream EARL Y SONNETS. 25 To states of mystical similitude ; If one but speaks or hems or stirs his chair, Ever the wonder waxeth more and more, So that we say, ‘All this hath been before, All this hath been, I know not when or where. ’ So, friend, when first I look’d upon your face, Our thought gave answer each to each, so true— Opposed mirrors each reflecting each— That tho’ I knew not in what time or place, Methought that I had often met with you, And either lived in either’s heart and speech. 11. TO J. M. K. My hope and heart is with thee—thou wilt be A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest To scare church-harpies from the master’s feast; Our dusted velvets have much need of thee: Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old saws, Distill’d from some worm - canker’d homily ; But spurr’d at heart with fieriest energy To embattail and to wall about thy cause With iron-worded proof, hating to hark The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone Half God’s good sabbath, while the worn- out clerk Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark. ill. Mine be the strength of spirit, full and free, Like some broad river rushing down alone, With the selfsame impulse wherewith he was thrown From his loud fount upon the echoing lea — Which with increasing might doth forward flee By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, and isle, And in the middle of the green salt sea Keeps his blue waters fresh for many a mile. Mine be the power which ever to its sway Will win the wise at once, and by degrees May into uncongenial spirits flow ; Ev’n as the warm gulf-stream of Florida Floats far away into the Northern seas The lavish growths of southern Mexico. IV. ALEXANDER. Warrior of God, whose strong right arm debased The throne of Persia, when her Satrap bled At Issus by the Syrian gates, or fled Beyond the Memmian naphtha-pits, dis¬ graced For ever—thee (thy pathway sand-erased) Gliding with equal crowns two serpents led Joyful to that palm-planted fountain-fed Ammonian Oasis in the waste. There in a silent shade of laurel brown Apart the Chamian Oracle divine Shelter’d his unapproached mysteries : High things were spoken there, unhanded down; Only they saw thee from the secret shrine Returning with hot cheek and kindled eyes. v. BUONAPARTE. He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak, Madman !—to chain with chains, and bind with bands That island queen who sways the floods and lands From Ind to Ind,but in fair daylight woke, When from her wooden walls, — lit by sure hands,— With thunders, and with lightnings, and with smoke,— 26 EARLY SONNETS. Peal after peal, the British battle broke, Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands. We taught him lowlier moods, when El¬ sinore Heard the war moan along the distant sea, Rocking with shatter’d spars, with sudden fires Flamed over : at Trafalgar yet once more We taught him : late he learned humility Perforce, like those whom Gideon school’d with briers. VI. POLAND. How long, O God, shall men be ridden down, And trampled under by the last and least Of men ? The heart of Poland hath not ceased To quiver, tho’ her sacred blood doth drown The fields, and out of every smouldering town Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be in¬ creased, Till that o’ergrown Barbarian in the East Transgress his ample bound to some new crown :— Cries to Thee, ‘ Lord, how long shall these things be? How long this icy-hearted Muscovite Oppress the region?’ Us, O Just and Good, Forgive, who smiled when she was torn in three; Us, who stand now, when we should aid the right— A matter to be wept with tears of blood ! VII. Caress’d or chidden by the slender hand, And singing airy trifles this or that, Light Hope at Beauty’s call would perch and stand, And run thro’ every change of sharp and flat ; And Fancy came and at her pillow sat, When Sleep had bound her in his rosy band, And chased away the still-recurring gnat, And woke her with a lay from fairy land. But now they live with Beauty less and less, For Hope is other Hope and wanders far, Nor cares to lisp in love’s delicious creeds; And Fancy watches in the wilderness, Poor Fancy sadder than a single star, That sets at twilight in a land of reeds. VIII. The form, the form alone is eloquent ! A nobler yearning never broke her rest Than but to dance and sing, be gaily drest, And win all eyes with all accomplish¬ ment : Yet in the whirling dances as we went, My fancy made me for a moment blest To find my heart so near the beauteous breast That once had power to rob it of content. A moment came the tenderness of tears, The phantom of a wish that once could move, A ghost of passion that no smiles re¬ store— For ah! the slight coquette, she cannot love, And if you kiss’d her feet a thousand years, She still would take the praise, and care no more. IX. Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take the cast Of those dead lineaments that near thee lie? O sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the past, In painting some dead friend from memory ? Weep on: beyond his object Love can last: His object lives : more cause to weep have I : My tears, no tears of love, are flowing fast, No tears of love, but tears that Love can die. I pledge her not in any cheerful cup, THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 27 Nor care to sit beside her where she sits— Ah pity—hint it not in human tones, But breathe it into earth and close it up With secret death for ever, in the pits Which some green Christmas crams with weary bones. x. If I were loved, as I desire to be, What is there in the great sphere of the earth, And range of evil between death and birth, That I should fear,—if I were loved by thee ? All the inner, all the outer world of pain Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine, As I have heard that, somewhere in the main, Fresh-water springs come up through bitter brine. ’Twere joy, not fear, claspt hand-in-hand with thee, To wait for death—mute—careless of all ills, Apart upon a mountain, tho’ the surge Of some new deluge from a thousand hills Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge Below us, as far on as eye could see. XI. THE BRIDESMAID. O bridesmaid, ere the happy knot was tied, Thine eyes so wept that they could hardly see; Thy sister smiled and said, ‘ No tears for me ! A happy bridesmaid makes a happy bride. ’ And then, the couple standing side by side, Love lighted down between them full of glee, . And over his left shoulder laugh’d at thee, ‘ O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride.’ And all at once a pleasant truth I learn’d, For while the tender service made thee weep, I loved thee for the tear thou couldst not hide, And prest thy hand, and knew the press return’d, And thought, ‘ My life is sick of single sleep : O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride! ’ THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS. THE LADY OF SHALOTT, PART I. On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; And thro’ the field the road runs by To many-tower’d Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro’ the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow-veil’d, Slide the heavy barges trail’d 28 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. By slow horses ; and unhail’d The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d Skimming down to Camelot : But who hath seen her wave her hand ? Or at the casement seen her stand ? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott ? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower’d Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weaiy, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers ‘ ’Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott.’ PART II. There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott. And moving thro’ a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot : There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower’d Camelot; And sometimes thro’ the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two : She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror’s magic sights, For often thro’ the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot : Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed ; ‘ I am half sick of shadows,’ said The Lady of Shalott. PART III. A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glitter’d free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon’d baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn’d like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro’ the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d ; On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode ; From underneath his helmet flow’d His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash’d into the crystal mirror, ‘ Tirra lirra,’ by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro’ the room, MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 29 She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look’d down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide ; The mirror crack’d from side to side ; ‘ The curse is come upon me,’ cried The Lady of Shalott. PART IV. In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complain¬ ing, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower’d Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott. And down the river’s dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance— With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right— The leaves upon her falling light— Thro’ the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken’d wholly, Turn’d to tower’d Camelot. For ere she reach’d upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott. Who is this ? and what is here ? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer ; And they cross’d themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space ; He said, ‘ She has a lovely face ; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.’ MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. With one black shadow at its feet, The house thro’ all the level shines, Close-latticed to the brooding heat, And silent in its dusty vines: A faint-blue ridge upon the right, An empty river-bed before, And shallows on a distant shore. In glaring sand and inlets bright. But ‘Ave Mary,’ made she moan, And ‘Ave Mary,’ night and morn, And ‘Ah,’ she sang, ‘to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn.’ She, as her carol sadder grew, From brow and bosom slowly down Thro’ rosy taper fingers drew Her streaming curls of deepest brown To left and right, and made appear Still-lighted in a secret shrine, Her melancholy eyes divine, The home of woe without a tear. And ‘Ave Mary,’ was her moan, ‘ Madonna, sad is night and morn, ’ And ‘Ah,’ she sang, ‘to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn.’ Till all the crimson changed, and past Into deep orange o’er the sea, 30 THE TWO VOICES. Low on her knees herself she cast, Before Our Lady murmur’d she ; Complaining, ‘ Mother, give me grace To help me of my weary load.’ And on the liquid mirror glow’d The clear perfection of her face. ‘ Is this the form,’ she made her moan, ‘ That won his praises night and morn ?’ And ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘but I wake alone, I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn. ’ Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, Nor any cloud would cross the vault, But day increased from heat to heat, On stony drought and steaming salt; Till now at noon she slept again, And seem’d knee-deep in mountain grass, And heard her native breezes pass, And runlets babbling down the glen. She breathed in sleep a lower moan, And murmuring, as at night and morn, She thought, ‘ My spirit is here alone, Walks forgotten, and is forlorn.’ Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : She felt he was and was not there. She woke : the babble of the stream Fell, and, without, the steady glare Shrank one sick willow sere and small. The river-bed was dusty-white ; And all the furnace of the light Struck up against the blinding wall. She whisper’d, with a stifled moan More inward than at night or morn, ‘Sweet Mother, let me not here alone Live forgotten and die forlorn.’ And, rising, from her bosom drew Old letters, breathing of her worth, For ‘Love,’ they said, ‘must needs be true, To what is loveliest upon earth.’ An image seem’d to pass the door, To look at her with slight, and say ‘ But now thy beauty flows away, So be alone for evermore.’ ‘ O cruel heart, ’ she changed her tone, ‘ And cruel love, whose end is scorn, Is this the end to be left alone, To live forgotten, and die forlorn? ’ But sometimes in the falling day An image seem’d to pass the door, To look into her eyes and say, ‘ But thou shalt be alone no more. ’ And flaming downward over all From heat to heat the day decreased, And slowly rounded to the east The one black shadow from the wall. ‘The day to night,’ she made her moan, ‘The day to night, the night to morn, And day and night I am left alone To live forgotten, and love forlorn. At eve a dry cicala sung, There came a sound as of the sea ; Backward the lattice-blind she flung, And lean’d upon the balcony. There all in spaces rosy-bright Large Hesper glitter’d on her tears, And deepening thro’ the silent spheres Heaven over Heaven rose the night. And weeping then she made her moan, ‘ The night comes on that knows not morn, When I shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn.’ THE TWO VOICES. A still small voice spake unto me, ‘ Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be ?’ Then to the still small voice I said; ‘ Let me not cast in endless shade What is so wonderfully made.’ To which the voice did urge reply; ‘ To-day I saw the dragon-fly Come from the wells where he did lie. ‘ An inner impulse rent the veil Of his old husk : from head to tail Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. THE TWO VOICES. 3i ‘ He dried his wings: like gauze they grew; Thro’ crofts and pastures wet with dew A living flash of light he flew.’ I said, ‘ When first the world began, Young Nature thro’ five cycles ran, And in the sixth she moulded man. ‘ She gave him mind, the lordliest Proportion, and, above the rest, Dominion in the head and breast.’ Thereto the silent voice replied ; ‘ Self-blinded are you by your pride : Look up thro’ night: the world is wide. ‘ This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse. ‘ Think you this mould of hopes and fears Could find no statelier than his peers In yonder hundred million spheres?’ It spake, moreover, in my mind : ‘ Tho’ thou wert scatter’d to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.’ Then did my response clearer fall : ‘ No compound of this earthly ball Is like another, all in all.’ To which he answer’d scoffingly ; ‘ Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee, Who’ll weep for thy deficiency ? ‘ Or will one beam be less intense, When thy peculiar difference Is cancell’d in the world of sense?’ I would have said, ‘Thou canst not know,’ But my full heart, that work’d below, Rain’d thro’ my sight its overflow. Again the voice spake unto me : ‘ Thou art so steep’d in misery, Surely ’twere better not to be. ‘ Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, Nor any train of reason keep : Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep.’ I said, ‘ The years with change advance: If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance. ‘ Some turn this sickness yet might take, Ev’n yet. ’ But he : * What drug can make A wither’d palsy cease to shake?’ I wept, ‘ Tho’ I should die, I know That all about the thorn will blow In tufts of rosy-tinted snow ; ‘ And men, thro’ novel spheres of thought Still moving after truth long sought, Will learn new things when I am not.’ ‘Yet,’ said the secret voice, ‘some time, Sooner or later, will gray prime Make thy grass hoar with early rime. ‘ Not less swift souls that yearn for light, Rapt after heaven’s starry flight, Would sweep the tracts of day and night. ‘ Not less the bee would range her cells, The furzy prickle fire the dells, The foxglove cluster dappled bells.’ I said that ‘ all the years invent; Each month is various to present The world with some development. ‘ Were this not well, to bide mine hour, Tho’ watching from a ruin’d tower How grows the day of human power ? ’ ‘ The highest-mounted mind,’ he said, ‘ Still sees the sacred morning spread The silent summit overhead. ‘ Will thirty seasons render plain Those lonely lights that still remain, Just breaking over land and main? ‘ Or make that morn, from his cold crown And crystal silence creeping down, Flood with full daylight glebe and town ? ‘ Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set In midst of knowledge, dream’d not yet. 32 THE TWO VOICES. ‘ Thou hast not gain’d a real height, Nor art thou nearer to the light, Because the scale is infinite. ‘ ’Twere better not to breathe or speak, Than cry for strength, remaining weak, And seem to find, but still to seek. ‘ Moreover, but to seem to find Asks what thou lackest, thought resign’d, A healthy frame, a quiet mind.’ I said, ‘ When I am gone away, “ He dared not tarry,” men will say, Doing dishonour to my clay.’ ‘ This is more vile,’ he made reply, ‘ To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh, Than once from dread of pain to die. ‘ Sick art thou—a divided will Still heaping on the fear of ill The fear of men, a coward still. * Do men love thee ? Art thou so bound To men, that how thy name may sound Will vex thee lying underground ? ‘ The memory of the wither’d leaf In endless time is scarce more brief Than of the garner’d Autumn-sheaf. ‘ Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust; The right ear, that is fill’d with dust, Hears little of the false or just.’ * Hard task, to pluck resolve,’ I cried, ‘ From emptiness and the waste wide Of that abyss, or scornful pride ! ‘ Nay—rather yet that I could raise One hope that warm’d me in the days While still I yearn’d for human praise. ‘ When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, Among the tents I paused and sung, The distant battle flash’d and rung. ‘ I sung the joyful Paean clear, And, sitting, burnish’d without fear The brand, the buckler, and the spear— ‘ Waiting to strive a happy strife, To war with falsehood to the knife, And not to lose the good of life— ‘ Some hidden principle to move, To put together, part and prove, And mete the bounds of hate and love— ‘ As far as might be, to carve out Free space for every human doubt, That the whole mind might orb about— ‘ To search thro’ all I felt or saw, The springs of life, the depths of awe, And reach the law within the law : ‘ At least, not rotting like a weed, But, having sown some generous seed, Fruitful of further thought and deed, ‘ To pass, when Life her light withdraws, Not void of righteous self-applause, Nor in a merely selfish cause— ‘ In some good cause, not in mine own, To perish, wept for, honour’d, known, Ancl like a warrior overthrown ; ‘ Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears, When, soil’d with noble dust, he hears His country’s war-song thrill his ears : ‘ Then dying of a mortal stroke, What time the foeman’s line is broke, And all the war is roll’d in smoke.’ ‘ Yea! ’ said the voice, ‘ thy dream was good, While thou abodest in the bud. It was the stirring of the blood. ‘ If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour? * Then comes the check, the change, the fall, Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. There is one remedy for all. ‘ Yet hadst thou, thro’ enduring pain, Link’d month to month with such a chain Of knitted purport, all were vain. THE TWO VOICES. 33 ‘ Thou hadst not between death and birth Dissolved the riddle of the earth. So were thy labour little-worth. ‘ That men with knowledge merely play’d, I told thee—hardly nigher made, Tho’ scaling slow from grade to grade ; * Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind, Named man, may hope some truth to find, That bears relation to the mind. ‘ For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. ‘ Cry, faint not: either Truth is born Beyond the polar gleam forlorn, Or in the gateways of the morn. ‘ Cry, faint not, climb: the summits slope Beyond the furthest flights of hope, Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope. ‘ Sometimes a little corner shines, As over rainy mist inclines A gleaming crag with belts of pines. ‘ I will go forward, sayest thou, I shall not fail to find her now. Look up, the fold is on her brow. ‘ If straight thy track, or if oblique, Thou know’st not. Shadows thou dost strike, Embracing cloud, Ixion-like; ‘ And owning but a little more Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, Calling thyself a little lower ‘ Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl ! Why inch by inch to darkness crawl ? There is one remedy for all.’ ‘O dull, one-sided voice,’ said I, ‘ Wilt thou make everything a lie, To flatter me that I may die ? * I know that age to age succeeds, Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, A dust of systems and of creeds. ‘ I cannot hide that some have striven, Achieving calm, to whom was given The joy that mixes man with Heaven : ‘ Who, rowing hard against the stream, Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, And did not dream it was a dream ; ‘ But heard, by secret transport led, Ev’n in the charnels of the dead, The murmur of the fountain-head— ‘ Which did accomplish their desire, Bore and forebore, and did not tire, Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. ‘ He heeded not reviling tones, Nor sold his heart to idle moans, Tho’ cursed and scorn’d, and bruised with stones : ‘ But looking upward, full of grace, He pray’d, and from a happy place God’s glory smote him on the face.’ The sullen answer slid betwixt: * Not that the grounds of hope were fix’d, The elements were kindlier mix’d.’ I said, ‘ I toil beneath the curse. But, knowing not the universe, I fear to slide from bad to worse. ‘ And that, in seeking to undo One riddle, and to find the true, I knit a hundred others new : ‘ Or that this anguish fleeting hence, Unmanacled from bonds of sense, Be fix’d and froz’n to permanence : ‘ For I go, weak from suffering here : Naked I go, and void of cheer : What is it that I may not fear?’ ‘ Consider well,’ the voice replied, ‘ His face, that two hours since hath died ; Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride ? ‘ Will he obey when one commands ? Or answer should one press his hands ? He answers not, nor understands. D 34 THE TWO VOICES. ‘ His palms are folded on his breast: There is no other thing express’d But long disquiet merged in rest. ‘ His lips are very mild and meek : Tho’ one should smite him on the cheek, And on the mouth, he will not speak. ‘ His little daughter, whose sweet face He kiss’d, taking his last embrace, Becomes dishonour to her race— * His sons grow up that bear his name, Some grow to honour, some to shame,— But he is chill to praise or blame. ‘ He will not hear the north-wind rave, Nor, moaning, household shelter crave From winter rains that beat his grave. ‘ High up the vapours fold and swim : About him broods the twilight dim : The place he knew forgetteth him.’ ‘ If all be dark, vague voice,’ I said, ‘These things are wrapt in doubt and dread, Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. ‘ The sap dries up : the plant declines. A deeper tale my heart divines. Know I not Death ? the outward signs ? ‘ I found him when my years were few ; A shadow on the graves I knew, And darkness in the village yew. ‘ From grave to grave the shadow crept: In her still place the morning wept: Touch’d by his feet the daisy slept. ‘ The simple senses crown’d his head : “ Omega ! thou art Lord,” they said, “We find no motion in the dead.” ‘ Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, Should that plain, fact, as taught by these, N ot make him sure that he shall cease ? ‘ Who forged that other influence, That heat of inward evidence, By which he doubts against the sense ? ‘ He owns the fatal gift of eyes, That read his spirit blindly wise, Not simple as a thing that dies. ‘ Here sits he shaping wings to fly : His heart forebodes a mystery : He names the name Eternity. ‘ That type of Perfect in his mind In Nature can he nowhere find. He sows himself on every wind. ‘ He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, And thro’ thick veils to apprehend A labour working to an end. ‘ The end and the beginning vex His reason : many things perplex, With motions, checks, and counterchecks. ‘ He knows a baseness in his blood At such strange war with something good, He may not do the thing he would. ‘ Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, Vast images in glimmering dawn, Half shown, are broken and withdrawn. ‘ Ah ! sure within him and without, Could his dark wisdom find it out, There must be answer to his doubt, ‘ But thou canst answer not again. With thine own weapon art thou slain, Or thou wilt answer but in vain. ‘ The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. In the same circle we revolve. Assurance only breeds resolve.’ As when a billow, blown against, Falls back, the voice with which I fenced A little ceased, but recommenced. ‘ Where wert thou when thy father play’d In his free field, and pastime made, A merry boy in sun and shade ? ‘ A merry boy they call’d him then, He sat upon the knees of men In days that never come again. THE TWO VOICES. 35 * Before the little ducts began To feed thy bones with lime, and ran Their course, till thou wert also man : ‘ Who took a wife, who rear’d his race, Whose wrinkles gather’d on his face, Whose troubles number with his days : ‘ A life of nothings, nothing-worth, From that first nothing ere his birth To that last nothing under earth !’ ‘ These words,’ I said, ‘ are like the rest; No certain clearness, but at best A vague suspicion of the breast: * But if I grant, thou mightst defend The thesis which thy words intend— That to begin implies to end; ‘Yet how should I for certain hold, Because my memory is so cold, That I first was in human mould ? ‘ I cannot make this matter plain, But I would shoot, howe’er in vain, A random arrow from the brain. ‘ It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round. ‘ As old mythologies relate, Some draught of Lethe might await The slipping thro’ from state to state. * As here we find in trances, men Forget the dream that happens then, Until they fall in trance again. ‘ So might we, if our state were such As one before, remember much, For those two likes might meet and touch. ‘ But, if I lapsed from nobler place, Some legend of a fallen race Alone might hint of my disgrace ; ‘ Some vague emotion of delight In gazing up an Alpine height, Some yearning toward the lamps of night; ‘ Or if thro’ lower lives I came— Tho’ all experience past became Consolidate in mind and frame— ‘ I might forget my weaker lot; For is not our first year forgot ? The haunts of memory echo not. ‘ And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind. ‘ Much more, if first I floated free, As naked essence, must I be Incompetent of memory : ‘ For memory dealing but with time, And he with matter, could she climb Beyond her own material prime ? ‘ Moreover, something is or seems, That touches me «with mystic gleams, Like glimpses of forgotten dreams— ‘ Of something felt, like something here ; Of something done, I know not where ; Such as no language may declare.’ The still voice laugh’d. ‘ I talk,’ said he, ‘ Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee Thy pain is a reality. ’ ‘But thou,’ said I, ‘hast missed thy mark, Who sought’st to wreck my mortal ark, By making all the horizon dark. ‘ Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new ? ‘ Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly long’d for death. ‘ ’Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, Oh life, not death, for which we pant; More life, and fuller, that I want.’ I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, * Behold, it is the Sabbath morn.’ 3 6 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER . And I arose, and I released The casement, and the light increased With freshness in the dawning east. Like soften’d airs that blowing steal, When meres begin to uncongeal, The sweet church bells began to peal. On to God’s house the people prest: Passing the place where each must rest, Each enter’d like a welcome guest. One walk’d between his wife and child, With measured footfall firm and mild, And now and then he gravely smiled. The prudent partner of his blood Lean’d on him, faithful, gentle, good, Wearing the rose of 'womanhood. And in their double love secur.e, The little maiden walk*d demure, Pacing with downward eyelids pure. These three made unity so sweet, My frozen heart began to beat, Remembering its ancient heat. I blest them, and they wander’d on : I spoke, but answer came there none : The dull and bitter voice was gone. A second voice was at mine ear, A little whisper silver-clear, A murmur, ‘ Be of better cheer. ’ As from some blissful neighbourhood, A notice faintly understood, ‘ I see the end, and know the good.’ A little hint to solace woe, A hint, a whisper breathing low, ‘ I may not speak of what I know.’ Like an ^Eolian harp that wakes No certain air, but overtakes Far thought with music that it makes : Such seem’d the whisper at my side : ‘ What is it thou knowest, svyeet voice ? ’ I cried. ‘ A hidden hope, ’ the voice replied : So heavenly-toned, that in that hour From out my sullen heart a power Broke, like the rainbow from the shower, To feel, altho’ no tongue can prove, That every cloud, that spreads above And veileth love, itself is love. And forth into the fields I went. And Nature’s living motion lent The pulse of hope to discontent. I wonder’d at the bounteous hours, The slow result of winter showers : You scarce could see the grass for flowers. I wonder’d, while I paced along : The woods were fill’d so full with song, There seem’d no room for sense of wrong; And all so variously wrought, I marvell’d how the mind was brought To anchor by one gloomy thought; And wherefore rather I made choice To commune with that barren voice, Than him that said, * Rejoice ! Rejoice !’ THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER. I see the wealthy miller yet, His double chin, his portly size, And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? The slow wise smile that, round about His dusty forehead drily curl’d, Seem’d half-within and half-without, And full of dealings with the world ? In yonder chair I see him sit, Three fingers round the old silver cup— I see his gray eyes twinkle yet At his own jest—gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul So full of summer warmth, so glad, So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, His memory scarce can make me sad. Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss : My own sweet Alice, we must die. There’s somewhat in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by and by. ‘ • 1 loved the brimming wave that swam Thre? quiet meadows round the mill. The sleepy pool above the dam. The pool beneath it never still.” THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER . 37 There’s somewhat flows to us in life, But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, That we may die the self-same day. Have I not found a happy earth ? I least should breathe a thought of pain. Would God renew me from my birth I’d almost live my life again. So sweet it seems with thee to walk, And once again to woo thee mine— It seems in after-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine— To be the long and listless boy Late-left an orphan of the squire, Where this old mansion mounted high Looks down upon the village spire : For even here, where I and you Have lived and loved alone so long, Each morn my sleep was broken thro’ By some wild skylark’s matin song. And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan ; But ere I saw your eyes, my love, I had no motion of my own. For scarce my life with fancy play’d Before I dream’d that pleasant dream— Still hither thither idly sway’d Like those long mosses in the stream. Or from the bridge I lean’d to hear The milldam rushing down with noise, And see the minnows everywhere In crystal eddies glance and poise, The tall flag-flowers when they sprung Below the range of stepping-stones, Or those three chestnuts near, that hung In masses thick with milky cones. But, Alice, what an hour was that, When after roving in the woods (’Twas April then), I came and sat Below the chestnuts, when their buds Were glistening to the breezy blue ; And on the slope, an absent fool, I cast me down, nor thought of you, But angled in the higher pool. A love-song I had somewhere read, An echo from a measured strain, Beat time to nothing in my head From some odd corner of the brain. It haunted me, the morning long, With weary sameness in the rhymes, The phantom of a silent song, That went and came a thousand times. Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood I watch’d the little circles die ; They past into the level flood, And there a vision caught my eye ; The reflex of a beauteous form, A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, As when a sunbeam wavers warm Within the dark and dimpled beck. For you remember, you had set, That morning, on the casement-edge A long green box of mignonette, And you were leaning from the ledge: And when I raised my eyes, above They met with two so full and bright— Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, That these have never lost their light. I loved, and love dispell’d the fear That I should die an early death : For love possess’d the atmosphere, And fill’d the breast with purer breath. My mother thought, What ails the boy ? For I was alter’d, and began To move about the house with joy, And with the certain step of man. I loved the brimming wave that swam Thro’ quiet meadows round the mill, The sleepy pool above the dam, The pool beneath it never still, The meal-sacks on the whiten’d floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door Made misty with the floating meal. And oft in ramblings on the wold, When April nights began to blow, And April’s crescent glimmer’d cold, I saw the village lights below; 38 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. I knew your taper far away, And full at heart of trembling hope, From off the wold I came, and lay Upon the freshly-flower’d slope. The deep brook groan’d beneath the mill ; And ‘ by that lamp, I thought, ‘ she sits!’ The white chalk-quarry from the hill Gleam’d to the flying moon by fits. ‘ O that I were beside her now ! O will she answer if I call ? O would she give me vow for vow, Sweet Alice, if I told her all ?’ Sometimes I saw you sit and spin : And, in the pauses of the wind, Sometimes I heard you sing within ; Sometimes your shadow cross’d the blind. At last you rose and moved the light, And the long shadow of the chair Flitted across into the night, And all the casement darken’d there. But when at last I dared to speak, The lanes, you know, were white with may. Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flush’d like the coming of the day ; And so it was—half-sly, half-shy, You would, and would not, little one! Although I pleaded tenderly, And you and I were all alone. And slowly was my mother brought To yield consent to my desire : She wish’d me happy, but she thought I might have look’d a little higher ; And I was young—too young to wed : ‘ Yet must I love her for your sake ; Go fetch your Alice here,’ she said : Her eyelid quiver’d as she spake. And down I went to fetch my bride : But, Alice, you were ill at ease; This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please. I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall’n in tears, I kiss’d away before they fell. I watch’d the little flutterings, The doubt my mother would not see ; She spoke at large of many things, And at the last she spoke of me ; And turning look’d upon your face, As .near this door you sat apart, And rose, and, with a silent grace Approaching, press’d you heart to heart. Ah, well—but sing the foolish song I gave you, Alice, on the day When, arm in arm, we went along, A pensive pair, and you were gay With bridal flowers—that I may seem, As in the nights of old, to lie Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, While those full chestnuts whisper by. It is the miller’s daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles in her ear : For hid in ringlets day and night, I’d touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest: And I should know if it beat right, I’d clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs, And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasp’d at night. A trifle, sweet ! which true love spells— True love interprets—right alone. His light upon the letter dwells, For all the spirit is his own. So, if I waste words now, in truth You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth, And makes me talk too much in age. And now those vivid hours are gone. Like mine own life to me thou art, Where Past and Present, wound in one, Do make a garland for the heart : FATIMA. 39 So sing that other song I made, Half-anger’d with my happy lot, The day, when in the chestnut shade I found the blue Forget-me-not. Love that hath us in the net, Can he pass, and we forget ? Many suns arise and set. Many a chance the years beget. Love the gift is Love the debt. Even so. Love is hurt with jar and fret. Love is made a vague regret. Eyes with idle tears are wet. Idle habit links us yet. What is love ? for we forget: Ah, no ! no ! Look thro’ mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine My other dearer life in life, Look thro’ my very soul with thine! Untouch’d with any shade of years, May those kind eyes for ever dwell! They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. Yet tears they shed : they had their part Of sorrow : for when time was ripe, The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before ; Although the loss had brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more, With farther lookings on. The kiss, The woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss, The comfort, I have found in thee : But that God bless thee, dear—who wrought Two spirits to one equal mind— With blessings beyond hope or thought, With blessings which no words can find. Arise, and let us wander forth, To yon old mill across the wolds ; For look, the sunset, south and north, Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow casement glass. Touching the sullen pool below : On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and dewless. Let us go. FATIMA. O Love, Love, Love! O withering might! O sun, that from thy noonday height Shudderest when I strain my sight, Throbbing thro’ all thy heat and light, Lo, falling from my constant mind, Lo, parch’d and wither’d, deaf and blind, I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. Last night I wasted hateful hours Below the city’s eastern towers : I thirsted for the brooks, the showers : I roll’d among the tender flowers : I crush’d them on my breast, my mouth; I look’d athwart the burning drouth Of that long desert to the south. Last night, when some one spoke his name, From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame Were shiver’d in my narrow frame. O Love, O fire ! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul thro’ My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. Before he mounts the hill, I know He cometh quickly : from below Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow Before him, striking on my brow. In my dry brain my spirit soon, Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, Faints like a dazzled morning moon. The wind sounds like a silver wire, And from beyond the noon a fire Is pour’d upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire ; And, isled in sudden seas of light, My heart, pierced thro’ with fierce delight, Bursts into blossom in his sight. My whole soul waiting silently. All naked in a sultry sky, 4 o (ENONE. Droops blinded with his shining eye : I will possess him or will die. I will grow round him in his place, Grow, live, die looking on his face, Die, dying clasp’d in his embrace. (ENONE. There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand The lawns and meadow - ledges midway down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro’ the clov’n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. Behind the valley topmost Gargarus Stands up and takes the morning : but in front The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal Troas and Ilion’s column’d citadel, The crown of Troas. Hither came at noon Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seem’d to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain- shade Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. ‘ O mother Ida, many-fountain’d Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: The grasshopper is silent in the grass : The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead. The purple flower droops: the golden bee Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, My heart is. breaking, and my eyes are dim, And I am all aweary of my life. ‘ O mother Ida, many-fountain’d Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves That house the cold crown’d snake ! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River-God, Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, A cloud that gather’d shape: for it may be That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe. ‘ O mother Ida, many-fountain’d Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. I waited underneath the dawning hills, Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine : Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jet-black goat white-horn’d, white-hooved, Came up from reedy Simois all alone. ‘ O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Far-off the torrent call’d me from the cleft: Far up the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow. With down- dropt eyes I sat alone: white-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leopard skin Droop’d from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Cluster’d about his temples like a God’s : And his cheek brighten’d as the foam-bow brightens When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. ‘ Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk- white palm CENONE. 4i Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, That smelt ambrosially, and while I look’d And listen’d, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart. ‘ “ My own CEnone, Beautiful-brow’d CEnone, my own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav’n ‘ For the most fair,’ would seem to award it thine, As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement, and the charm of married brows.” ‘ Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, And added “This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom ’twere due : But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, Delivering, that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Here comes to-day, Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.” * Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon : one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose, And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, This way and that, in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs With bunch and berry and flower thro’ and thro’. ‘ O mother Ida, harken ere I die. On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, And o’er him flow’d a golden cloud, and lean’d Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom Coming thro’ Heaven, like a light that grows Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestion’d, overflowing revenue Wherewith to embellish state, “from many a vale And river - sunder’d champaign clothed with corn, Or labour’d mine undrainable of ore. Honour,” she said, “ and homage, tax and toll, From many an inland town and haven large, Mast - throng’d beneath her shadowing citadel In glassy bays among her tallest towers.” ‘ O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Still she spake on and still she spake of power, “ Which in all action is the end of all ; Power fitted to the season ; wisdom-bred And throned of wisdom—from all neigh¬ bour crowns Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, From me, Heaven’s Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power Only, are likest gods, who have attain’d Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss In knowledge of their own supremacy.” 42 CENONE. ‘ Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm’s-length, so much the thought of power Flatter’d his spirit; but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs O’er thwarted with the brazen - headed spear Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, The while, above, her full and earnest eye Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. ‘ “ Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self- control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power (power of herself Would come uncall’d for) but to live by law, Acting the law we live by without fear ; And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence. ” ‘ Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Again she said: “I woo thee not with gifts. Sequel of guerdon could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, So shalt thou find me fairest. Yet, indeed, If gazing on divinity disrobed Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, Unbias’d by self-profit, oh ! rest thee sure That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, So that my vigour, wedded to thy blood, Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God’s, To push thee forward thro’ a life of shocks, Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow Sinew’d with action, and the full-grown will, Circled thro’ all experiences, pure law, Commeasure perfect freedom.” ‘ Here she ceas’d, And Paris ponder’d, and I cried, “O Paris, Give it to Pallas ! ” but he heard me not, Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me! ‘ O mother Ida, many-fountain’d Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder : from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o’er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine-bunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. ‘ Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half - whisper’d in his ear, ‘ ‘ I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece,” She spoke and laugh’d : I shut my sight for fear : But when I look’d, Paris had raised his arm, And I beheld great Here’s angry eyes, As she withdrew into the golden cloud, And I was left alone within the bower; And from that time to this I am alone, And I shall be alone until I die. ‘Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I *Hie. Fairest—why fairest wife ? am I not fair? My love hath told me so a thousand times. Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail Crouch’d fawning in the weed. Most loving is she ? CENONE. 43 Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. ‘ O mother, hear me yet before I die. They came, they cut away my tallest pines, My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy ledge High over the blue gorge, and all between The snowy peak and snow-white cataract Foster’d the callow eaglet—from beneath Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn The panther’s roar came muffled, while I sat Low in the valley. Never, never more Shall lone CEnone see the morning mist Sweep thro’ them ; never see them over¬ laid With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, Between the loud stream and the ti'em- bling stars. ‘ O mother, hear me yet before I die. I wish that somewhere in the ruin’d folds, Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her The Abominable, that uninvited came Into the fair Pele'ian banquet-hall, And cast the golden fruit upon the board, And bred this change ; that I might speak my mind, And tell her to her face how much I hate Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. ‘ O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, In this green valley, under this green hill, Ev’n on this hand, and sitting on this stone ? Seal’d it with kisses? water’d it with tears ? O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face ? O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight ? O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, There are enough unhappy on this earth, Pass by the happy souls, that love to live : I pray thee, pass before my light of life, And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me die. ‘ O mother, hear me yet before I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more, Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear Dead sounds at night come from the in¬ most hills, Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of her child Ere it is born: her child !—a shudder comes Across me : never child be born of me, Unblest, to vex me with his father’s eyes! ‘ O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me Walking the cold and starless road of Death Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love With the Greek woman. I will rise and g° Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says A fire dances before her, and a sound Rings ever in her ears of armed men. What this may be I know not, but I know That, wheresoe’er I am by night and day, All earth and air seem only burning fire.’ 44 THE SISTERS—THE PALACE OF ART THE SISTERS. We were two daughters of one race : She was the fairest in the face : The wind is blowing in turret and tree. They were together, and she fell ; Therefore revenge became me well. O the Earl was fair to see ! She died : she went to burning flame t She mix’d her ancient blood with shame. The wind is howling in turret and tree. Whole weeks and months, and early and late, To win his love I lay in wait: O the Earl was fair to see ! I made a feast; I bad him come ; I won his love, I brought him home. The wind is roaring in turret and tree. And after supper, on a bed, Upon my lap he laid his head : O the Earl was fair to see ! I kiss’d his eyelids into rest: His ruddy cheek upon my breast. The wind is raging in turret and tree. I hated him with the hate of hell, But I loved his beauty passing well. O the Earl was fair to see ! I rose up in the silent night: I made my dagger sharp and bright. The wind is raving in turret and tree. As half-asleep his breath he drew, Three times I stabb’d him thro’ and thro’. O the Earl was fair to see ! I curl’d and comb’d his comely head, He look’d so grand when he was dead. The wind is blowing in turret and tree. I wrapt his body in the sheet, And laid him at his mother’s feet. O the Earl was fair to see ! TO-. WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. I send you here a sort of allegory, (For you will understand it) of a soul, A sinful soul possess’d of many gifts, A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain, That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen In all varieties of mould and mind) And Knowledge for its beauty ; or if Good, Good only for its beauty, seeing not That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge, are three sisters That doat upon each other, friends to man, Living together under the same roof, And never can be sunder’d without tears. And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie Howling in outer darkness. Not for this Was common clay ta’en from the common earth Moulded by God, and temper’d with the tears Of angels to the perfect shape of man. THE PALACE OF ART. I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. I said, ‘ O Soul, make merry and carouse, Dear soul, for all is well.’ A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish’d brass I chose. The ranged ramparts bright From level meadow-bases of deep grass Suddenly scaled the light. Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf The rock rose clear, or winding stair. My soul would live alone unto herself In her high palace there. And ‘while the world runs round and round,’ I said, ‘ Reign thou apart, a quiet king, Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stedfast shade Sleeps on his luminous ring.’ THE PALACE OF ART. 45 To which my soul made answer readily : ‘ Trust me, in bliss I shall abide In this great mansion, that is built for me, So royal-rich and wide.’ Four courts I made, East, West and South and North, In each a squared lawn, wherefrom The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth A flood of fountain-foam. And round the cool green courts there ran a row Of cloisters, branch’d like mighty woods, Echoing all night to that sonorous flow Of spouted fountain-floods. And round the roofs a gilded gallery That lent broad verge to distant lands, Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky Dipt down to sea and sands. From those four jets four currents in one swell Across the mountain stream’d below In misty folds, that floating as they fell Lit up a torrent-bow. And high on every peak a statue seem’d To hang on tiptoe, tossing up A cloud of incense of all odour steam’d From out a golden cup. So that she thought, ‘ And who shall gaze upon My palace with unblinded eyes, While this great bow will waver in the sun, And that sweet incense rise ? ’ For that sweet incense rose and never fail’d, And, while day sank or mounted higher, The light aerial gallery, golden-rail’d, Burnt like a fringe of fire. Likewise the deep-set windows, stain’d and traced, Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires From shadow’d grots of arches interlaced, And tipt with frost-like spires. * * * * * * * * Full of long-sounding corridors it was, That over-vaulted grateful gloom, Thro’ which the livelong day my soul did pass, Well-pleased, from room to room. Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, All various, each a perfect whole From living Nature, fit for every mood And change of my still soul. For some were hung with arras green and blue, Showing a gaudy summer-morn, Where with puff’d cheek the belted hunter blew His wreathed bugle-horn. One seem’d all dark and red—a tract of sand, And some one pacing there alone, Who paced for ever in a glimmering land, Lit with a low large moon. One show’d an iron coast and angry waves. You seem’d to hear them climb and fall And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves, Beneath the windy wall. And one, a full-fed river winding slow By herds upon an endless plain, The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, With shadow-streaks of rain. And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. In front they bound the sheaves. Behind Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, And hoary to the wind. And one a foreground black with stones and slags, Beyond, a line of heights, and higher All barr’d with long white cloud the scornful crags, And highest, snow and fire. 46 THE PALACE OF ART And one, an English home—gray twi¬ light pour’d On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep—all things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace. Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, As fit for every mood of mind, Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there Not less than truth design’d. Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx Sat smiling, babe in arm. Or in a clear-wall’d city on the sea, Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily; An angel look’d at her. Or thronging all one porch of Paradise A group of Houris bow’d to see The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes That said, We wait for thee. Or mythic Uther’s deeply-wounded son In some fair space of sloping greens Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, And watch’d by weeping queens. Or hollowing one hand against his ear, To list a foot-fall, ere he saw The wood-nymph, stay’d the Ausonian king to hear Of wisdom and of law. Or over hills with peaky tops engrail’d, And many a tract of palm and rice, The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail’d A summer fann’d with spice. Or sweet Europa’s mantle blew unclasp’d, From off her shoulder backward borne: From one hand droop’d a crocus : one hand grasp’d The mild bull’s golden horn. Or else flush’d Ganymede, his rosy thigh Half-buried in the Eagle’s down, Sole as a flying star shot thro’ the sky Above the pillar’d town. Nor these alone : but every legend fair Which the supreme Caucasian mind Carved out of Nature for itself, was there, Not less than life, design’d. * * * * * * * * Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung, Moved of themselves, with silver sound; And with choice paintings of wise men I hung The royal dais round. For there was Milton like a seraph strong, Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild ; And there the world-worn Dante grasp’d his song, And somewhat grimly smiled. And there the Ionian father of the rest; A million wrinkles carved his skin ; A hundred winters snow’d upon his breast, From cheek and throat and chin. Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set Many an arch high up did lift, And angels rising and descending met With interchange of gift. Below was all mosaic choicely plann’d With cycles of the human tale Of this wide world, the times of eveiy land So wrought, they will not fail. The people here, a beast of burden slow, Toil’d onward, prick’d with goads and stings; Here play’d, a tiger, rolling to and fro The heads and crowns of kings ; Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind All force in bonds that might endure, And here once more like some sick man declined, And trusted any cure. THE PALACE OP APT. 47 But over these she trod : and those great bells Began to chime. She took her throne: She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, To sing her songs alone. And thro’ the topmost Oriels’ coloured flame Two godlike faces gazed below ; Plato the wise, and large-brow’d Verulam, The first of those who know. And all those names, that in their motion were Full-welling fountain-heads of change, Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon’d fair In diverse raiment strange : Thro’ which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, Flush’d in her temples and her eyes, And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew Rivers of melodies. No nightingale delighteth to prolong Her low preamble all alone, More than my soul to hear her echo’d song Throb thro’ the ribbed stone ; Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth, Joying to feel herself alive, Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth, Lord of the senses five ; Communing with herself: ‘ All these are mine, And let the world have peace or wars, ’Tis one to me.’ She—when young night divine Crown’d dying day with stars, Making sweet close of his delicious toils— Lit light in wreaths and anadems, And pure quintessences of precious oils In hollow’d moons of gems, To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried, * I marvel if my still delight In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, Be flatter’d to the height. ‘ O all things fair to sate my various eyes! O shapes and hues that please me well! O silent faces of the Great and Wise, My Gods, with whom I dwell ! ‘ O God-like isolation which art mine, I can but count thee perfect gain, What time I watch the darkening droves of swine That range on yonder plain. ‘ In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; And oft some brainless devil enters in, And drives them to the deep.’ Then of the moral instinct would she prate And of the rising from the dead, As hers by right of full-accomplish’d Fate; And at the last she said: ‘ I take possession of man’s mind and deed. I care not what the sects may brawl. I sit as God holding no form of creed, But contemplating all.’ * * * * * * * * Full oft the riddle of the painful earth Flash’d thro’ her as she sat alone, Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, And intellectual throne. And so she throve and prosper’d: so three years She prosper’d : on the fourth she fell, Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears, Struck thro’ with pangs of hell. Lest she should fail and perish utterly, God, before whom ever lie bare The abysmal deeps of Personality, Plagued her with sore despair. 4 8 THE PALACE OF ART. When she would think, where’er she turn’d her sight The airy hand confusion wrought, Wrote, ‘ Meiie, mene,’ and divided quite The kingdom of her thought. Deep dread and loathing of her solitude Fell on her, from which mood was born Scorn of herself ; again, from out that mood Laughter at her self-scorn. ‘ What ! is not this my place of strength,’ she said, ‘ My spacious mansion built for me, Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid Since my first memory?’ But in dark corners of her palace stood Uncertain shapes ; and unawares On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood, And horrible nightmares, And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, And, with dim fretted foreheads all, On corpses three-months-old at noon she came, That stood against the wall. A spot of dull stagnation, without light Or power of movement, seem’d my soul, ’Mid onward-sloping motions infinite Making for one sure goal. A still salt pool, lock’d in with bars of sand, Left on the shore ; that hears all night The plunging seas draw backward from the land Their moon-led waters white. A star that with the choral starry dance Join’d not, but stood, and standing saw The hollow orb of moving Circumstance Roll’d round by one fix’d law. Back on herself her serpent pride had curl’d. ‘No voice,’ she shriek’d in that lone hall, ‘ No voice breaks thro’ the stillness of this world : One deep, deep silence all!’ She, mouldering with the dull earth’s mouldering sod, Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, Lay there exiled from eternal God, Lost to her place and name ; And death and life she hated equally, And nothing saw, for her despair, But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, No comfort anywhere ; Remaining utterly confused with fears, And ever worse with growing time, And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, And all alone in crime : Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round With blackness as a solid wall, Far off she seem’d to hear the dully sound Of human footsteps fall. As in strange lands a traveller walking slow, In doubt and great perplexity, A little before moon-rise hears the low Moan of an unknown sea ; And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, ‘ I have found A new land, but I die.’ She howl’d aloud, ‘ I am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die?’ So when four years were wholly finished, She threw her royal robes away. ‘ Make me a cottage in the vale,’ she said, ‘ Where I may mourn and pray. LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 49 ‘Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are So lightly, beautifully built: Perchance I may return with others there When I have purged my guilt.’ LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown : You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired : The daughter of a hundred Earls, You are not one to be desired. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies : A great enchantress you may be ; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother’s view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door : You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix’d a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe’er it be, it seems to me, ’Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, You pine among your halls and towers : The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands ? Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go. 50 THE MA Y QUEEN. THE MAY QUEEN. You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ; For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. There’s many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s Kate and Caroline : But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, But I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. They say he’s dying all for love, but that can never be : They say his heart is breaking, mother—what is that to me ? There’s many a bolder lad ’ill woo me any summer day, And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you’ll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen; For the shepherd lads on every side ’ill come from far away, And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has wov’n its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. All the valley, mother, ’ill be fresh and green and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale ’ill merrily glance and play, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Qtieen o’ the May. THE MA Y QUEEN. 5i So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : To-morrow ’ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. NEW-YEAR’S EVE. If you’re waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, Then you may lay me low i’ the mould and think no more of me. To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ; And the New-year’s coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day ; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles’s Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. There’s not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane : I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook ’ll caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow ’ill come back again with summer o’er the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early early morning the summer sun ’ill shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You’ll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. You’ll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you’ll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you’ll forgive me now ; You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; 52 THE MA Y QUEEN. Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. If I can I’ll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; Tho’ you’ll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; Tho’ I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say, And be often, often with you when you think I’m far away. Goodnight, goodnight, when I have said goodnight for evermore, And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door; Don’t let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green She’ll be a better child to you than ever I have been. She’ll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor : Let her take ’em : they are hers : I shall never garden more :: But tell her, when I’m gone, to train the rosebush that I set About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette. Goodnight, sweet mother : call me before the day is born-. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, So, if you’re waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.-. CONCLUSION. I thought to pass away before, and yet alive f am ;- And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb;. IIow sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet’s here;. O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb’s voice to me that cannot rise,. And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow,, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. It seem’d so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun* And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! But still I think it can’t be long before I find release; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.. O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. He taught me all the mercy, for he show’d me all the sin. Now, tho’ my lamp was lighted late, there’s One will let me in ^ Nor would I now be well, mother, again if that could be, For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. THE MA V QUEEN. 53 I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet : But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; With all my strength I pray’d for both, and so I felt resign’d, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I listen’d in my bed, And then did something speak to me—I know not what was said ; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping; and I said, ‘ It’s not for them : it’s mine.’ And if it come three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem’d to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There’s many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived—I cannot tell—I might have been his wife; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine— Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun— For ever and for ever with those just souls and true— And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such ado ? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home— And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come— To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast— And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 54 THE LOTOS-EATERS. THE LOTOS-EATERS. ‘Courage !’ he said, and pointed toward the land, ‘ This mounting wave will roll us shore¬ ward soon.* In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. A land of streams ! some, like a down¬ ward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro’ wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land : far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset - flush’d : and, dew’d with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. The charmed sunset linger’d low adown In the red West: thro’ mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border’d with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale; A land where all things always seem’d the same ! And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them, And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seem’d, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make. They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore; And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Of child, and wife, and slave ; but ever¬ more Most weaiy seem’d the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, ‘We will return no more ;’ And all at once they sang, ‘ Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.’ CHORIC SONG. i. There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir’d eyelids upon tir’d eyes ; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro’ the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. THE LOTOS-EATERS. 55 ii. Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness ? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings. Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm ; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, ‘ There is no joy but calm !’ Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things ? III. Lo ! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo’d from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo ! sweeten’d with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days, The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. IV. Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life ; ah, why Should life all labour be ? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last ? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil ? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave ? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence ; ripen, fall and cease : Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. v. How sweet it were, hearing the down¬ ward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream ! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other’s whisper’d speech ; Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melan¬ choly ; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy Heap’d over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass ! VI. Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears : but all hath suffer’d change : For surely now our household hearths are cold : Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange: And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings Before them of the ten years’ war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half - forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle ? Let what is broken so remain. 56 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. The Gods are hard to reconcile : ’Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion worse than death, Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Long labour unto aged breath, Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. VII. But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropt eyelid still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly His waters from the purple hill— To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro’ the thick-twined vine— To watch the emerald - colour’d water falling Thro’ many a wov’n acanthus - wreath divine ! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretch’d out beneath the pine. VIII. The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: The Lotos blows by every winding creek: All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Thro’ every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll’d to starboard, roll’d to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl’d Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl’d Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world : Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho’ the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; Till they perish and they suffer—some, ’tis whisper’d—down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar ; Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade, ‘ The Legend of Good Women J long ago Sung by the morning star of song, who made His music heard below ; Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still. A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 57 And, for a while, the knowledge of his art Held me above the subject, as strong gales Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho’ my heart, Brimful of those wild tales, Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land I saw, wherever light illumineth, Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand The downward slope to death. Those far-renowned brides of ancient song Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars, And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong, And trumpets blown for wars ; And clattering flints batter’d with clanging hoofs ; And I saw crowds in column’d sanctu¬ aries ; And forms that pass’d at windows and on roofs Of marble palaces; Corpses across the threshold ; heroes tall Dislodging pinnacle and parapet Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall; Lances in ambush set; And high shrine-doors burst thro’ with heated blasts That run before the fluttering tongues of fire ; White surf wind-scatter’d over sails and masts, And ever climbing higher ; Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes, Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates, And hush’d seraglios. So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land Bluster the winds and tides the self-same way, Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand, Torn from the fringe of spray. I started once, or seem’d to start in pain, Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak, As when a great thought strikes along the brain, And flushes all the cheek. And once my arm was lifted to hew down A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, That bore a lady from a leaguer’d town ; And then, I know not how, All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought Stream’d onward, lost their edges, and did cteep Roll’d on each other, rounded, smooth’d, and brought Into the gulfs of sleep. At last methought that I had wander’d far In an old wood: fresh-wash’d in coolest dew The maiden splendours of the morning star Shook in the stedfast blue. Enormous elm-tree-boles did stoop and lean Upon the dusky brushwood underneath Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green, New from its silken sheath. The dim red morn had died, her journey done, And with dead lips smiled at the twi¬ light plain, Half-fall’n across the threshold of the sun, Never to rise again. There was no motion in the dumb dead air, Not any song of bird or sound of rill; Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre Is not so deadly still 58 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine turn’d Their humid arms festooning tree to tree, And at the root thro’ lush green grasses burn’d The red anemone. I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn On those long, rank, dark wood-walks drench’d in dew, Leading from lawn to lawn. The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour’d back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remember to have been Joyful and free from blame. And from within me a clear under-tone Thrill’d thro’ mine ears in that unbliss¬ ful clime, ‘ Pass freely thro’: the wood is all thine own, Until the end of time.’ At length I saw a lady within call, Stiller than chisell’d marble, standing there ; A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair. Pier loveliness with shame and with sur¬ prise Froze my swift speech : she turning on my face The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, Spoke slowly in her place. ‘ I had great beauty : ask thou not my name : No one can be more wise than destiny. Many drew swords and died. Where’er I came I brought calamity.’ * No marvel, sovereign lady : in fair field Myself for such a face had boldly died,’ I answer’d free ; and turning I appeal’d To one that stood beside. But she, with sick and scornful looks averse, To her full height her stately stature draws ; ‘ My youth,’ she said, ‘was blasted with a cur«se : This woman was the cause. ‘ I was cut off from hope in that sad place, Which men call’d Aulis in those iron years : My father held his hand upon his face ; I, blinded with my tears, ‘ Still strove to speak : my voice was thick with sighs As in a dream. Dimly I could descry The stern black-bearded kings with wolf¬ ish eyes, Waiting to see me die. ‘ The high masts flicker’d as they lay afloat; The crowds, the temples, waver’d, and the shore; The bright death quiver’d at the victim’s throat; Touch’d ; and I knew no more,’ Whereto the other with a downward brow: ‘ I would the white cold heavy-plung¬ ing foam, Whirl’d by the wind, had roll’d me deep below, Then when I left my home.’ Her slow full words sank thro’ the silence drear, As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea : Sudden I heard a voice that cried, ‘ Come here, That I may look on thee.’ I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll’d ; A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes, Brow-bound with burning gold. She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began: ‘ I govern’d men by change, and so I sway’d All moods. ’Tis long since I have seen a man. Once, like the moon, I made A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 59 * The ever-shifting currents of the blood According to my humour ebb and flow. I have no men to govern in this wood : That makes my only woe. * Nay—yet it chafes me that I could not bend One will; nor tame and tutor with mine eye That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, friend, Where is Mark Antony? ‘ The man, my lover, with whom I rode sublime On Fortune’s neck : we sat as God by God: The Nilus would have risen before his time And flooded at our nod. 1 We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit Lamps which out-burn’d Canopus. O my life In Egypt ! O the dalliance and the wit, The flattery and the strife, ‘ And the wild kiss, when fresh from war’s alarms, My Hercules, my Roman Antony, My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms, Contented there to die ! * And there he died : and when I heard my name Sigh’d forth with life I would not brook my fear Of the other : with a worm I balk’d his fame. What else was left ? look here ! ’ (With that she tore her robe apart, and half The polish’d argent of her breast to sight Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, Showing the aspick’s bite.) ‘ I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, A name for ever 1—lying robed and crown’d, Worthy a Roman spouse.’ Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range Struck by all passion, did fall down and glance From tone to tone, and glided thro’ all change Of liveliest utterance. When she made pause I knew not for delight; Because with sudden motion from the ground She raised her piercing orbs, and fill’d with light The interval of sound. Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest darts ; As once they drew into two burning rings All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts Of captains and of kings. Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard A noise of some one coming thro’ the lawn, And singing clearer than the crested bird That claps his wings at dawn. { The torrent brooks of hallow’d Israel From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, Sound all night long, in falling thro’ the dell, Far-heard beneath the moon. ‘ The balmy moon of blessed Israel Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divine : All night the splinter’d crags that wall the dell With spires of silver shine.’ As one that museth where broad sunshine laves The lawn by some cathedral, thro’ the door Hearing the holy organ rolling waves Of sound on roof and floor 6o A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. Within, and anthem sung, is charm’d and tied To where he stands,—so stood I, when that flow Of music left the lips of her that died To save her father’s vow ; The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, A maiden pure; as when she went along From Mizpeh’s tower’d gate with welcome light, With timbrel and with song. My words leapt forth : ‘ Heaven heads the count of crimes With that wild oath.’ She render’d answer high : ‘ Not so, nor once alone ; a thousand times I would be born and die. * Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root Creeps to the garden water-pipes be¬ neath, Feeding the flower; but ere my flower to fruit Changed, I was ripe for death. ‘ My God, my land, my father—these did move Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, Lower’d softly with a threefold cord of love Down to a silent grave. ‘ And I went mourning, “No fair Hebrew boy Shall smile away my maiden blame among The Hebrew mothers”—emptied of all j°y> Leaving the dance and song, ‘ Leaving the olive-gardens far below, Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow Beneath the battled tower. ‘ The light white cloud swam over us. Anon We heard the lion roaring from his den; We saw the large white stars rise one by one, Or, from the darken’d glen, ‘ Saw God divide the night with flying flame, And thunder on the everlasting hills. I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became A solemn scorn of ills. ‘ When the next moon was roll’d into the sky, Strength came to me that equall’d my desire. How beautiful a thing it was to die For God and for my sire ! ‘ It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, That I subdued me to my father’s will; Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell, Sweetens the spirit still. ‘ Moreover it is written that my race Hew’d Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer On Arnon unto Minneth.’ Here her face Glow’d, as I look’d at her. She lock’d her lips : she left me where I stood : ‘Glory to God,’ she sang, and past afar, Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, Toward the morning-star. Losing her carol I stood pensively, As one that from a casement leans his head, When midnight bells cease ringing sud¬ denly, And the old year is dead. ‘ Alas ! alas ! ’ a low voice, full of care, Murmur’d beside me : ‘ Turn and look on me : I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, If what I was I be. THE BLACKBIRD. 61 * Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor ! O me, that I should ever see the light ! Those dragon eyes of anger’d Eleanor Do hunt me, day and night.’ She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust: To whom the Egyptian : ‘ O, you tamely died ! You should have clung to Fulvia’s waist, and thrust The dagger thro’ her side.’ 'With that sharp sound the white dawn’s creeping beams, Stol’n to my brain, dissolved the mystery 'Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams Ruled in the eastern sky. Morn broaden’d on the borders of the dark, Ere I saw her, who clasp’d in her last trance Her murder’d father’s head, or Joan of Arc, A light of ancient France ; ‘ Or her who knew that Love can vanquish Death, Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, Sweet as new buds in Spring. No memory labours longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep To gather and tell o’er Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain Compass’d, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams again! But no two dreams are like. As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, Desiring what is mingled with past years, In yearnings that can never be exprest By signs or groans or tears; Because all words, tho’ cull’d with choicest art, Failing to give the bitter of the sweet. Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Faints, faded by its heat. THE BLACKBIRD. O blackbird ! sing me something well: While all the neighbours shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may’st warble, eat and dwell. The espaliers and the standards all Are thine ; the range of lawn and park : The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall. Yet, tho’ I spared thee all the spring, Thy sole delight is, sitting still, With that gold dagger of thy bill To fret the summer jenneting. A golden bill! the silver tongue, Cold February loved, is dry : Plenty corrupts the melody That made thee famous once, when young: And in the sultry garden-squares, Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares. Take warning ! he that will not sing While yon sun prospers in the blue, Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 62 THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR—TO J. S. THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sigh¬ ing : Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die ; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die. He lieth still: he doth not move : He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, And the New-year will take ’em away. Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go. He froth’d his bumpers to the brim ; A jollier year we shall not see. But tho’ his eyes are waxing dim. And tho’ his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die ; We did so laugh and cry with you, I’ve half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die. He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o’er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he’ll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes ! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro : The cricket chirps : the light burns low : ’Tis nearly twelve o’clock. Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we’ll dearly rue for you : What is it we can do for you ? Speak out before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack ! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There’s a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door. TO J. S. The wind, that beats the mountain, blows More softly round the open wold, And gently comes the world to those That are cast in gentle mould. And me this knowledge bolder made, Or else I had not dared to flow In these words toward you, and invade Even with a verse your holy woe. ’Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, Fall into shadow, soonest lost : Those we love first are taken first. God gives us love. Something to love He lends us ; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone. This is the curse of time. Alas ! In grief I am not all unlearn’d ; Once thro’ mine own doors Death did pass ; One went, who never hath return’d. . He will not smile—not speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been. ON A MOURNER. 63 Your loss is rarer ; for this star Rose with you thro’ a little arc Of heaven, nor having wander’d far Shot on the sudden into dark. I knew your brother : his mute dust I honour and his living worth : A man more pure and bold and just Was never born into the earth. I have not look’d upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fall’n asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I : I will not tell you not to weep. And tho’ mine own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit thro’ the brain, I will not even preach to you, ‘ Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain.’ Let Grief be her own mistress still. She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will Be done—to weep or not to weep. I will not say, ‘ God’s ordinance Of Death is blown in every wind ; ’ For that is not a common chance That takes away a noble mind. His memory long will live alone In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun,. And dwells in heaven half the night. 1 Vain solace ! Memory standing near Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seem’d distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters as I wrote. I wrote I know not what. In truth, How should I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth ? Yet something I did wish to say : ! For he too was a friend to me : Both are my friends, and my true breast 1 Bleedeth for both ; yet it may be That only silence suiteth best. Words weaker than your grief would make Grief more. ’Twere better I should cease Although myself could almost take The place of him that sleeps in peace. Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace : Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons increase, And the great ages onward -roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet; Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. ON A MOURNER. I. Nature, so far as in her lies, Imitates God, and turns her face To every land beneath the skies, Counts nothing that she meets with base, But lives and loves in every place ; II. Fills out the homely quickset-screens, And makes the purple lilac ripe, Steps from her airy hill, and greens The swamp, where hums the dropping snipe, With moss and braided marish-pipe ; ill. And on thy heart a finger lays, Saying, ‘ Beat quicker, for the time Is pleasant, and the woods and ways Are pleasant, and the beech and lime Put forth and feel a gladder clime.’ IV. And murmurs of a deeper voice, Going before to some far shrine, Teach that sick heart the stronger choice, Till all thy life one way incline With one wide Will that closes thine. 64 LOVE THOU THY LAND. v. And when the zoning eve has died Where yon dark valleys wind forlorn, Come Hope and Memory, spouse and bride, From out the borders of the morn, With that fair child betwixt them bom. VI. And when no mortal motion jars The blackness round the tombing sod, Thro’ silence and the trembling stars Comes Faith from tracts no feet have trod, And Virtue, like a household god VII. Promising empire ; such as those Once heard at dead of night to greet Troy’s wandering prince, so that he rose With sacrifice, while all the fleet Had rest by stony hills of Crete. You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas. It is the land that freemen till, That sober-suited Freedom chose, The land, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will; A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom slowly broadens down From precedent to precedent: Where faction seldom gathers head, But by degrees to fullness wrought. The strength of some diffusive thought Hath time and space to work and spread. Should banded unions persecute Opinion, and induce a time When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute ; Tho’ Power should make from land to land The name of Britain trebly great— Tho’ eveiy channel of the State Should fill and choke with golden sand— Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky, And I will see before I die The palms and temples of the South. Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet : Above her shook the starry lights : She heard the torrents meet. There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gather’d in her prophet-mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind. Then stept she down thro’ town and field To mingle with the human race, And part by part to men reveal’d The fullness of her face— Grave mother of majestic works, From her isle-altar gazing down, Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, And, King-like, wears the crown : Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears ; That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes ! Love thou thy land, with love far-brought From out the storied Past, and used Within the Present, but transfused Thro’ future time by power of thought. LOVE THOU THY LAND. 65 True love turn’d round on fixed poles, Love, that endures not sordid ends, For English natures, freemen, friends, Thy brothers and immortal souls. But pamper not a hasty time, Nor feed with crude imaginings The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings That every sophister can lime. Deliver not the tasks of might To weakness, neither hide the ray From those, not blind, who wait for day, Tho’ sitting girt with doubtful light. Make knowledge circle with the winds ; But let her herald, Reverence, fly Before her to whatever sky Bear seed of men and growth of minds. Watch what main-currents draw the years : Cut Prejudice against the grain : But gentle words are always gain : Regard the weakness of thy peers : Nor toil for title, place, or touch Of pension, neither count on praise : It grows to guerdon after-days : Nor deal in watch-words overmuch : Not clinging to some ancient saw; Not master’d by some modern term ; Not swift nor slow to change, but firm : And in its season bring the law; That from Discussion’s lip may fall With Life, that, working strongly, binds— Set in all lights by many minds, To close the interests of all. For Nature also, cold and warm, And moist and dry, devising long, Thro’ many agents making strong, Matures the individual form. Meet is it changes should control • Our being, lest we rust in ease. We all are changed by still degrees, All but the basis of the soul. So let the change which comes be free To ingroove itself with that which flies, And work, a joint of state, that plies Its office, moved with sympathy. A saying, hard to shape in act; For all the past of Time reveals A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. Ev’n now we hear with inward strife A motion toiling in the gloom— The Spirit of the years to come Yearning to mix himself with Life. A slow-develop’d strength awaits Completion in a painful school ; Phantoms of other forms of rule, New Majesties of mighty States— The warders of the growing hour, But vague in vapour, hard to mark ; And round them sea and air are dark With great contrivances of Power. Of many changes, aptly join’d, Is bodied forth the second whole. Regard gradation, lest the soul Of Discord race the rising wind ; A wind to puff your idol-fires, And heap their ashes on the head ; To shame the boast so often made, That we are wiser than our sires. Oh yet, if Nature’s evil star Drive men in manhood, as in youth, To follow flying steps of Truth Across the brazen bridge of war— If New and Old, disastrous feud, Must ever shock, like armed foes, And this be true, till Time shall close, That Principles are rain’d in blood ; Not yet the wise of heart would cease To hold his hope thro’ shame and guilt, But with his hand against the hilt, Would pace the troubled land, like Peace; F 66 ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782— THE GOOSE. Not less, tho’ dogs of Faction bay, Would serve his kind in deed and word, Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, That knowledge takes the sword away— Would love the gleams of good that broke From either side, nor veil his eyes : And if some dreadful need should rise Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke : To-morrow yet would reap to-day, As we bear blossom of the dead ; Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782. O thou, that sendest out the man To rule by land and sea, Strong mother of a Lion-line, Be proud of those strong sons of thine Who wrench’d their rights from thee! What wonder, if in noble heat Those men thine arms withstood, Retaught the lesson thou hadst taught, And in thy spirit with thee fought— Who sprang from English blood ! But Thou rejoice with liberal joy, Lift up thy rocky face, And shatter, when the storms are black, In many a streaming torrent back, The seas that shock thy base ! Whatever harmonies of law The growing world assume, Thy work is thine—The single note From that deep chord which Hampden smote Will vibrate to the doom. THE GOOSE. I knew an old wife lean and poor, Her rags scarce held together ; There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather. He held a goose upon his arm, He utter’d rhyme and reason, ‘ Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, It is a stormy season.’ She caught the white goose by the leg, A goose—’twas no great matter. The goose let fall a golden egg With cackle and with clatter. She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, And ran to tell her neighbours ; And bless’d herself, and cursed herself, And rested from her labours. And feeding high, and living soft, Grew plump and able-bodied ; Until the grave churchwarden doff’d, The parson smirk’d and nodded. So sitting, served by man and maid, She felt her heart grow prouder : But ah ! the more the white goose laid It clack’d and cackled louder. It clutter’d here, it chuckled there; It stirr’d the old wife’s mettle : She shifted in her elbow-chair, And hurl’d the pan and kettle. ‘ A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! ’ Then wax’d her anger stronger. ‘ Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer.’ Then yelp’d the cur, and yawl’d the cat; Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. The goose flew this way and flew that, And fill’d the house with clamour. As head and heels upon the floor They flounder’d all together, There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather : He took the goose upon his arm, He utter’d words of scorning ; * So keep you cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning.’ THE EPIC . 67 The wild wind rang from park and plain, And round the attics rumbled, Till all the tables danced again, And half the chimneys tumbled. The glass blew in, the fire blew out, The blast was hard and harder. Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, And a whirlwind clear’d the larder : And while on all sides breaking loose Her household fled the danger, Quoth she, ‘ The Devil take the goose, And God forget the stranger! ’ ENGLISH IDYLLS AND OTHER POEMS. THE EPIC. At Francis Allen’s on the Christmas - eve,— The game of forfeits done—the girls all kiss’d Beneath the sacred bush and past away— The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, The host, and I sat round the wassail- bowl, Then half-way ebb’d : and there we held a talk, How all the old honour had from Christmas gone, Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games In some odd nooks like this ; till I, tired out With cutting eights that day upon the pond, Where, three times slipping from the outer edge, I bump’d the ice into three several stars, Fell in a doze ; and half-awake I heard The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, Now harping on the church - commis¬ sioners, Now hawking at Geology and schism ; Until I woke, and found him settled down Upon the general decay of faith Right thro’ the world, ‘ at home was little left, And none abroad : there was no anchor, none, To hold by.’ Francis, laughing, clapt his hand On Everard’s shoulder, with ‘ I hold by him.’ ‘ And I,’ quoth Everard, ‘ by the wassail- bowl. ’ ‘Why yes,’ I said, ‘we knew your gift that way At college : but another which you had, I mean of verse (for so we held it then), What came of that ?’ ‘ You know,’ said Frank, ‘ he burnt His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books ’— And then to me demanding why ? ‘ Oh, sir, He thought that nothing new was said, or else Something so said ’twas nothing—that a truth Looks freshest in the fashion of the day : God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask. It pleased vie well enough.’ ‘ Nay, nay,’ said Hall, ‘Why take the style of those heroic times? For nature brings not back the Mastodon, Nor we those times ; and why should any man Remodel models ? these twelve books of mine Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing- worth, 68 MORTE D ARTHUR. Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt.’ ‘But I,* Said Francis, ‘ pick’d the eleventh from this hearth And have it: keep a thing, its use will come. I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes.’ He laugh’d, and I, tho’ sleepy, like a horse That hears the corn-bin open, prick’d my ears ; For I remember’d Everard’s college fame When we were Freshmen : then at my request He brought it; and the poet little urged, But with some prelude of disparagement, Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, Deep-chested music, and to this result. MORTE D’ARTHUR. So all day long the noise of battle roll’d Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur’s table, man by man, Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord, King Arthur : then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren land. On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : ‘ The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made,— Tho’ Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more—but let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro’ the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, Which was my pride : for thou remem- berest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white samite, mystic, won¬ derful, Holding the sword—and how I row’d across And took it, and have worn it, like a king : And, wheresoever I am sung or told In aftertime, this also shall be known : But now delay not: take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere : Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.’ To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : ‘ It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten thro’ the helm. A little thing may harm a wounded man. Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.’ So saying, from the ruin’d shrine he stept And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake. There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o’er him, drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth MORTE D'ARTHUR. 69 And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, This way and that dividing the swift mind, In act to throw : but at the last it seem’d Better to leave Excalibur conceal’d There in the many-knotted waterflags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. So strode he back slow to the wounded King. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- vere : ‘ Hast thou perform’d my mission which I gave? What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? ’ And answer made the bold SirBedivere: ‘ I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crag. ’ To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : ‘ Thou hast betray’d thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseem’d Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: For surer sign had follow’d, either hand, Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shameful thing for men to lie. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.’ Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere. Counting the dewy pebbles* fix’d in thought; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud, * And if indeed I cast the brand away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done ? What harm, undone ? deep harm to dis¬ obey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable, against himself? The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumours of a doubt ? but were this kept, Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms, Saying, “King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills.” So might some old man speak in the aftertime To all the people, winning reverence-. But now much honour and much fame were lost.’ So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, And hid Excalibur the second time, And so strode back slow to the wounded King. Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: ‘ What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard ? ’ And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: * I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds. ’ To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath : ‘Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! Authority forgets a dying king, Laid widow’d of the power in his eye That bow’d the will. I see thee what thou art, For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, o MORTE D* ARTHUR. In whom should meet the offices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, And the third time may prosper, get thee hence: But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, I will arise and slay thee with my hands.’ Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch’d the sword, And strongly wheel’d and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirl’d in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the northern sea. So flash’d and fell the brand Excalibur: But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, won¬ derful, And caught him by the hilt, and bran¬ dish’d him Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King. Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath : ‘ Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen ?’ And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: ‘ Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, Not tho’ I live three lives of mortal men, So great a miracle as yonder hilt. Then with both hands I flung him, wheel¬ ing him ; But when I look’d again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mystic, won¬ derful, That caught him by the hilt, and bran¬ dish’d him Three times, and drew him under in the mere.’ And answer made King Arthur, breath¬ ing hard : ‘ My end draws nigh ; ’tis time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.’ So saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere Remorsefully regarded thro’ his tears, And would have spoken, but he found not words, Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, O’er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, And rising bore him thro’ the place of tombs. But, as he walk’d, King Arthur panted hard, Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sigh’d the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear, ‘ Quick, quick ! I fear it is too late, and I shall die.’ But the other .swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk’d, • Larger than human on the frozen hills. He heard the deep behind him, and a cry Before. His own thought drove him, like a goad. Dry clash’d his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right MORTE D'ARTHUR. 7i The bare black cliff clang’d round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp - smitten with the dint of armed heels— And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon. Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, Beneath them; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream —by these Three Queens with crowns of gold—and from them rose A cry that shiver’d to the tingling stars, And, as it were one voice an agony Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world. Then murmur’d Arthur, ‘ Place me in the barge,’ And to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And loosed the shatter’d casque, and chafed his hands, And call’d him by his name, complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against his brow Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white And colourless, and like the wither’d moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; And all his greaves and cuisses dash’d with drops Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls— That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the dais-throne—were parch’d with dust; Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mix’d with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. So like a shatter’d column lay the King ; Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, From spur to plume a star of tournament, Shot thro’ the lists atCamelot, and charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, ‘ Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes ? For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light that led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole round table is dissolved Which was an image of the mighty world; And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.’ And slowly answered Arthur from the barge : ‘ The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils Himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me ? I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within Himself make pure ! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats 72 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend ? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou seest—if indeed I go— (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) To the island-valley of Avilion ; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies Deep-meadow’d, happy fair with orchard- lawns And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.’ So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full¬ breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away. Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long Had wink’d and threaten’d darkness, flared- and fell: At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound, And waked with silence, grunted ‘ Good! ’ but we Sat rapt : it was the tone with which he read— Perhaps some modern touches here and there Redeem’d it from the charge of nothing¬ ness— Or else we loved the man, and prized his work ; I know not: but we sitting, as I said, The cock crew loud; as at that time of year The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn : Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, ‘ There now—that’s nothing ! ’ drew a little back, And drove his heel into the smoulder’d log, That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue: And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seem’d To sail with Arthur under looming shores, Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore King Arthur, like a modem gentleman Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, ‘ Arthur is come again : he cannot die.’ Then those that stood upon the hills behind Repeated—‘ Come again, and thrice as fair ;’ And, further inland, voices echoed— ‘ Come With all good things, and war shall be no more.’ At this a hundred bells began to peal, That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed The clear church - bells ring in the Christmas-morn. THE GARDENER’S DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES. This morning is the morning of the day, When I and Eustace from the city went To see the Gardener’s Daughter; I and he, Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete Portion’d in halves between us, that we grew The fable of the city where we dwelt. OR, THE PICTURES. 73 My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. He, by some law that holds in love, and draws The greater to the lesser, long desired A certain miracle of symmetry, A miniature of loveliness, all grace Summ’d up and closed in little;—Juliet* she So light of foot, so light of spirit—oh, she To me myself, for some three careless moons, The summer pilot of an empty heart U nto the shores of nothing! Know you not Such touches are but embassies of love, To tamper with the feelings, ere he found Empire for life ? but Eustace painted her, And said to me, she sitting with us then, ‘ When will you paint like this ? ’ and I replied, (My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) ‘ ’Tis not your work, but Love’s. Love* unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.’ And Juliet answer’d laughing, ‘ Go and see The Gardener’s daughter : trust me, after that, You scarce can fail to match his master¬ piece.’ And up wte rose, and on the spur we went. Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes to it In sound of funeral or of marriage bells ; And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear The windy clanging of the minster clock ; Although between it and the garden lies A league of grass, wash’d by a slow broad stream, That, stirr’d with languid pulses of the oar, Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge Crown’d with the minster-towers. The fields between Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder’d kine, And all about the large lime feathers low, The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. In that still place she, hoarded in herself, Grew, seldom seen ; not less among us lived Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard Of Rose, the Gardener’s daughter ? Where was he, So blunt in memory, so old at heart, At such a distance from his youth in grief, That, having seen, forgot ? The common mouth, So gross to express delight, in praise of her Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, And Beauty such a mistress of the world. And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, Would play with flying forms and images, Yet this is also true, that, long before I look’d upon her, when I heard her name My heart was like a prophet to my heart, And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes, That sought to sow themselves like winged seeds, Born out of everything I heard and saw, Flutter’d about my senses and my soul; And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm To one that travels quickly, made the air Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought, That verged upon them, sweeter than the dream Dream’d by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn. And sure this orbit of the memory folds For ever in itself the day we went To see her. All the land in flowery squares, Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud Drew downward : but all else of heaven was pure 74 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge, And May with me from head to heel. And now, As tho’ ’twere yesterday, as tho’ it were The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound, (For those old Mays had thrice the life of these,) Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze, And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood, Leaning his horns into the neighbour field, And lowing to his fellows. From the woods Came voices of the well-contented doves. The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy, But shook his song together as he near’d His happy home, the ground. To left and right, The cuckoo told his name to all the hills ; The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm; The redcap whistled ; and the nightingale Sang loud, as tho’ he were the bird of day. And Eustace turn’d, and smiling said to me, * Hear how the bushes echo ! by my life, These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing Like poets, from the vanity of song ? Or have they any sense of why they sing ? And would they praise the heavens for what they have ? ’ And I made answer, ‘ Were there nothing else For which to praise the heavens but only love, That only love were cause enough for praise. ’ Lightly he laugh’d, as one that read my thought, And on we went ; but ere an hour had pass’d, We reach’d a meadow slanting to the North ; Down which a well-worn pathway courted us To one green wicket in a privet hedge ; This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk Thro’ crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned; And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew Beyond us, as we enter’d in the cool. The garden stretches southward. In the midst A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade. The garden-glasses shone, and momently The twinkling laurel scatter’d silver lights. ‘Eustace,’ I said, ‘this wonder keeps the house.’ He nodded, but a moment afterwards He cried, ‘ Look ! look ! ’ Before he ceased I turn’d, And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose, That, flowering high, the last night’s gale had caught, Arid blown across the walk. One arm aloft— Gown’d in pure white, that fitted to the shape— Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood, A single stream of all her soft brown hair Pour’d on one side : the shadow of the flowers Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist— Ah, happy shade—and still went waver¬ ing down, But, ere it touch’d a foot, that might have danced The greensward into greener circles, dipt, And mix’d with shadows of the common ground ! But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn’d Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom, And doubled his own warmth against her lips, And on the bounteous wave of such a breast As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade, She stood, a sight to make an old man. young. OR, THE PICTURES. 75 So rapt, we near’d the house ; but she, a Rose In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn’d Into the world without; till close at hand, And almost ere I knew mine own intent, This murmur broke the stillness of that air Which brooded round about her : ‘Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull’d, Were worth a hundred kisses press’d on lips Less exquisite than thine.’ She look’d : but all Suffused with blushes—neither self-pos- sess’d Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that, Divided in a graceful quiet—paused, And dropt the branch she held, and turn¬ ing, wound Her looser hair in braid, and stirr’d her lips For some sweet answer, tho’ no answer came, Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, And moved away, and left me, statue-like, In act to render thanks. I, that whole day, Saw her no more, altho’ I linger’d there Till every daisy slept, and Love’s white star Beam’d thro’ the thicken’d cedar in the dusk. So home we went, and all the livelong way With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. ‘Now,’ said he, ‘will you climb the top of Art. You cannot fail but work in hues to dim The Titianic Flora. Will you match My Juliet? you, not you,—the Master, Love, A more ideal Artist he than all.’ So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, Reading her perfect features in the gloom, Kissing the rose she gave me o’er and o’er, And shaping faithful record of the glance That graced the giving—such a noise of life Swarm’d in the golden present, such a voice Call’d to me from the years to come, and such A length of bright horizon rimm’d the dark. And all that night I heard the watchman peal The sliding season : all that night I heard The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good, O’er the mute city stole with folded wings, Distilling odours on me as they went To greet their fairer sisters of the East. Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all, Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt. Light pretexts drew me ; sometimes a Dutch love For tulips ; then for roses, moss or musk, To grace my city rooms; or fruits and cream Served in the weeping elm ; and more and more A word could bring the colour to my cheek ; A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew ; Love trebled life within me, and with each The year increased. The daughters of the year, One after one, thro’ that still garden pass’d; Each garlanded with her peculiar flower Danced into light, and died into the shade; And each in passing touch’d with some new grace Or seem’d to touch her, so that day by day, Like one that never can be wholly known, 76 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. Her beauty grew ; till Autumn brought an hour For Eustace, when I heard his deep * I will,’ Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold From thence thro’ all the worlds : but I rose up Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach’d The wicket-gate, and found her standing there. There sat we down upon a garden mound, Two mutually enfolded ; Love, the third, Between us, in the circle of his arms Enwound us both; and over many a range Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers, Across a hazy glimmer of the west, Reveal’d their shining windows: from them clash’d The bells ; we listen’d j with the time we play’d, We spoke of other things; we coursed about The subject most at heart, more near and near, Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round The central wish, until we settled there. Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her, Requiring, tho’ I knew it was mine own, Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, A woman’s heart, the heart of her I loved; And in that time and place she answer’d me, And in the compass of three little words, More musical than ever came in one, The silver fragments of a broken voice, Made me most happy, faltering, 1 1 am thine. ’ Shall I cease here ? Is this enough to say That my desire, like all strongest hopes, By its own energy fulfill’d itself, Merged in completion ? Would you learn at full How passion rose thro’ circumstantial grades Beyond all grades develop’d ? and indeed I had not staid so long to tell you all, But while I mused came Memory with sad eyes, Holding the folded annals of my youth ; And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by, And with a flying finger swept my lips, And spake, ‘ Be wise : not easily forgiven Are those, who setting wide the doors that bar The secret bridal chambers of the heart, Let in the day.’ Here, then, my words have end. Yet might I tell of meetings, of fare¬ wells— Of that which came between, more sweet than each, In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves That tremble round a nightingale — in sighs Which perfect Joy, perplex’d for utter¬ ance, Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given, And vows, where there was never need of vows. And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale Sow’d all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars ; Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit, Spread the light haze along the river- shores, And in the hollows; or as once we met Unheedful, tho’ beneath a whispering rain Night slid down one long stream of sigh¬ ing wind. And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. But this whole hour your eyes have been intent DORA. n On that veil’d picture—veil’d, for what it holds May not be dwelt on by the common day. This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul; Make thine heart ready with thine eyes : the time Is come to raise the veil. Behold her there, As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, My first, last love ; the idol of my youth, The darling of my manhood, and, alas ! Now the most blessed memory of mine age. DORA. With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often look’d at them, And often thought, ‘ I’ll make them man and wife.’ Now Dora felt her uncle’s will in all, And yearn’d towards William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora. Then there came a day When Allan call’d his son, and said, ‘ My son : I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die: And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora; she is well To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother’s daughter : he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora : take her for your wife ; For I have wish’d this marriage, night and day, For many years.’ But William answer’d short; ‘ I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora. ’ Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : ‘You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus ! But in my time a father’s word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William : take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish ; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, And never more darken my doors again.’ But William answer’d madly; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he look’d at her The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh ; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father’s house, And hired himself to work within the fields ; And half in love, half spite, he woo’d and wed A labourer’s daughter, Mary Morrison. Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call’d His niece and said : ‘ My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law. ’ And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, ‘ It cannot be : my uncle’s mind will change !’ And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he pass’d his father’s gate, Heart-broken, and his father help’d him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, 78 DORA. And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look’d with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : ‘ I have obey’d my uncle until now, And I have sinn’d, for it was all thro’ me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that’s gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you : You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest: let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle’s eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that’s gone. ’ And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart fail’d her ; and the reapers reap’d, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle’s eye. Then when the farmer pass’d into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: * Where were you yesterday ? Whose child is that ? What are you doing here?’ So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer’d softly, ‘ This is William’s child!’ ‘ And did I not,’ said Allan, ‘did I not Forbid you, Dora?’ Dora said again : ‘ Do with me as you will, but take the child, And bless him for the sake of him that’s gone !’ And Allan said, ‘ I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you ! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well—for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more.’ So saying, he took the boy that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora’s feet. She bow’d upon her hands, And the boy’s cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bow’d down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow’d down And wept in secret; and the reapers reap’d, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary’s house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that help’d her in her widowhood. And Dora said, ‘ My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you : He says that he will never see me more.’ Then answer’d Mary, ‘ This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: AUDLEY COURT. 79 And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother ; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back : But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William’s child, until he grows Of age to help us.’ So the women kiss’d Each other, and set out, and reach’d the farm. The door was off the latch : they peep’d, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire’s knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt nim on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him : and the lad stretch’d out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan’s watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in : but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her : And Allan set him down, and Mary said : * O Father !—if you let me call you so— I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child ; but now I come For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well. O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask’d him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me— I had been a patient wife : but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus : “God bless him!” he said, “and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro’ !” Then he turn’d His face and pass’d—unhappy that I am ! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learnt to slight His father’s memory; and take Dora, back, And let all this be as it was before.’ So Maiy said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room ; And all at once the old man burst ini sobs:— ‘ I have been to blame—to blame. I have kill’d my son. I have kill’d him—but I loved him—my dear son. May God forgive me !—I have been to> blame. Kiss me, my children.’ Then they clung about The old man’s neck, and kiss’d him many times. And all the man was broken with re¬ morse ; And all his love came back a hundred¬ fold; And for three hours he sobb’d o’er Wil¬ liam’s child Thinking of William. So those four abode' Within one house together ; and as years; Went forward, Mary took another mate ; But Dora lived unmarried till her death. AUDLEY COURT. ‘ The Bull, the Fleece are cramm’d, and not a room For love or money. Let us picnic there At Audley Court.’ I spoke, while Audley feast Humm’d like a hive all round the narrow 1 quay, To Francis, with a basket on his arm, To Francis just alighted from the boat* 8 o AUDLEY COURT. And breathing of the sea. ‘ With all my heart,’ Said Francis. Then we shoulder’d thro’ the swarm, And rounded by the stillness of the beach To where the bay runs up its latest horn. We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp’d The flat red granite; so by many a sweep Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach’d The griflin-guarded gates, and pass’d thro’ all The pillar’d dusk of sounding sycamores, And cross’d the garden to the gardener’s lodge, With all its casements bedded, and its walls And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied ; last, with these, A flask of cider from his father’s vats, Prime, which I knew ; and so we sat and eat And talk’d old matters over ; who was dead, Who married, who was like to be, and how The races went, and who would rent the hall: Then touch’d upon the game, how scarce it was This season ; glancing thence, discuss’d the farm, The four-field system, and the price of grain ; And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split, And came again together on the king With heated faces ; till he laugh’d aloud ; And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang— ‘ Oh ! who would fight and march and countermarch, Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, And shovell’d up into some bloody trench Where no one knows ? but let me live my life. ‘ Oh ! who would cast and balance at a desk, Perch’d like a crow upon a three-legg’d stool, Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints Are full of chalk ? but let me live my life. ‘ Who’d serve the state ? for if I carved my name Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, I might as well have traced it in the sands; The sea wastes all: but let me live my life. ‘ Oh ! who would love ? I woo’d a woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind, And all my heart turn’d from her, as a thorn Turns from the sea; but let me live my life.’ He sang his song, and I replied with mine : I found it in a volume, all of songs, Knock’d down to me, when old Sir Robert’s pride, His books—the more the pity, so I said— Came to the hammer here in March— and this— I set the words, and added names I knew. ‘ Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me: Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister’s arm, And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. ‘ Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia’s arm; Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, For thou art fairer than all else that is. ‘ Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast: Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip: I go to-night: I come to-morrow morn. ‘ I go, but I return : I would I were The pilot of the darkness and the dream. WALKING TO THE MAIL. 81 Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me.’ So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, The farmer’s son, who lived across the bay. My friend ; and I, that having where¬ withal, And in the fallow leisure of my life A rolling stone of here and everywhere, Did what I would ; but ere the night we rose And saunter’d home beneath a moon, that, just In crescent, dimly rain’d about the leaf Twilights of airy silver, till we reach’d The limit of the hills ; and as we sank From rock to rock upon the glooming quay, The town was hush’d beneath us : lower down The bay was oily calm; the harbour- buoy. Sole star of phosphorescence in the calm, With one green sparkle ever and anon Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. WALKING TO THE MAIL. John. I’m glad I walk’d. How fresh the meadows look Above the river, and, but a month ago, The whole hill-side was redder than a fox. Is yon plantation where this byway joins The turnpike ? James. Yes. John. And when does this come by ? James. The mail ? At one o’clock. John. What is it now ? James. A quarter to. John. Whose house is that I see ? No, not the County Member’s with the vane: Up higher with the yew-tree by it, and half A score of gables. James. That ? Sir Edward Head’s: But he’s abroad: the place is to be sold. John. Oh, his. He was not broken. James. No, sir, he, Vex’d with a morbid devil in his blood That veil’d the world with jaundice, hid his face From all men, and commercing with himself, He lost the sense that handles daily life— That keeps us all in order more or less— And sick of home went overseas for change. John. And whither ? James. Nay, who knows? he’s here and there. But let him go ; his devil goes with him, As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes. John. What’s that ? James. You saw the man—on Mon¬ day, was it ?— There by the humpback’d willow; half stands up And bristles ; half has fall’n and made a bridge ; And there he caught the younker tickling trout— Caught in flagrante —what’s the Latin word ?— Delicto : but his house, for so they say, Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors, And rummaged like a rat: no servant stay’d : The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, And all his household stuff; and with his boy Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, ‘ What ! You’re flitting!’ ‘Yes, we’re flitting,’ says the ghost (For they had pack’d the thing among the beds,) ‘ Oh well,’ says he, ‘ you flitting with us too— Jack, turn the horses’ heads and home again.’ John. He left his wife behind ; for so I heard. G 82 WALKING TO THE MAIL. James. He left her, yes. I met my lady once : A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. John. Oh yet but I remember, ten years back— ’Tis now at least ten years—and then she was— You could not light upon a sweeter thing: A body slight and round, and like a pear In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin As clean and white as privet when it flowers. James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved At first like dove and dove were cat and dog. She was the daughter of a cottager, Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride, New things and old, himself and her, she sour’d To what she is : a nature never kind ! Like men, like manners: like breeds like, they say : Kind nature is the best : those manners next That fit us like a nature second-hand ; Which are indeed the manners of the great. John. But I had heard it was this bill that past, And fear of change at home, that drove him hence. James. That was the last drop in the cup of gall. I once was near him, when his bailiff brought A Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince As from a venomous thing : he thought himself A mark for all, and shudder’d, lest a cry Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes Should see the raw mechanic’s bloody thumbs Sweat on his blazon’d chairs; but, sir, you know That these two parties still divide the world— Of those that want, and those that have: and still The same old sore breaks out from age to age With much the same result. Now I myself, A Tory to the quick, was as a boy Destructive, when I had not what I would. I was at school—a college in the South : There lived a flayflint near ; we stole his fruit, His hens, his eggs; but there was law for us ; We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She, With meditative grunts of much content, Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and mud. By night we dragg’d her to the college tower From her warm bed, and up the cork-, screw stair With hand and rope we haled the groan¬ ing sow, And on the leads we kept her till she Pigg’d. Large range of prospect had the mother sow, And but for daily loss of one she loved As one by one we took them—but for this— As never sow was higher in this world— Might have been happy : but what lot is pure? We took them all, till she was left alone Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine, And so return’d unfarrow’d to her sty. John. They found you out? James. Not they. John. Well—after all— What know we of the secret of a man ? His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are sound, That we should mimic this raw fool the world, Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites, As ruthless as a baby with a worm, As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows To Pity—more from ignorance than will. EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 83 But put your best foot forward, or I fear That we shall miss the mail: and here it comes With five at top: as quaint a four-in-hand As you shall see—three pyebalds and a roan. EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake, My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of a year, My one Oasis in the dust and drouth Of city life ! I was a sketcher then : See here, my doing : curves of mountain, bridge, Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built When men knew how to build, upon a rock With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock : And here, new-comers in an ancient hold, New-comers from the Mersey, million¬ aires, Here lived the Hills—a Tudor-chimnied bulk Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull The curate ; he was fatter than his cure. But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names, Long learned names of agaric, moss and fern, Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks, Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim, Who read me rhymes elaborately good, His own—I call’d him Crichton, for he seem’d All-perfect, finish’d to the finger nail. And once I ask’d him of his early life, And his first passion ; and he answer’d me ; And well his words became him: was he not A full-cell’d honeycomb of eloquence Stored from all flowers? Poet-like he spoke. * My love for Nature is as old as I ; But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, And three rich sennights more, my love for her. My love for Nature and my love for her. Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew, Twin-sisters differently beautiful. To some full music rose and sank the sun, And some full music seem’d to move and change With all the varied changes of the dark, And either twilight and the day between; For daily hope fulfill’d, to rise again Revolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to breathe.’ Or this or something like to this he spoke. Then said the fat-faced curate Edward Bull, ‘ I take it, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world. A pretty face is well, and this is well, To have a dame indoors, that trims us up, And keeps us tight; but these unreal ways Seem but the theme of writers, and in¬ deed Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff. I say, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world. ’ ‘Parson,’ said I, ‘you pitch the pipe too low : But I have sudden touches, and can run My faith beyond my practice into his : Tho’ if, in dancing after Letty Hill, I do not hear the bells upon my cap, I scarce have other music : yet say on. 84 EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. What should one give to light on such a dream ? ’ I ask’d him half-sardonically. ‘ Give ? Give all thou art,’ he answer’d, and a light Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek; ‘ I would have hid her needle in my heart, To save her little finger from a scratch No deeper than the skin : my ears could hear Her lightest breath; her least remark was worth The experience of the wise. I went and came ; Her voice fled always thro’ the summer land ; I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days ! The flower of each, those moments when we met, The crown of all, we met to part no more.’ Were not his words delicious, I a beast To take them as I did ? but something jarr’d ; Whether he spoke too largely ; that there seem’d A touch of something false, some self- conceit, Or over-smoothness : howsoe’er it was, He scarcely hit my humour, and I said: * Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me, As in the Latin song I learnt at school, Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and left ? But you can talk: yours is a kindly vein: I have, I think, — Heaven knows—as much within ; Have, or should have, but for a thought or two, That like a purple beech among the greens Looks out of place : ’tis from no want in her: It is my shyness, or my self-distrust, Or something of a wayward modern mind Dissecting passion. Time will set me right.’ So spoke I knowing not the things that were. Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull: ‘ God made the woman for the use of man, And for the good and increase of the world. ’ And I and Edwin laughed ; and now we paused About the windings of the marge to hear The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms And alders, garden-isles; and now we left The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, Delighted with the freshness and the sound. But, when the bracken rusted on their crags, My suit had wither’d, nipt to death by him That was a God, and is a lawyer’s clerk, The rentroll Cupid of our rainy isles. ’Tis true, we met; one hour I had, no more : She sent a note, the seal an Elle vous suit, The close, ‘Your Letty, only yoursj’ and this Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of mom Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran My craft aground, and heard with beat¬ ing heart The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelving keel; And out I stept, and up I crept : she moved, Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers: Then low and sweet I whistled thrice ; and she, She turn’d, we closed, we kiss’d, swore faith, I breathed ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 85 In some new planet: a silent cousin stole Upon us and departed : ‘ Leave,’ she cried, ‘O leave me!’ ‘Never, dearest, never: here I brave the worst: ’ and while we stood like fools Embracing, all at once a score of pugs And poodles yell’d within, and out they came Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. ‘What, with him ! Go’ (shrill’d the cotton-spinning chorus); ‘ him ! ’ I choked. Again they shriek’d the burthen—‘ Him ! ’ Again with hands of wild rejection ‘ Go!— Girl, get you in ! ’ She went—and in one month They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds, To lands in Kent and messuages in York, And slight Sir Robert with his watery smile And educated whisker. But for me, They set an ancient creditor to work : It seems I broke a close with force and arms: There came a mystic token from the king To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy ! I read, and fled by night, and flying turn’d : Her taper glimmer’d in the lake below : I turn’d once more, close-button’d to the storm ; So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to hear. Nor cared to hear? perhaps : yet long ago I have pardon’d little Letty ; not indeed, It may be, for her own dear sake but this, She seems a part of those fresh days to me; For in the dust and drouth of London life She moves among my visions of the lake, While the prime swallow dips his wing, or then While the gold-lily blows, and overhead The light cloud smoulders on the summer crag. ST. SIMEON STYLITES. Altho’ I be the basest of mankind, From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin, Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy, I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold Of saintdom, and to clamour, mourn and sob, Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer, Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin. Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God, This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years, Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs, In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold, In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps, A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud, Patient on this tall pillar I have borne Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow ; And I had hoped that ere this period closed Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest, Denying not these weather-beaten limbs The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm. O take the meaning, Lord : I do not breathe, Not whisper, any murmur of complaint. Pain heap’d ten-hundred-fold to this, were still Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear, Than were those lead-like tons of Sin, that crush’d My spirit flat before thee. O Lord, Lord, Thou knowest I bore this better at the first, For I was strong and hale of body then ; And tho’ my teeth, which now are dropt away, Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard 86 ST. SIMEON STYLITES. Was tagg’d with icy fringes in the moon, I drown’d the whoopings of the owl with sound Of pious hymns and psalms, and some¬ times saw An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. Now am I feeble grown ; my end draws nigh; I hope my end draws nigh: half deaf I am, So that I scarce can hear the people hum About the column’s base, and almost blind, And scarce can recognise the fields I know; And both my thighs are rotted with the dew; Yet cease I not to clamour and to cry, While my stiff spine can hold my weary head, Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone, Have mercy, mercy : take away my sin. O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul, Who may be saved ? who is it may be saved ? Who may be made a saint, if I fail here ? Show me the man hath suffer’d more than I. For did not all thy martyrs die one death ? For either they were stoned, or crucified, Or burn’d in fire, or boil’d in oil, or sawn In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here To-day, and whole years long, a life of death. Bear witness, if I could have found a way (And heedfully I sifted all my thought) More slowly-painful to subdue this home Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, I had not stinted practice, O my God. For not alone this pillar-punishment, Not this alone I bore : but while I lived In the white convent down the valley there, For many weeks about my loins I wore The rope that haled the buckets from the well, T wisted as tight as I could knot the noose j And spake not of it to a single soul, Until the ulcer, eating thro’ my skin, Betray’d my secret penance, so that all My brethren marvell’d greatly. More than this I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all. Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee, I lived up there on yonder mountain side. My right leg chain’d into the crag, I lay Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones ; Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice Black’d with thy branding thunder, and sometimes Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not, Except the spare chance-gift of those that came To touch my body and be heal’d, and live: And they say then that I work’d miracles, Whereof my fame is loud amongst man¬ kind, Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O God, Knowest alone whether this was or no. Have mercy, mercy ! cover all my sin. Then, that I might be more alone with thee, Three years I lived upon a pillar, high Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve; And twice three years I crouch’d on one that rose Twenty by measure ; last of all, I grew Twice ten long weary weary years to this, That numbers forty cubits from the soil. I think that I have borne as much as this— Or else I dream—and for so long a time, If I may measure time by yon slow light, And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns— So much—even so. And yet I know not well, For that the evil ones come here, and say, ‘ Fall down, O Simeon: thou hast suffer’d long For ages and for ages !’ then they prate Of penances I cannot have gone thro’, Perplexing me with lies ; and oft I fall, Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked. ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 87 But yet Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earth House in the shade of comfortable roofs, Sit with their wives by fires, eat whole¬ some food, And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls, I, ’tween the spring and downfall of the light, Bow down one thousand and two hundred times, To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the saints ; Or in the night, after a little sleep, I wake : the chill stars sparkle ; I am wet With drenching dews, or stiff with crack¬ ling frost. I wear an undress’d goatskin on my back ; A grazing iron collar grinds my neck ; And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross, And strive and wrestle with thee till I die : O mercy, mercy ! wash away my sin. O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am ; A sinful man, conceived and born in sin : ’Tis their own doing; this is none of mine; Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this, That here come those that worship me ? Ha ! ha ! They think that I am somewhat. What am I ? The silly people take me for a saint, And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers : And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here) Have all in all endured as much, and more Than many just and holy men, whose names Are register’d and calendar’d for saints. Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. What is it I can have done to merit this ? I am a sinner viler than you all. It may be I have wrought some miracles, And cured some halt and maim’d ; but what of that ? It may be, no one, even among the saints, May match his pains with mine; but what of that ? Yet do not rise ; for you may look on me, And in your looking you may kneel to God. Speak! is there any of you halt or maim’d ? I think you know 1 have some power with Heaven From my long penance : let him speak his wish. Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me. They say that they are heal’d. Ah, hark! they shout ‘ St. Simeon Stylites. ’ Why, if so, God reaps a harvest in me. O my soul, God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, Can I work miracles and not be saved ? This is not told of any. They were saints. It cannot be but that I shall be saved ; Yea, crown’d a saint. They shout, ‘ Behold a saint!’ And lower voices saint me from above. Courage, St. Simeon ! This dull chrysalis Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death Spreads more and more and more, that God hath now Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all My mortal archives. O my sons, my sons, I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, The watcher on the column till the end ; I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes ; I, whose bald brows in silent hours become Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now From my high nest of penance here pro¬ claim That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 88 THE TALKING OAK Show’d like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay, A vessel full of sin : all hell beneath Made me boil over. Devils pluck’d my sleeve, Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. I smote them with the cross; they swarm’d again. In bed like monstrous apes they crush’d my chest: They flapp’d my light out as I read : I saw Their faces grow between me and my book ; With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whine They burst my prayer. Yet this way was left, And by this way I ’scaped them. Mortify Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns ; Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps, With slow, faint steps, and much exceed¬ ing pain, Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that still Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise : God only thro’ his bounty hath thought fit, Among the powers and princes of this world, To make me an example to mankind, Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say But that a time may come—yea, even now, Now, now, his footsteps smite the thresh¬ old stairs Of life—I say, that time is at the doors When you may worship me without re¬ proach ; For I will leave my relics in your land, And you may carve a shrine about my dust, And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones, When I am gather’d to the glorious saints. While I spake then, a sting of shrewd¬ est pain Ran shrivelling thro’ me, and a cloudlike change, In passing, with a grosser film made thick These heavy, horny eyes. The end ! the end ! Surely the end ! What’s here ? a shape, a shade, A flash of light. Is that the angel there That holds a crown? Come, blessed brother, come. I know thy glittering face. I waited long; My brows are ready. What ! deny it now ? Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ ! ’Tis gone : ’tis here again; the crown ! the crown ! So now ’tis fitted on and grows to me, And from it melt the dews of Paradise, Sweet ! sweet ! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense. Ah ! let me not be fool’d, sweet saints : I trust That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven. Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God, Among you there, and let him presently Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft, And climbing up into my airy home, Deliver me the blessed sacrament; For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, I prophesy that I shall die to-night, A quarter before twelve. But thou, O Lord, Aid all this foolish people ; let them take Example, pattern: lead them to thy light. THE TALKING OAK. Once more the gate behind me falls ; Once more before my face I see the moulder’d Abbey-walls, That stand within the chace. THE TALKING OAK 89 Beyond the lodge the city lies, Beneath its drift of smoke ; And ah ! with what delighted eyes I turn to yonder oak. For when my passion first began, Ere that, which in me burn’d, The love, that makes me thrice a man, Could hope itself return’d ; To yonder oak within the field I spoke without restraint, And with a larger faith appeal’d Than Papist unto Saint. For oft I talk’d with him apart, And told him of my choice, Until he plagiarised a heart, And answer’d with a voice. Tho’ what he whisper’d under Heaven None else could understand ; I found him garrulously given, A babbler in the land. But since I heard him make reply Is many a weary hour ; ’Twere well to question him, and try If yet he keeps the power. Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, Whose topmost branches can discern The roofs of Sumner-place ! Say thou, whereon I carved her name, If ever maid or spouse, As fair as my Olivia, came To rest beneath thy boughs.— ‘O Walter, I have shelter’d here Whatever maiden grace The good old Summers, year by year Made ripe in Sumner-chace : • * Old Summers, when the monk was fat, And, issuing shorn and sleek, Would twist his girdle tight, and pat The girls upon the cheek, ‘ Ere yet, in scorn of Peter’s-pence, And number’d bead, and shrift, Bluff Harry broke into the spence And turn’d the cowls adrift: ‘ And I have seen some score of those Fresh faces, that would thrive When his man-minded offset rose To chase the deer at five; ‘ And all that from the town would stroll, Till that wild wind made work In which the gloomy brewer’s soul Went by me, like a stork : ‘ The slight she-slips of loyal blood, And others, passing praise, Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud For puritanic stays : ‘ And I have shadow’d many a group Of beauties, that were born In teacup-times of hood and hoop, Or while the patch was worn ; ‘ And, leg and arm with love-knots gay, About me leap’d and laugh’d The modish Cupid of the day, And shrill’d his tinsel shaft. ‘ I swear (and else may insects prick Each leaf into a gall) This girl, for whom your heart is sick, Is three times worth them all; ‘ For those and theirs, by Nature’s law. Have faded long ago ; But in these latter springs I saw Your own Olivia blow, ‘ From when she gamboll’d on the greens A baby-germ, to when The maiden blossoms of her teens Could number five from ten. ‘ I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, (And hear me with thine ears,) That, tho’ I circle in the grain Five hundred rings of years— 90 THE TALKING OAK ‘Yet, since I first could cast a shade, Did never creature pass So slightly, musically made. So light upon the grass : ‘For as to fairies, .that will flit To make the greensward fresh, I hold them exquisitely knit, But far too spare of flesh.’ Oh, hide thy knotted knees in fern, And overlook the chace ; And from thy topmost branch discern The roofs of Sumner-place. But thou, whereon I carved her name, That oft hast heard my vows. Declare when last Olivia came To sport beneath thy boughs. ‘ O yesterday, you know, the fair Was holden at the town ; Her father left his good arm-chair. And rode his hunter down. * And with him Albert came on his. I look’d at him with joy : As cowslip unto oxlip is, So seems she to the boy. ‘ An hour had past—and, sitting straight Within the low-wheel’d chaise, Her mother trundled to the gate Behind the dappled grays. ‘ But as for her, she stay’d at home, And on the roof she went, And down the way you use to come, She look’d with discontent. ‘ She left the novel half-uncut Upon the rosewood shelf; She left the new piano shut : She could not please herself. * Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, And livelier than a lark She sent her voice thro’ all the holt Before her, and the park. ‘ A light wind chased her on the wing, And in the chase grew wild, As close as might be would he cling About the darling child : ‘ But light as any wind that blows So fleetly did she stir, The flower, she touch’d on, dipt and rose, And turn’d to look at her. ‘ And here she came, and round me play’d, And sang to me the whole Of those three stanzas that you made About my “giant bole ‘ And in a fit of frolic mirth She strove to span my waist: Alas, I was so broad of girth, I could not be embraced. ‘ I wish’d myself the fair young beech That here beside me stands, That round me, clasping each in each, She might have lock’d her hands. ‘ Yet seem’d the pressure thrice as sweet As woodbine’s fragile hold, Or when I feel about my feet The berried briony fold.’ O muffle round thy knees with fern, And shadow Sumner-chace ! Long may thy topmost branch discern The roofs of Sumner-place ! But tell me, did she read the name I carved with many vows When last with throbbing heart I came To rest beneath thy boughs ? ‘ O yes, she wander’d round and round These knotted knees of mine, And found, and kiss’d the name she found, And sweetly murmur’d thine. ‘ A teardrop trembled from its source, And down my surface crept. My sense of touch is something coarse, But I believe she wept. THE TALKING OAK 9i ‘ Then flush’d her cheek with rosy light, She glanced across the plain ; But not a creature was in sight: She kiss’d me once again. ‘ Her kisses were so close and kind, That, trust me on my word, Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, But yet my sap was stirr’d : ‘ And even into my inmost ring A pleasure I discern’d, Like those blind motions of the Spring, That show the year is turn’d. ‘ Thrice-happy he that may caress The ringlet’s waving balm— The cushions of whose touch may press The maiden’s tender palm. ‘ I, rooted here among the groves But languidly adjust My vapid vegetable loves With anthers and with dust: * For ah ! my friend, the days were brief Whereof the poets talk, When that, which breathes within the leaf, Could slip its bark and walk. ‘ But could I, as in times foregone, From spray, and branch, and stem, Have suck’d and gather’d into one The life that spreads in them, * She had not found me so remiss ; But lightly issuing thro’, I would have paid her kiss for kiss, With usury thereto.’ O flourish high, with leafy towers, And overlook the lea, Pursue thy loves among the bowers But leave thou mine to me. O flourish, hidden deep in fern, Old oak, I love thee well; A thousand thanks for what I learn And what remains to tell. ‘ ’Tis little more : the day was warm ; At last, tired out with play, She sank her head upon her arm And at my feet she lay. ‘ Her eyelids dropp’d their silken eaves. I breathed upon her eyes Thro’ all the summer of my leaves A welcome mix’d with sighs. * I took the swarming sound of life— The music from the town— The murmurs of the drum and fife And lull’d them in my own. ‘ Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, To light her shaded eye ; A second flutter’d round her lip Like a golden butterfly ; ‘ A third would glimmer on her neck To make the necklace shine ; Another slid, a sunny fleck, From head to ancle fine, ‘ Then close and dark my arms I spread, And shadow’d all her rest— Dropt dews upon her golden head, An acorn in her breast. ‘ But in a pet she started up, And pluck’d it out, and drew My little oakling from the cup, And flung him in the dew. ‘ And yet it was a graceful gift— I felt a pang within As when I see the woodman lift His axe to slay my kin. ‘ I shook him down because he was The finest on the tree. He lies beside thee on the grass. O kiss him once for me. ‘ O kiss him twice and thrice for me, That have no lips to kiss, For never yet was oak on lea Shall grow so fair as this.’ 92 LOVE AND DUTY. Step deeper yet in herb and fern, Look further thro’ the chace, Spread upward till thy boughs discern The front of Sumner-place. This fruit of thine by Love is blest, That but a moment lay Where fairer fruit of Love may rest Some happy future day. I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, The warmth it thence shall win To riper life may magnetise The baby-oak within. But thou, while kingdoms overset, Or lapse from hand to hand, Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet Thine acorn in the land. May never saw dismember thee, Nor wielded axe disjoint, That art the fairest-spoken tree From here to Lizard-point. O rock upon thy towery-top All throats that gurgle sweet! All starry culmination drop Balm-dews to bathe thy feet ! All grass of silky feather grow— And while he sinks or swells The full south-breeze around thee blow The sound of minster bells. The fat earth feed thy branchy root, That under deeply strikes ! The northern morning o’er thee shoot, High up, in silver spikes ! Nor ever lightning char thy grain, But, rolling as in sleep, Low thunders bring the mellow rain, That makes thee broad and deep ! And hear me swear a solemn oath, That only by thy side Will I to Olive plight my troth, And gain her for my bride. And when my marriage morn may fall, She, Dryad-like, shall wear Alternate leaf and acorn-ball In wreath about her hair. And I will work in prose and rhyme, And praise thee more in both Than bard has honour’d beech or lime, Or that Thessalian growth. In which the swarthy ringdove sat, And mystic sentence spoke ; And more than England honours that, Thy famous brother-oak, Wherein the younger Charles abode Till all the paths were dim, And far below the Roundhead rode. And humm’d a surly hymn. LOVE AND DUTY. Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel ? Streaming eyes and break¬ ing hearts ? Or all the same as if he had not been ? Not so. Shall Error in the round of time Still father Truth ? O shall the braggart shout For some blind glimpse of freedom work itself Thro’ madness, hated by the wise, to law System and empire ? Sin itself be found The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun? And only he, this wonder, dead, become Mere highway dust ? or year by year alone Sit brooding in the ruins of a life, Nightmare of youth, the spectre of him¬ self? If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all, Better the narrow brain, the stony heart, The staring eye glazed o’er with sapless days, The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set gray life, and apathetic end. But am I not the nobler thro’ thy love ? O three times less unworthy ! likewise thou LOVE AND DUTY. 93 Art more thro’ Love, and greater than thy years, The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring The drooping flower ofknowledge changed to fruit Of wisdom. Wait: my faith is large in Time, And that which shapes it to some perfect end. Will some one say. Then why not ill for good ? Why took ye not your pastime ? To that man My work shall answer, since I knew the right And did it; for a man is not as God, But then most Godlike being most a man. —So let me think 'tis well for thee and me— Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow To feel it! For how hard it seem'd to me, When eyes, love-languid thro’ half tears would dwell One earnest, earnest moment upon mine. Then not to dare to see ! when thy low voice. Faltering, would break its syllables, to keep My own fiill-tuned,—hold passion in a leash, And not leap forth and fall about thy i neck. And on thy bosom (deep desired relief!) Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh'd Upon my brain, my senses and my soul! For Love himself took part against himself To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love— O this world’s curse,—beloved but hated —came Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine. And crying, * Who is this ? behold thy bride,’ She push'd me from thee. If the sense is hard To alien ears, I did not speak to these— No, not to thee, but to thyself in me : Hard is my doom and thine: thou knowest it all. Could Love part thus ? was it not well to speak. To have spoken once ? It could not but be well. The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good. The slow sad hours thar bring us all things ill. And all good things from evil, brought the night In which we sat together and alone. And to the want, that hollow’d all the heart. Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye. That bum’d upon its object thro’ such tears As flow but once a life. The trance gave way To those caresses, when a hundred times In that last kiss, which never was the last. Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died. Then follow’d counsel, comfort, and the words That make a man feel strong in speaking truth ; Till now the dark was worn, and overhead The lights of sunset and of sunrise mix’d In that brief night; the summer night, that paused Among her stars to hear us; stars that hung Love-charm'd to listen : all the wheels of Time Spun round in station, but the end had come. O then like those, who clench their nerves to rush Upon their dissolution, we two rose. There—closing like an individual life— In one blind cry of passion and of pain, lake bitter accusation ev'n to death. Caught up the whole of love and utter’d it. And bade adieu for ever. 94 THE GOLDEN YEAR. Live—yet live— Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all Life needs for life is possible to will— Live happy ; tend thy flowers ; be tended by My blessing ! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughts Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou For calmer hours to Memory's darkest hold, If not to be forgotten—not at once— Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams, O might it come like one that looks con¬ tent, With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth, And point thee forward to a distant light, Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heart And leave thee freer, till thou wake refresh’d Then when the first low matin-chirp hath grown Full quire, and morning driv’n her plow of pearl Far furrowing into light the mounded rack, Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea. THE GOLDEN YEAR. Well, you shall have that song which Leonard wrote: It was last summer on a tour in Wales: Old James was with me: we that day had been Up Snowdon ; and I wish’d for Leonard there, And found him in Llanberis: then we crost Between the lakes, and clamber’d half way up The counter side ; and that same song of his He told me; for I banter’d him, and swore They said he lived shut up within himself, A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days, That, setting the how much before the how , Cry, like the daughters of the horseleech, ‘ Give, Cram us with all,’ but count not me the herd ! To which ‘ They call me what they will,’ he said : ‘ But I was born too late : the fair new forms, That float about the threshold of an age, Like truths of Science waiting to be caught— Catch me who can, and make the catcher crown’d— Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. But if you care indeed to listen, hear These measured words, my work of yestermorn. ‘ We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move; The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun ; The dark Earth follows wheel’d in her ellipse; And human things returning on them¬ selves Move onward, leading up the golden year. ‘ Ah, tho’ the times, when some new thought can bud, Are but as poets’ seasons when they flower, Yet seas, that daily gain upon the shore. Have ebb and flow conditioning their march, And slow and sure comes up the golden year. * When wealth no more shall rest in mounded heaps, But smit with freer light shall slowly melt In many streams to fatten lower lands, And light shall spread, and man be liker man Thro’ all the season of the golden year. ‘ Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens be wrens ? If all the world were falcons, what of that? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle. Happy days UL YSSES. 95 Roll onward, leading up the golden year. ‘ Fly, happy happy sails, and bear the Press ; Fly happy with the mission of the Cross ; Knit land to land, and blowing haven¬ ward With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll, Enrich the markets of the golden year. ‘ But we grow old. Ah l when shall all men’s good Be each man’s rule, and universal Peace Lie like a shaft of light across the land, And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, Thro’ all the circle of the golden year ? ’ Thus far he flow’d, and ended; where¬ upon ‘ Ah, folly ! ’ in mimic cadence answer’d James— * Ah, folly ! for it lies so far away, Not in our time, nor in our children’s time, ’Tis like the second world to us that live; ’Twere all as one to fix our hopes on Heaven As on this vision of the golden year.’ With that he struck his staff against the rocks And broke it,—James,—you know him, —old, but full Of force and choler, and firm upon his feet, And like an oaken stock in winter woods, O’erflourish’d with the hoary clematis : Then added, all in heat: ‘ What stuff is this ! Old writers push’d the happy season back,— The more fools they, ^ we forward: dreamers both: You most, that in an age, when every hour Must sweat her sixty minutes to the death, Live on, God love us, as if the seedsman, rapt I Upon the teeming harvest, should not plunge His hand into the bag: but well I know That unto him who works, and feels he works, This same grand year is ever at the doors.’ He spoke ; and, high above, I heard them blast The steep slate - quarry, and the great echo flap And buffet round the hills, from bluff to bluff. ULYSSES. It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy’d Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known ; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, govern¬ ments, Myself not least, but honour’d of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’ Gleams that untravell’d world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end. To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use ! As tho’ to breathe were life. Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me 96 TITHONUS. Little remains : but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle— Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me— That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old ; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all : but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho’ much is taken, much abides ; and tho’ We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we are ; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. TITHONUS. The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world, A white-hair’d shadow roaming like a dream The ever-silent spaces of the East, Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a man— So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem’d To his great heart none other than a God ! I ask’d thee, ‘ Give me immortality. ’ Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, Like wealthy men who care not how they give. TITHONUS. 97 But thy strong Hours indignant work’d their wills, And beat me down and marr’d and wasted me, And tho’ they could not end me, left me maim’d To dwell in presence of immortal youth, Immortal age beside immortal youth, And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, Thy beauty, make amends, tho’ even now, Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears To hear me ? Let me go : take back thy gift: Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men, Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance Where all should pause, as is most meet for all ? A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, And bosom beating with a heart renew’d. Thy cheek begins to redden thro’ the gloom, Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, And shake the darkness from their loosen’d manes, And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful In silence, then before thine answer given Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true ? ‘ The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.’ Ay me ! ay me ! with what another heart In days far-off, and with what other eyes I used to watch—if I be he that watch’d— The lucid outline forming round thee; saw The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood Glow with the glow that slowly crimson’d all Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy- warm With kisses balmier than half-opening buds Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss’d Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. Yet hold me not for ever in thine East: How can my nature longer mix with thine ? Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam Floats up from those dim fields about the homes Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead. Release me, and restore me to the ground; Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave : Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn ; I earth in earth forget these empty courts, And thee returning on thy silver wheels. H LOCKSLEY HALL. LOCKSLEY HALL. Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet ’tis early mom : Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn. ’Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall; Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro’ the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. Here about the beach I wander’d, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time; When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ; When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed : When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see ; Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.- In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin’s breast; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish’d dove ; In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. And I said, ‘ My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me, Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee.’ On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light, As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. And she turn’d—her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs— All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes— Saying, ‘ I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong; Saying, ‘ Dost thou love me, cousin ? ’ weeping, ‘ I have loved thee long.’ Love took up the glass of Time, and turn’d it in his glowing hands ; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass’d in music out of sight. LOCKSLEY HALL. 99 Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, And her whisper throng’d my pulses with the fulness of the Spring. Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, And our spirits rush’d together at the touching of the lips. O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more ! O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, barren shore ! Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, Puppet to a father’s threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue ! Is it well to wish thee happy ?—having known me—to decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine! Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise with clay. As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. What is this ? his eyes are heavy : think not they are glazed with wine. Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in thine. It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought: Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand— Better thou wert dead before me, tho’ I slew thee with my hand ! Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart’s disgrace, Roll’d in one another’s arms, and silent in a last embrace. Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth ! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth ! Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature’s rule ! Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten’d forehead of the fool! Well—’tis well that I should bluster !—Hadst thou less unworthy proved— Would to God—for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit ? I will pluck it from my bosom, tho’ my heart be at the root. Never, tho’ my mortal summers to such length of years should come As the many-winter’d crow that leads the clanging rookery home. Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the mind ? Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind ? IOO LOCKSLEY HALL. I remember one that perish’d : sweetly did she speak and move : Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore ? No—she never loved me truly : love is love for evermore. Comfort ? comfort scorn’d of devils ! this is truth the poet sings, That a sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, To thy widow’d marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. Thou shalt hear the ‘Never, never,’ whisper’d by the phantom years, And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears; And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy rest again. Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry. ’Tis a purer life than thine; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest. Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother’s breast. O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two. O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter’s heart. ‘ They were dangerous guides the feelings—she herself was not exempt— Truly, she herself had suffer’d ’—Perish in thy self-contempt! Overlive it—lower yet—be happy ! wherefore should I care ? I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these ? Every door is barr’d with gold, and opens but to golden keys. Every gate is throng’d with suitors, all the markets overflow. I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do? I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman’s ground, When the ranks are roll’d in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound. But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels, And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other’s heels. LOCKSLEY HALL. IOI Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier page. Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age! Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life; Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father’s field, And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men : Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new: That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do-: For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be ; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain’d a ghastly dew From the nations’ aiiy navies grappling in the central blue ; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging thro’ the thunder-storm ; Till the war-drum throbb’d no longer, and the battle-flags were furl’d In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. So I triumph’d ere my passion sweeping thro’ me left me dry, Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye ; Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint: Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point : Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping nigher, Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. Yet I doubt not thro’ the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widen’d with the process of the suns. What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, Tho’ the deep heart of existence beat for ever Like a boy’s ? Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. 102 LOCKSLE Y HALL. Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-hom, They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn : Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder’d string? I am shamed thro’ all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman’s pleasure, woman’s pain— Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain : Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match’d with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine— Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat ; Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr’d ;— I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle’s ward. Or to burst all links of habit—there to wander far away, On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, Slides the bird o’er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag; Droops the heavy-blossom’d bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree— Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. There the passions cramp’d no longer shall have scope and breathing space ; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. Iron jointed, supple-sinew’d, they shall dive, and they shall run, Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their iances in the sun ; Whistle back the parrot’s call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books— Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words are wild, But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! Mated with a squalid savage—what to me were sun or clime ? I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time— GODTVA. 103 I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua’s moon in Ajalon! Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. Thro’ the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day : Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun : Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun. O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. Ancient founts of inspiration well thro’ all my fancy yet. Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow ; For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. GODIVA. I waited for the train at Coventry ; I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge , To watch the three tall spires ; and there I shaped The city's ancient legend into this :— Not only we, the latest seed of Time, New men, that in the flying of a wheel Cry down the past, not only we, that prate Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well, And loathed to see them overtax’d ; but she Did more, and underwent, and overcame, The woman of a thousand summers back, Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled In Coventry : for when he laid a tax Upon his town, and all the mothers brought Their children, clamouring, ‘ If we pay, we starve ! ’ She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode About the hall, among his dogs, alone, His beard a foot before him, and his hair A yard behind. She told him of their tears, And pray’d him, ‘ If they pay this tax, they starve.’ Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed, ‘ You would not let your little finger ache For such as these?' —‘ But I would die,’ said she. He laugh’d, and swore by Peter and by Paul: Then fillip’d at the diamond in her ear ; ‘ Oh ay, ay, ay, you talk ! ’—* Alas ! ’ she said, ‘ But prove me what it is I would not do.’ And from a heart as rough as Esau’s hand, He answer’d, ‘ Ride you naked thro’ the town, And I repeal it; ’ and nodding, as in scorn, He parted, with great strides among his dogs. So left alone, the passions of her mind, As winds from all the compass shift and blow, Made war upon each other for an hour, Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all 104 THE HAY-BEE AM. The hard condition ; but that she would loose The people : therefore, as they loved her well, From then till noon no foot should pace the street, No eye look down, she passing; but that all Should keep within, door shut, and window barr’d. Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there Unclasp’d the wedded eagles of her belt, The grim Earl’s gift; but ever at a breath She linger’d, looking like a summer moon Half-dipt in cloud : anon she shook her head, And shower’d the rippled ringlets to her knee ; Unclad herself in haste ; ad own the stair Stole on ; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid From pillar unto pillar, until she reach’d The gateway ; there she found her palfrey trapt In purple blazon’d with armorial gold. Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity : The deep air listen’d round her as she rode, And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. The little wide-mouth’d heads upon the spout Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur Made her cheek flame : her palfrey’s foot¬ fall shot Light horrors thro’ her pulses : the blind walls Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead Fantastic gables, crowding, stared: but she Not less thro’ all bore up, till, last, she saw The white-flower’d elder-thicket from the field Gleam thro’ the Gothic archway in the wall. Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity : And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, The fatal byword of all years to come, Boring a little auger-hole in fear, Peep’d—but his eyes, before they had their will, Were shrivell’d into darkness in his head, And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait On noble deeds, cancell’d a sense misused; And she, that knew not, pass’d : and all at once, With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon Was clash’d andhammer’d from ahundred towers, One after one : but even then she gain’d Her bower ; whence reissuing, robed and crown’d, To meet her lord, she took the tax away And built herself an everlasting name. THE DAY-DREAM. PROLOGUE. O Lady Flora, let me speak : A pleasant hour has passed away While, dreaming on your damask cheek, The dewy sister-eyelids lay. As by the lattice you reclined, I went thro’ many wayward moods To see you dreaming—and, behind, A summer crisp with shining woods. And I too dream’d, until at last Across my fancy, brooding warm, The reflex of a legend past, And loosely settled into form. And would you have the thought I had, And see the vision that I saw, Then take the broidery-frame, and add A crimson to the quaint Macaw, And I will tell it. Turn your face, Nor look with that too-earnest eye— The rhymes are dazzled from their place And order’d words asunder fly. THE SLEEPING PALACE. i. The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains, THE DA Y-DREAM. Here rests the sap within the leaf, Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapours lightly curl’d, Faint murmurs from the meadows come, Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb. II. Soft lustre bathes the range of urns On every slanting terrace-lawn. The fountain to his place returns Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. Here droops the banner on the tower, On the hall-hearths the festal fires, The peacock in his laurel bower, The parrot in his gilded wires. Hi. Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs : In these, in those the life is stay’d. The mantles from the golden pegs Droop sleepily : no sound is made, Not even of a gnat that sings. More like a picture seemeth all Than those old portraits of old kings, That watch the sleepers from the wall. IV. Here sits the Butler with a flask Between his knees, half-drain’d; and there The wrinkled steward at his task, The maid-of-honour blooming fair ; The page has caught her hand in his : Her lips are sever’d as to speak : His own are pouted to a kiss : The blush is fix’d upon her cheek. v. Till all the hundred summers pass, The beams, that thro’ the Oriel shine, Make prisms in every carven glass, And beaker brimm’d with noble wine. Each baron at the banquet sleeps, Grave faces gather’d in a ring. His state the king reposing keeps. He must have been a jovial king. 105 VI. All round a hedge upshoots, and shows At distance like a little wood ; Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, And grapes with bunches red as blood ; All creeping plants, a wall of green Close-matted, bur and brake and briar, And glimpsing over these, just seen, High up, the topmost palace spire. VII. When will the hundred summers die, And thought and time be born again, And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, Bring truth that sways the soul of men ? Here all things in their place remain, As all were order’d, ages since. Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, And bring the fated fairy Prince. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. Year after year unto her feet, She lying on her couch alone, Across the purple coverlet, The maiden’s jet-black hair has grown, On either side her tranced form Forth streaming from a braid of pearl: The slumbrous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl. 11. The silk star-broider’d coverlid Unto her limbs itself doth mould Languidly ever ; and, amid Her full black ringlets downward ' roll’d, Glows forth each softly-shadow’d arm With bracelets of the diamond bright: Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light. ill. She sleeps : her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr’d That lie upon her charmed heart. io6 THE DA Y-DREAM. She sleeps : on either hand upswells The gold - fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest. THE ARRIVAL. I. All precious things, discover’d late, To those that seek them issue forth ; For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth. He travels far from other skies— His mantle glitters on the rocks— A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes, And lighter-footed than the fox. ii. The bodies and the bones of those That strove in other days to pass, Are wither’d in the thorny close, Or scatter’d blanching on the grass, lie gazes on the silent dead: ‘ They perish’d in their daring deeds. ’ This proverb flashes thro’ his head, ‘ The many fail: the one succeeds. ’ ill. He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks: He breaks the hedge : he enters there: The colour flies into his cheeks : He trusts to light on something fair ; For all his life the charm did talk About his path, and hover near With words of promise in his walk, And whisper’d voices at his ear. IV. More close and close his footsteps wind : The Magic Music in his heart Beats quick and quicker, till he find The quiet chamber far apart. His spirit flutters like a lark, He stoops—to kiss her—on his knee. ‘ Love, if thy tresses be so dark, How dark those hidden eyes must be ! ’ THE REVIVAL. i. A touch, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. There rose a noise of striking clocks, And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, And barking dogs, and crowing cocks; A fuller light illumined all, A breeze thro’ all the garden swept, A sudden hubbub shook the hall, And sixty feet the fountain leapt. II. The hedge broke in, the banner blew, The butler drank, the steward scrawl’d, The fire shot up, the martin flew, The parrot scream’d, the peacock squall’d, The maid and page renew’d their strife, The palace bang’d, and buzz’d and clackt, And all the long-pent stream of life Dash’d downward in a cataract. III. And last with these the king awoke, And in his chair himself uprear’d, And yawn’d, and rubb’d his face, and spoke, ‘ By holy rood, a royal beard ! How say you ? we have slept, my lords. My beard has grown into my lap. ’ The barons swore, with many words, ’Twas but an after-dinner’s nap. IV. ‘ Pardy, ’ return’d the king, ‘ but still My joints are somewhat stiff or so. My lord, and shall we pass the bill I mention’d half an hour ago?’ The chancellor, sedate and vain, In courteous words return’d reply : But dallied with his golden chain, And, smiling, put the question by. THE DAY-DREAM. 107 THE DEPARTURE. I. And on her lover’s arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old : Across the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, And deep into the dying day The happy princess follow’d him. II. ‘ I’d sleep another hundred years, O love, for such another kiss ‘ O wake for ever, love,’ she hears, ‘ O love, ’twas such as this and this. ’ And o’er them many a sliding star, And many a merry wind was borne, And, stream’d thro’ many a golden bar, The twilight melted into morn. III. ‘ O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! ’ ‘ O happy sleep, that lightly fled ! ! ‘ O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! ’ ‘ O love, thy kiss would wake the dead 1 And o’er them many a flowing range Of vapour buoy’d the crescent-bark, And, rapt thro’ many a rosy change, The twilight died into the dark. IV. ‘ A hundred summers ! can it be ? And whithergoest thou, tell me where?’ ‘ O seek my father’s court with me, For there are greater wonders there.’ And o’er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro’ all the world she follow’d him. MORAL. 1. So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And if you find no moral there, Go, look in any glass and say, What moral is in being fair. Oh, to what uses shall we put The wild weed-flower that simply blows ? And is there any moral shut Within the bosom of the rose ? 11. But any man that walks the mead, In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, According as his humours lead, A meaning suited to his mind. And liberal applications lie In Art like Nature, dearest friend ; So ’twere to cramp its use, if I Should hook it to some useful end. L’ENVOI. I. You shake your head. A random string Your finer female sense offends. Well—were it not a pleasant thing To fall asleep with all one’s friends ; To pass with all our social ties To silence from the paths of men ; And every hundred years to rise And learn the world, and sleep again ; To sleep thro’ terms of mighty wars, And wake on science grown to more, On secrets of the brain, the stars, As wild as aught of fairy lore ; And all that else the years will show, The Poet-forms of stronger hours, The vast Republics that may grow, The Federations and the Powers ; Titanic forces taking birth In divers seasons, divers climes ; For we are Ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times. II. So sleeping, so aroused from sleep Thro’ sunny decads new and strange, Or gay quinquenniads would we reap The flower and quintessence of change. ill. Ah, yet would I—and would I might ! So much your eyes my fancy take— Be still the first to leap to light That I might kiss those eyes awake ! io8 AMPHION. For, am I right, or am I wrong, To choose your own you did not care ; You’d have my moral from the song, And I will take my pleasure there : And, am I right or am I wrong, My fancy, ranging thro’ and thro’, To search a meaning for the song, Perforce will still revert to you ; Nor finds a closer truth than this All-graceful head, so richly curl’d, And evermore a costly kiss The prelude to some brighter world. IV. For since the time when Adam first Embraced his Eve in happy hour, And every bird of Eden burst In carol, every bud to flower, What eyes, like thine, have waken’d hopes, What lips, like thine, so sweetly join’d ? Where on the double rosebud droops The fulness of the pensive mind ; Which all too dearly self-involved, Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me ; A sleep by kisses undissolved, That lets thee neither hear nor see : But break it. In the name of wife, And in the rights that name may give, Are clasp’d the moral of thy life, And that for which I care to live. EPILOGUE. So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And, if you find a meaning there, O whisper to your glass, and say, ‘ What wonder, if he thinks me fair ? ’ What wonder I was all unwise, To shape the song for your delight Like long-tail’d birds of Paradise That float thro’ Heaven, and cannot light ? Or old-world trains, upheld at court By Cupid-boys of blooming hue— But take it—earnest wed with sport, And either sacred unto you. AMPHION. My father left a park to me, But it is wild and barren, A garden too with scarce a tree, And waster than a warren : Yet say the neighbours when they call, It is not bad but good land, And in it is the germ of all That grows within the woodland. O had I lived when song was great In days of old Amphion, And ta’en my fiddle to the gate, Nor cared for seed or scion ! And had I lived when song was great, And legs of trees were limber, And ta’en my fiddle to the gate, And fiddled in the timber ! ’Tis said he had a tuneful tongue, Such happy intonation, Wherever he sat down and sung He left a small plantation ; Wherever in a lonely grove He set up his forlorn pipes, The gouty oak began to move, And flounder into hornpipes. The mountain stirr’d its bushy crown, And, as tradition teaches, Young ashes pirouetted down Coquetting with young beeches ; And briony-vine and ivy-wreath Ran forward to his rhyming, And from the valleys underneath Came little copses climbing. The linden broke her ranks and rent The woodbine wreaths that bind her, And down the middle, buzz! she went With all her bees behind her : The poplars, in long order due, With cypress promenaded, The shock-head willows two and two By rivers gallopaded. Came wet-shod alder from the wave, Came yews, a dismal coterie ; Each pluck’d his one foot from the grave, Poussetting with a sloe-tree ; ST. AGNES EVE. 109 Old elms came breaking from the vine, The vine stream’d out to follow, And, sweating rosin, plump’d the pine From many a cloudy hollow. And wasn’t it a sight to see, When, ere his song was ended, Like some great landslip, tree by tree, The country-side descended; And shepherds from the mountain-eaves Look’d down, half-pleased, half-fright- en’d, As dash’d about the drunken leaves The random sunshine lighten’d ! Oh, nature first was fresh to men, And wanton without measure ; So youthful and so flexile then. You moved her at your pleasure. Twang out, my fiddle! shake the twigs! And make her dance attendance ; Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, And scirrhous roots and tendons. ’Tis vain ! in such a brassy age I could not move a thistle ; The very sparrows in the hedge Scarce answer to my whistle ; Or at the most, when three-parts-sick With strumming and with scraping, A jackass heehaws from the rick, The passive oxen gaping. But what is that I hear ? a sound Like sleepy counsel pleading ; O Lord !—’tis in my neighbour’s ground, The modern Muses reading. They read Botanic Treatises, And Works on Gardening thro’ there, And Methods of transplanting trees To look as if they grew there. The wither’d Misses ! how they prose O’er books of travell’d seamen, And show you slips of all that grows From England to Van Diemen. They read in arbours dipt and cut, And alleys, faded places, By squares of tropic summer shut And warm’d in crystal cases. But these, tho’ fed with careful dirt, Are neither green nor sappy ; Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, The spindlings look unhappy. Better to me the meanest weed That blows upon its mountain, The vilest herb that runs to seed Beside its native fountain. And I must work thro’ months of toil, And years of cultivation, Upon my proper patch of soil To grow my own plantation. I’ll take the showers as they fall, I will not vex my bosom : Enough if at the end of all A little garden blossom. ST. AGNES’ EVE, Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon : My breath to heaven like vapour goes : May my soul follow soon ! The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord : Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies. As these white robes are soil’d and dark, To yonder shining ground ; As this pale taper’s earthly spark, To yonder argent round ; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, Thro’ all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean. He lifts me to the golden doors ; The flashes come and go ; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below, no SIR GALAHAD. And deepens on and up ! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide— A light upon the shining sea— The Bridegroom with his bride ! SIR GALAHAD. My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure. My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter’d spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel: They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies’ hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bow’d in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden’s hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro’ faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns : Then by some secret shrine I ride ; I hear a voice but none are there ; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark ; I leap on board : no helmsman steers : I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne Thro’ dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o’er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields ; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o’er waste fens and windy fields. A maiden knight—to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams ; And, stricken by an angel’s hand, This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch’d, are turn’d to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky. And thro’ the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear : ‘ O just and faithful knight of God ! Ride on ! the prize is near.’ EDWARD GRAY. in So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-arm’d I ride, whate’er betide, Until I find the holy Grail. EDWARD GRAY. Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way, ‘ And have you lost your heart ?’ she said; ‘And are you married yet, Edward Gray?’ Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : Bitterly weeping I turn’d away : ‘ Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. ‘ Ellen Adair she loved me well, Against her father’s and mother’s will : To-day I sat for an hour and wept, By Ellen’s grave, on the windy hill. ‘ Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; Thought her proud, and fled over th e sea; Fill’d I was with folly and spite, When Ellen Adair was dying for me. ‘ Cruel, cruel the words I said ! Cruelly came they back to-day : “You’re too slight and fickle,” I said, “To trouble theheart of Edward Gray.” ‘ There I put my face in the grass— Whisper’d, “ Listen to my despair : I repent me of all I did: Speak a little, Ellen Adair ! ” ‘ Then I took a pencil, and wrote On the mossy stone, as I lay, “ Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; And here the heart of Edward Gray ! ” ‘ Love may come, and love may go, And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree ; But I will love no more, no more, Till Ellen Adair come back to me. * Bitterly wept I over the stone : Bitterly weeping I turn’d away : There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! And there the heart of Edward Gray ! ’ WILL WATERPROOF’S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. MADE AT THE COCK. O plump head-waiter at The Cock, To which I most resort, How goes the time ? ’Tis five o’clock. Go fetch a pint of port: But let it not be such as that You set before chance-comers, But such whose father-grape grew fat On Lusitanian summers. No vain libation to the Muse, But may she still be kind, And whisper lovely words, and use Her influence on the mind. To make me write my random rhymes, Ere they be half-forgotten ; Nor add and alter, many times, Till all be ripe and rotten. I pledge her, and she comes and dips Her laurel in the wine, And lays it thrice upon my lips, These favour’d lips of mine ; Until the charm have power to make New lifeblood warm the bosom, And barren commonplaces break In full and kindly blossom. I pledge her silent at the board ; Her gradual fingers steal And touch upon the master-chord Of all I felt and feel. Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, And phantom hopes assemble ; And that child’s heart within the man’s Begins to move and tremble. Thro’ many an hour of summer suns, By many pleasant ways, Against its fountain upward runs The current of my days : I kiss the lips I once have kiss’d ; The gas-light wavers dimmer ; And softly, thro’ a vinous .mist, My college friendships glimmer. 112 WILL WATERPROOF’S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men, Who hold their hands to all, and cry For that which all deny them— Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, And all the world go by them. Ah yet, tho’ all the world forsake, Tho’ fortune clip my wings, I will not cramp my heart, nor take Half-views of men and things. Let Whig and Tory stir their blood ; There must be stormy weather ; But for some true result of good All parties work together. Let there be thistles, there are grapes ; If old things, there are new ; Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, Yet glimpses of the true. Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, We lack not rhymes and reasons, As on this whirligig of Time We circle with the seasons. This earth is rich in man and maid ; With fair horizons bound : This whole wide earth of light and shade Comes out a perfect round. High over roaring Temple-bar, And set in Heaven’s third story, I look at all things as they are, But thro’ a kind of glory. Head-waiter, honour’d by the guest Half-mused, or reeling ripe, The pint, you brought me, was the best That ever came from pipe. But tho’ the port surpasses praise, My nerves have dealt with stiffer. Is there some magic in the place ? Or do my peptics differ ? For since I came to live and learn, No pint of white or red Had ever half the power to turn This wheel within my head, Which bears a season’d brain about, Unsubject to confusion, Tho’ soak’d and saturate, out and out, Thro’ every convolution. For I am of a numerous house, With many kinsmen gay, Where long and largely we carouse As who shall say me nay : Each month, a birth-day coming on, We drink defying trouble, Or sometimes two would meet in one, And then we drank it double; Whether the vintage, yet unkept, Had relish fiery-new, Or elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, As old as Waterloo ; Or stow’d, when classic Canning died, In musty bins and chambers, Had cast upon its crusty side The gloom of ten Decembers. The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is ! She answer’d to my call, She changes with that mood or this, Is all-in-all to all : She lit the spark within my throat, To make my blood run quicker, Used all her fiery will, and smote Her life into the liquor. And hence this halo lives about The waiter’s hands, that reach To each his perfect pint of stout, His proper chop to each. He looks not like the common breed That with the napkin dally ; I think he came like Ganymede, From some delightful valley. The Cock was of a larger egg Than modern poultry drop, Stept forward on a firmer leg, And cramm’d a plumper crop ; Upon an ampler dunghill trod, Crow’d lustier late and early, Sipt wine from silver, praising God, And raked in golden barley. WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE . A private life was all his joy, Till in a court he saw A something-pottle-bodied boy That knuckled at the taw : He stoop’d and clutch’d him, fair and good, Flew over roof and casement: His brothers of the weather stood Stock-still for sheer amazement. But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, And follow’d with acclaims, A sign to many a staring shire Came crowing over Thames. Right down by smoky Paul’s they bore, Till, w T here the street grows straiter, One fix’d for ever at the door, And one became head-waiter. But whither would my fancy go ? How out of place she makes The violet of a legend blow Among the chops and steaks ! ’Tis but a steward of the can, One shade more plump than common ; As just and mere a serving-man As any born of woman. I ranged too high : what draws me down Into the common day? Is it the weight of that half-crown, Which I shall have to pay ? For, something duller than at first, Nor wholly comfortable, I sit, my empty glass reversed, And thrumming on the table : Half fearful that, with self at strife, I take myself to task ; Lest of the fulness of my life I leave an empty flask : For I had hope, by something rare To prove myself a poet: But, while I plan and plan, my hair Is gray before I know it. So fares it since the years began, Till they be gather’d up ; The truth, that flies the flowing can, Will haunt the vacant cup : And others’ follies teach us not, Nor much their wisdom teaches ; And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches. Ah, let the rusty theme alone ! We know not what we know. But for my pleasant hour, ’tis gone ; ’Tis gone, and let it go. ’Tis gone : a thousand such have slipt Away from my embraces, And fall’n into the dusty crypt Of darken’d forms and faces. Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went Long since, and came no more ; With peals of genial clamour sent From many a tavern-door, With twisted quirks and happy hits, From misty men of letters ; The tavern-hours of mighty wits— Thine elders and thy betters. Hours, when the Poet’s words and looks Had yet their native glow : Nor yet the fear of little books Had made him talk for show ; But, all his vast heart sherris-warm’d, He flash’d his random speeches, Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm’d His literary leeches. So mix for ever with the past, Like all good things on earth ! For should I prize thee, couldst thou last, At half thy real worth ? I hold it good, good things should pass: With time I will not quarrel: It is but yonder empty glass That makes me maudlin-moral. Head-waiter of the chop-house here, To which I most resort, I too must part: I hold thee dear For this good pint of port. For this, thou shalt from all things suck Marrow of mirth and laughter ; And wheresoe’er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after. 1 14 LADY CLARE. But thou wilt never move from hence, The sphere thy fate allots : Thy latter days increased with pence Go down among the pots : Thou battenest by the greasy gleam In haunts of hungry sinners, Old boxes, larded with the steam Of thirty thousand dinners. We fret, we fume, would shift our skins, Would quarrel with our lot; Thy care is, under polish’d tins, To serve the hot-and-hot; To come and go, and come again, Returning like the pewit, And watch’d by silent gentlemen, That trifle with the cruet. Live long, ere from thy topmost head The thick-set hazel dies ; Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread The corners of thine eyes : Live long, nor feel in head or chest Our changeful equinoxes, Till mellow Death, like some late guest, Shall call thee from the boxes. But when he calls, and thou shalt cease To pace the gritted floor, And, laying down an unctuous lease Of life, shalt earn no more ; No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, Shall show thee past to Heaven : But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, A pint-pot neatly graven. LADY CLARE. It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin. Lady Clare. I trow they did not part in scorn : Lovers long-betroth’d were they : They two will wed the morrow morn : God’s blessing on the day ! ‘ He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well,’ said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice the nurse. Said, ‘Who was this that went from thee ?’ ‘ It was my cousin,’ said Lady Clare, ‘To-morrow he weds with me.’ ‘ O God be thank’d 1 ’ said Alice the nurse, ‘ That all comes round so just and fair : Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare. ’ ‘ Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?’ Said Lady Clare, ‘that ye speak so wild ? ’ ‘As God’s above,’ said Alice the nurse, ‘ I speak the truth : you are my child. ‘ The old Earl’s daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child irr her stead.’ ‘ Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother,’ she said, ‘if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due.’ ‘ Nay now, my child,’ said Alice the nurse, ‘ But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald’s, When you are man and wife.’ ‘ If I’m a beggar bom,’ she said, ‘ I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by.’ ‘Nay now, my child,’ said Alice the nurse, ‘ But keep the secret all ye can.’ She said, ‘Not so : but I will know If there be any faith in man.’ ‘Nay now, what faith?’ said Alice the nurse, ‘ The man will cleave unto his right. ’ ‘ And he shall have it,’ the lady replied, ‘Tho’ I should die to-night.’ THE CAPTAIN. 15 * Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! Alas, my child, I sinn’d for thee.’ •O mother, mother, mother,’ she said, ‘ So strange it seems to me. ‘ Yet here’s a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go.’ She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare : She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair. The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden’s hand, And follow’d her all the way. Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: ‘ O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth ? ’ * If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are : I am a beggar born,’ she said, ‘And not the Lady Clare.’ ‘ Play me no tricks,’ said Lord Ronald, ‘ For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks,’ said Lord Ronald, ‘ Your riddle is hard to read.’ O and proudly stood she up ! Her heart within her did not fail: She look’d into Lord Ronald’s eyes, And told him all her nurse’s tale. He laugh’d a laugh of merry scorn : He turn’d and kiss’d her where she stood : ‘ If you are not the heiress born, And I, ’ said he, ‘ the next in blood— ‘ If you are not the heiress born, And I,’ said he, ‘ the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare.’ THE CAPTAIN. A LEGEND OF THE NAVY. He that only rules by terror Doeth grievous wrong. Deep as Hell I count his error. Let him hear my song. Brave the Captain was : the seamen Made a gallant crew, Gallant sons of English freemen, Sailors bold and true. But they hated his oppression, Stern he was and rash ; So for every light transgression Doom’d them to the lash. Day by day more harsh and cruel Seem’d the Captain’s mood. Secret wrath like smother’d fuel Burnt in each man’s blood. Yet he hoped to purchase glory, Hoped to make the name Of his vessel great in story, Wheresoe’er he came. So they past by capes and islands, Many a harbour-mouth, Sailing under palmy highlands Far within the South. On a day when they were going O’er the lone expanse, In the north, her canvas flowing, Rose a ship of France. Then the Captain’s colour heighten’d, Joyful came his speech : But a cloudy gladness lighten’d In the eyes of each. ‘Chase,’ he said: the ship flew for¬ ward, And the wind did blow ; Stately, lightly, went she Norward, Till she near’d the foe. Then they look’d at him they hated, Had what they desired : Mute with folded arms they waited— Not a gun was fired. But they heard the foeman’s thunder Roaring out their doom ; All the air was torn in sunder, Crashing went the boom, THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. itS Spars were splinter’d, decks were shatter’d, Bullets fell like rain ; Over mast and deck were scatter’d Blood and brains of men. Spars were splinter’d; decks were broken: Every mother’s son— Down they dropt—no word was spoken— Each beside his gun. On the decks as they were lying, Were their faces grim. In their blood, as they lay dying, Did they smile on him. Those, in whom he had reliance For his noble name, With one smile of still defiance Sold him unto shame. Shame and wrath his heart confounded, Pale he turn’d and red, Till himself was deadly wounded Falling on the dead. Dismal error ! fearful slaughter ! Years have wander’d by, Side by side beneath the water Crew and Captain lie ; There the sunlit ocean tosses O’er them mouldering, And the lonely seabird crosses With one waft of the wing. THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. In her ear he whispers gaily, ‘ If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch’d thee daily, And I think thou lov’st me well.’ She replies, in accents fainter, ‘ There is none I love like thee. ’ He is but a landscape-painter, And a village maiden she. He to lips, that fondly falter, Presses his without reproof: Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father’s roof. ‘ I can make no marriage present: Little can I give my wife. Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life.’ They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand : Summer woods, about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land. From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, ‘ Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell.’ So she goes by him attended, Hears him lovingly converse, Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers ; Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and order’d gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state. All he shows her makes him dearer : Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days. O but she will love him truly ! He shall have a cheerful home ; She will order all things duly, When beneath his roof they come. Thus her heart rejoices greatly, Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns; Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before : Many a gallant gay domestic Bows before him at the door. And they speak in gentle murmur. When they answer to his call, While he treads with footstep firmer, Leading on from hall to hall. And, while now she wonders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round and kindly, ‘ All of this is mine and thine. ’ Here he lives in state and bounty, Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the colour flushes Her sweet face from brow to chin : As it were with shame she blushes. And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove : But he clasp’d her like a lover, And he cheer’d her soul with love. THE VOYAGE. ii 7 So she strove against her weakness, Tho’ at times her spirit sank : Shaped her heart with woman’s meekness To all duties of her rank : And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady, And the people loved her much. But a trouble weigh’d upon her, And perplex’d her, night and morn, With the burthen of an honour Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew, and ever fainter, And she murmur’d, ‘ Oh, that he Were once more that landscape-painter, Which did win my heart from me ! ’ So she droop’d and droop’d before him, Fading slowly from his side : Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died. Weeping, weeping late and early, Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourn’d the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. And he came to look upon her, And he look’d at her and said, ‘ Bring the dress and put it on her, That she wore when she was wed.’ Then her people, softly treading, Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in, That her spirit might have rest. THE VOYAGE. i. We left behind the painted buoy That tosses at the harbour-mouth ; And madly danced our hearts with joy, As fast we fleeted to the South : How fresh was every sight and sound On open main or winding shore ! We knew the merry world was round, And we might sail for evermore. ii. Warm broke the breeze against the brow, Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail: The Lady’s-head upon the prow Caught the shrill salt, and sheer’d the gale. The broad seas swell’d to meet the keel, And swept behind ; so quick the run, We felt the good ship shake and reel, We seem’d to sail into the Sun ! in. How oft we saw the Sun retire, And burn the threshold of the night, Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire, And sleep beneath his pillar’d light ! How oft the purple-skirted robe Of twilight slowly downward drawn, As thro’ the slumber of the globe Again we dash’d into the dawn ! iv. New stars all night above the brim Of waters lighten’d into view ; They climb’d as quickly, for the rim Changed every moment as we flew. Far ran the naked moon across The houseless ocean’s heaving field, Or flying shone, the silver boss Of her own halo’s dusky shield ; v. The peaky islet shifted shapes, High towns on hills were dimly seen, We past long lines of Northern capes And dewy Northern meadows green. We came to warmer waves, and deep Across the boundless east we drove, Where those long swells of breaker sweep The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. VI. By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, Gloom’d the low coast and quivering brine With ashy rains, that spreading made Fantastic plume or sable pine ; By sands and steaming flats, and floods Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, And hills and scarlet-mingled woods Glow’d for a moment as we past. SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. 118 VII. O hundred shores of happy climes, How swiftly stream’d ye by the bark ! At times the whole sea burn’d, at times With wakes of fire we tore the dark ; At times a carven craft would shoot From havens hid in fairy bowers, With naked limbs and flowers and fruit, But we nor paused for fruit nor flowers. VIII. For one fair Vision ever fled Down the waste waters day and night, And still we follow’d where she led, In hope to gain upon her flight. Her face was evermore unseen, And fixt upon the far sea-line; But each man murmur’d, ‘ O my Queen, I follow till I make thee mine.’ IX. And now we lost her, now she gleam’d Like Fancy made of golden air, Now nearer to the prow she seem’d Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair, Now high on waves that idly burst Like Heavenly Hope she crown’d the sea, And now, the bloodless point reversed, She bore the blade of Liberty. x. And only one among us—him We pleased not — he was seldom pleased : He saw not far : his eyes were dim : But ours he swore were all diseased. ‘ A ship of fools,’ he shriek’d in spite, ‘A ship of fools,’ he sneer’d and wept. And overboard one stormy night He cast his body, and on we swept. XI. And never sail of ours was furl’d. Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; We lov’d the glories of the world, But laws of nature were our scorn. For blasts would rise and rave and cease, But whence were those that drove the sail Across the whirlwind’s heart of peace, And to and thro’ the counter gale ? XII. Again to colder climes we came, For still we follow’d where she led : Now mate is blind and captain lame, And half the crew are sick or dead. But, blind or lame or sick or sound, We follow that which flies before : We know the merry world is round, And we may sail for evermore. SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. A FRAGMENT. Like souls that balance joy and pain, With tears and smiles from heaven again The maiden Spring upon the plain Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. In crystal vapour everywhere Blue isles of heaven laugh’d between, And far, in forest-deeps unseen, The topmost elm-tree gather’d green From draughts of balmy air. Sometimes the linnet piped his song : Sometimes the throstle whistled strong : Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel’d along, Hush’d all the groves from fear of wrong : By grassy capes with fuller sound In curves the yellowing river ran, And drooping chestnut-buds began To spread into the perfect fan, Above the teeming ground. Then, in the boyhood of the year, Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere Rode thro’ the coverts of the deer, With blissful treble ringing clear. She seem’d a part of joyous Spring ; A gown of grass-green silk she wore, Buckled with golden clasps before ; A light-green tuft of plumes she bore Closed in a golden ring. A FAREWELL—THE BEGGAR MALD—THE EAGLE. 119 Now on some twisted ivy-net, Now by some tinkling rivulet, In mosses mixt with violet Her cream-white mule his pastern set: And fleeter now she skimm’d the plains Than she whose elfin prancer springs By night to eery warblings, When all the glimmering moorland rings With jingling bridle-reins. As she fled fast thro’ sun and shade, The happy winds upon her play’d, Blowing the ringlet from the braid : She look’d so lovely, as she sway’d The rein with dainty finger-tips, A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this, To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips. A FAREWELL. Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver : No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet then a river : No where by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. But here will sigh thine alder tree, And here thine aspen shiver ; And here by thee will hum the bee, For ever and for ever. A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver ; But not by thee my steps shall be. For ever and for ever. THE BEGGAR MAID. Her arms across her breast she laid ; She was more fair than words can say: Bare-footed came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way ; ‘ It is no wonder, ’ said the lords, ‘ She is more beautiful than day.’ As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen : One praised tier ancles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been : Cophetua sware a royal oath : ‘ This beggar maid shall be my queen ! ’ THE EAGLE. FRAGMENT. He clasps the crag with crooked hands ; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring’d with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. Move eastward, happy earth, and leave Yon orange sunset waning slow : From fringes of the faded eve, O, happy planet, eastward go ; Till over thy dark shoulder glow Thy silver sister-world, and rise To glass herself in dewy eyes That watch me from the glen below. Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne, Dip forward under starry light, And move me. to my marriage-morn, And round again to happy night. Come not, when I am dead, To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head, And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. There let the wind sweep and the plover cry ; But thou, go by. 120 THE LETTERS—THE VISION OF SIN Child, if it were thine error or thy crime I care no longer, being all unblest: Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, And I desire to rest. Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie: Go by, go by. THE LETTERS. Still on the tower stood the vane, A black yew gloom’d the stagnant air, I peer’d athwart the chancel pane And saw the altar cold and bare. A clog of lead was round my feet, A band of pain across my brow ; ‘ Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall meet Before you hear my marriage vow.’ II. I turn’d and humm’d a bitter song That mock’d the wholesome human heart, And then we met in wrath and wrong, We met, but only meant to part. Full cold my greeting was and dry; She faintly smiled, she hardly moved ; I saw with half-unconscious eye She wore the colours I approved. in. She took the little ivory chest, With half a sigh she turn’d the key, Then raised her head with lips comprest, And gave my letters back to me. And gave the trinkets and the rings, My gifts, when gifts of mine could please ; As looks a father on the things Of his dead son, I look’d on these. IV. She told me all her friends had said ; I raged against the public liar ; She talk’d as if her love were dead, But in my words were seeds of fire. ‘ No more of love ; your sex is known : I never will be twice deceived. Henceforth I trust the man alone, The woman cannot be believed. v. ‘ Thro’ slander, meanest spawn of Hell— And women’s slander is the worst, And you, whom once I lov’d so well, Thro’ you, my life will be accurst.’ I spoke with heart, and heat and force, I shook her breast with vague alarms— Like torrents from a mountain source We rush’d into each other’s arms. VI. We parted : sweetly gleam’d the stars, And sweet the vapour-braided blue, Low breezes fann’d the belfry bars, As homeward by the church I drew. The very graves appear’d to smile, So fresh they rose in shadow’d swells ; ‘Dark porch,’ I'said, ‘and silent aisle, There comes a sound of marriage bells.’ THE VISION OF SIN. i. I HAD a vision when the night was late : A youth came riding toward a palace-gate. He rode a horse with wings, that would have flown, But that his heavy rider kept him down. And from the palace came a child of sin, And took him by the curls, and led him in, Where sat a company with heated eyes, Expecting when a fountain should arise : A sleepy light upon their brows and lips— As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes— Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid shapes, By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of grapes. II. Then methought I heard a mellow sound, Gathering up from all the lower ground ; THE VISION OF SIN 121 Narrowing in to where they sat assembled Low voluptuous music winding trembled, Wov’n in circles: they that heard it sigh’d, Panted hand-in-hand with faces pale, Swung themselves, and in low tones re¬ plied ; Till the fountain spouted, showering wide Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail ; Then the music touch’d the gates and died; Rose again from where it seem’d to fail, Storm’d in orbs of song, a growing gale ; Till thronging in and in, to where they waited, As ’twere a hundred-throated nightingale, The strong tempestuous treble throbb’d and palpitated ; Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, Caught the sparkles, and in circles, Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes, Flung the torrent rainbow round : Then they started from their places, Moved with violence, changed in hue, Caught each other with wild grimaces, Half-invisible to the view, Wheeling with precipitate paces To the melody, till they flew, Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces, Twisted hard in fierce embraces, Like to Furies, like to Graces, Dash’d together in blinding dew : Till, kill’d with some luxurious agony, The nerve-dissolving melody Flutter’d headlong from the sky. III. And then I look’d up toward a mountain- tract, That girt the region with high cliff and lawn: I saw that every morning, far withdrawn Beyond the darkness and the cataract, God made Himself an awful rose of dawn, Unheeded : and detaching, fold by fold, From those still heights, and, slowly drawing near, A vapour heavy, hueless, formless, cold, Came floating on for many a month and year, Unheeded : and I thought I would have spoken, And warn’d that madman ere it grew too late: But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was broken, When that cold vapour touch’d the palace gate, And link’d again. I .saw within my head A gray and gap-tooth’d man as lean as death, Who slowly rode across a wither’d heath, And lighted at a ruin’d inn, and said : IV. ‘ Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin ! Here is custom come your way ; Take my brute, and lead him in, Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. ‘ Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! See that sheets are on my bed ; What ! the flower of life is past : It is long before you wed. ‘ Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, At the Dragon on the heath ! Let us have a quiet hour, Let us hob-and-nob with Death. ‘ I am old, but let me drink ; Bring me spices, bring me wine ; I remember, when I think, That my youth was half divine. Wine is good for shrivell’d lips, When a blanket wraps the day, When the rotten woodland drips, And the leaf is stamp’d in clay. ‘ Sit thee down, and have no shame, Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee : What care I for any name ? What for order or degree ? ‘ Let me screw thee up a peg : Let me loose thy tongue with wine: Callest thou that thing a leg ? Which is thinnest ? thine or mine ? ‘ Thou shalt not be saved by works : Thou hast been a sinner too : Ruin’d trunks on wither’d forks, Empty scarecrows, I and you ! 122 THE VISION OF SIN ‘ Fill the cup, and fill the can : Have a rouse before the morn : Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born. ‘ We are men of ruin’d blood ; Therefore comes it we are wise. Fish are we that love the mud, Rising to no fancy-flies. ‘ Name and fame ! to fly sublime Thro’ the courts, the camps, the schools, Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied by the hands of fools. ‘ Friendship !—to be two in one— Let the canting liar pack ! Well I know, when I am gone, How she mouths behind my back. 1 Virtue !—to be good and just— Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix’d with cunning sparks of hell. ‘ O ! we two as well can look Whited thought and cleanly life As the priest, above his book Leering at his neighbour’s wife. ‘ Fill the cup, and fill the can: Have a rouse before the morn : Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born. ‘ Drink, and let the parties rave : They are fill’d with idle spleen ; Rising, falling, like a wave, For they know not what they mean. ‘ He that roars for liberty Faster binds a tyrant’s power ; And the tyrant’s cruel glee Forces on the freer hour. ‘ Fill the can, and fill the cup : All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again. ‘ Greet her with applausive breath, Freedom, gaily doth she tread ; In her right a civic wreath, In her left a human head. ‘ No, I love not what is new ; She is of an ancient house : And I think we know the hue Of that cap upon her brows. ‘ Let her go ! her thirst she slakes Where the bloody conduit runs, Then her sweetest meal she makes On the first-born of her sons. * Drink to lofty hopes that cool— Visions of a perfect State : Drink we, last, the public fool, Frantic love and frantic hate. ‘ Chant me now some wicked stave, Till thy drooping courage rise, And the glow-worm of the grave Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. ‘ Fear not thou to loose thy tongue; Set thy hoary fancies free ; What is loathsome to the young Savours well to thee and me. ‘ Change, reverting to the years, When thy nerves could understand What there is in loving tears, And the warmth of hand in hand. ‘ Tell me tales of thy first love— April hopes, the fools of chance ; Till the graves begin to move, And the dead begin to dance. * Fill the can, and fill the cup : All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again. ‘ Trooping from their mouldy dens The chap-fallen circle spreads : Welcome, fellow-citizens, Hollow hearts and empty heads ! THE VISION OF SIN. 123 ‘You are bones, and what of that? Every face, however full, Padded round with flesh and fat, Is but modell’d on a skull. ‘ Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! Tread a measure on the stones, Madam—if I know your sex, From the fashion of your bones. ‘ No, I cannot praise the fire In your eye—nor yet your lip : All the more do I admire Joints of cunning workmanship. 1 Lo ! God’s likeness—the ground-plan— Neither modell’d, glazed, nor framed : Buss me, thou rough sketch of man, Far too naked to be shamed ! ‘ Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, While we keep a little breath ! Drink to heavy Ignorance ! Hob-and-nob with brother Death ! ‘ Thou art mazed, the night is long, And the longer night is near : What ! I am not all as wrong As a bitter jest is dear. ‘Youthful hopes, by scores, to all, When the locks are crisp and curl’d ; Unto me my maudlin gall And my mockeries of the world. ‘ Fill the cup, and fill the can : Mingle madness, mingle scorn ! Dregs of life, and lees of man : Yet we will not die forlorn.’ V. The voice grew faint: there came a further change : Once more uprose the mystic mountain- range : Below were men and horses pierced with worms, And slowly quickening into lower forms ; By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross, Old plash of rains, and refuse patch’d with moss. Then some one spake : ‘ Behold ! it was a crime Of sense avenged by sense that wore with time. ’ Another said: ‘ The crime of sense became The crime of malice, and is equal blame. ’ And one : * He had not wholly quench’d his power; A little grain of conscience made him sour.’ At last I heard a voice upon the slope Cry to the summit, ‘ Is there any hope ?’ To which an answer peal’d from that high land, But in a tongue no man could understand; And on the glimmering limit far with¬ drawn God made Himself an awful rose of dawn. AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. ‘ Cursed be he that moves my bones.’ Shakespeare's Epitaph. You might have won the Poet’s name, If such be worth the winning now, And gain’d a laurel for your brow Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; But you have made the wiser choice, A life that moves to gracious ends Thro’ troops of unrecording friends, A deedful life, a silent voice : And you have miss’d the irreverent doom Of those that wear the Poet’s crown : Hereafter, neither knave nor clown Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. For now the Poet cannot die. Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry: ‘ Proclaim the faults he would not show : Break lock and seal: betray the trust: Keep nothing sacred : ’tis but just The many-headed beast should know.’ 124 TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. Ah shameless ! for he did but sing A song that pleased us from its worth; No public life was his on earth, No blazon’d statesman he, nor king. He gave the people of his best: His worst he kept, his best he gave. My Shakespeare’s curse on clown and knave Who will not let his ashes rest! Who make it seem more sweet to be The little life of bank and brier, The bird that pipes his lone desire And dies unheard within his tree, Than he that warbles long and loud And drops at Glory’s temple-gates, For whom the carrion vulture waits To tear his heart before the crowd ! TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls Of water, sheets of summer glass, The long divine Peneian pass, The vast Akrokeraunian walls, Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, With such a pencil, such a pen, You shadow forth to distant men, I read and felt that I was there : And trust me while I turn’d the page, And track’d you still on classic ground, I grew in gladness till I found My spirits in the golden age. For me the torrent ever pour’d And glisten’d—here and there alone The broad - limb’d Gods at random thrown By fountain-urns ;—and Naiads oar’d A glimmering shoulder under gloom Of cavern pillars ; on the swell The silver lily heaved and fell; And many a slope was rich in bloom From him that on the mountain lea By dancing rivulets fed his flocks To him who sat upon the rocks, And fluted to the morning sea. Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman’s boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay ! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand, And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. THE POET’S SONG. The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He pass’d by the town and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat, And he sat him down in a lonely place, And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, And the lark drop down at his feet. The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, The snake slipt under a spray, The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, And stared, with his foot on the prey, And the nightingale thought, ‘ I have sung many songs, But never a one so gay, For he sings of what the world will be When the years have died away.’ ENOCH ARDEN 125 ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS. ENOCH ARDEN. Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm ; And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf In cluster ; then a moulder’d church ; and higher A long street climbs to one tall-tower’d mill; And high, in heaven behind it a gray down With Danish barrows ; and a hazelwood, By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. Here on this beach a hundred years ago, Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, The prettiest little damsel in the port, And Philip Ray the miller’s only son, And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor’s lad Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play’d Among the waste and lumber of the shore, Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets, Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats up- drawn ; And built their castles of dissolving sand To watch them overflow’d, or following up And flying the white breaker, daily left The little footprint daily wash’d away. A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff: In this the children play’d at keeping house. Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, While Annie still was mistress; but at times Enoch would hold possession for a week: ‘ This is my house and this my little wife. ’ ‘ Mine too ’ said Philip ‘ turn and turn about: ’ When, if they quarrell’d, Enoch stronger- made Was master : then would Philip, his blue eyes All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, Shriek out ‘I hate you, Enoch,’ and at this The little wife would weep for company, And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, And say she would be little wife to both. But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, And the new warmth of life’s ascending sun Was felt by either, either fixt his heart On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love, But Philip loved in silence ; and the girl Seem’d kinder unto Philip than to him ; But she loved Enoch ; tho’ she knew it not, And would if ask’d deny it. Enoch set A purpose evermore before his eyes, To hoard all savings to the uttermost, To purchase his own boat, and make a home For Annie : and so prosper’d that at last A luckier or a bolder fisherman, A carefuller in peril, did not breathe For leagues along that breaker - beaten coast Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year On board a merchantman, and made himself Full sailor ; and he thrice had pluck’d a life From the dread sweep of the down-stream¬ ing seas : And all men look’d upon him favourably: And ere he touch’d his one-and-twentieth May 126 ENOCH ARDEN. He purchased his own boat, and made a home For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up The narrow street that clamber’d toward the mill. Then, on a golden autumn eventide, The younger people making holiday, With bag and sack and basket, great and small, Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay’d (His father lying sick and needing him) An hour behind; but as he climb’d the hill, Just where the prone edge of the wood began To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, That burn’d as on an altar. Philip look’d, And in their eyes and faces read his doom; Then, as their faces drew together, groan’d, And slipt aside, and like a wounded life Crept down into the hollows of the wood; There, while the rest were loud in merry¬ making, Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, Seven happy years of health and com¬ petence, And mutual love and honourable toil; With children ; first a daughter. In him woke, With his first babe’s first cry, the noble wish To save all earnings to the uttermost, And give his child a better bringing-up Than his had been, or hers ; a wish re¬ new’d, When two years after came a boy to be The rosy idol of her solitudes, While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, Or often journeying landward; for in truth Enoch’s white horse, and Enoch’s ocean- spoil In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, Rough-redden’d with a thousand winter gales. Not only to the market-cross were known, But in the leafy lanes behind the down, Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp, And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall, Whose Friday fare was Enoch’s minister¬ ing. Then came a change, as all things human change. Ten miles to northward of the narrow port Open’d a larger haven : thither used Enoch at times to go by land 01 ; sea ; And once when there, and clambering on a mast In harbour, by mischance he slipt and fell: A limb was broken "when they lifted him; And while he lay recovering there, his wife Bore him another son, a sickly one : Another hand crept too across his trade Taking her bread and theirs : and on him fell, Altho’ a grave and staid God-fearing man, Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. He seem’d, as in a nightmare of the night, To see his children leading evermore Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, And her, he loved, a beggar: then he pray’d ‘ Save them from this, whatever comes to me.’ And while he pray’d, the master of that ship Enoch had served in, hearing his mis¬ chance, Came, for he knew the man and valued him, Reporting of his vessel China-bound, And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go ? ENOCH A EDEN. 127 There yet were many weeks before she sail’d, Sail’d from this port. Would Enoch have the place ? And Enoch all at once assented to it, Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. So now that shadow of mischance appear’d No graver than as when some little cloud Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife— When he was gone—the children—what to do ? Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans; To sell the boat—and yet he loved her well— How many a rough sea had he weather’d in her ! He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse— And yet to sell her—then with what she brought Buy goods and stores—set Annie forth in trade With all that seamen needed or their wives— So might she keep the house while he was gone. Should he not trade himself out yonder ? g° This voyage more than once ? yea twice or thrice— As oft as needed—last, returning rich, Become the master of a larger craft, With fuller profits lead an easier life, Have all his pretty young ones educated, And pass his days in peace among his own. Thus Enoch in his heart determined all: Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. Forward she started with a happy cry, And laid the feeble infant in his arms; Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, Appraised his weight and fondled father¬ like, But had no heart to break his purposes To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. Then first since Enoch’s golden ring had girt Her finger, Annie fought against his will: Yet not with brawling opposition she, But manifold entreaties, many a tear, Many a sad kiss by day by night renew’d (Sure that all evil would come out of it) Besought him, supplicating, if he cared For her or his dear children, not to go. He not for his own self caring but her, Her and her children, let her plead in vain; So grieving held his will, and bore it thro’. For Enoch parted with his old sea- friend, Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand To fit their little streetward sitting-room With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. So all day long till Enoch’s last at home, Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, Auger and saw, while Annie seem’d to hear Her own death - scaffold raising, shrill’d and rang, Till this was ended, and his careful hand,— The space was narrow,—having order’d all Almost as neat and close as Nature packs Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he, Who needs would work for Annie to the last. Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. And Enoch faced this morning of fare¬ well Brightly and boldly. All his Annie’s fears, Save, as his Annie’s, were a laughter to him. Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man Bow’d himself down, and in that mystery 128 ENOCH ARDEN Where God-in-man is one with man-in- God, Pray’d for a blessing on his wife and babes Whatever came to him : and then he said ‘ Annie, this voyage by the grace of God Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, For I’ll be back, my girl, before you know it.’ Then lightly rocking baby’s cradle * and he, This pretty, puny, weakly little one,— Nay—for I love him all the better for it— God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, And make him merry, when I come home again. Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go.’ Him running on thus hopefully she heard, And almost hoped herself; but when he turn’d The current of his talk to graver things In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, Heard and not heard him ; as the village girl, Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, Musing on him that used to fill it for her, Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. At length she spoke ‘ O Enoch, you are wise ; And yet for all your wisdom well know I That I shall look upon your face no more. ’ ‘ Well then,’ said Enoch, * I shall look on yours. Annie, the ship I sail in passes here (He named the day) get you a seaman’s glass, Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears.’ But when the last of those last moments came, ‘ Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, Look to the babes, and till I come again Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. And fear no more for me ; or if you fear Cast all your cares on God ; that anchor holds. Is He not yonder in those uttermost Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these Can I go from Him ? and the sea is His, The sea is His : He made it.’ Enoch rose, Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, And kiss’d his wonder-stricken little ones; But for the third, the sickly one, who slept After a night of feverous wakefulness, When Annie would have raised him Enoch said ‘ Wake him not; let him sleep ; how should the child Remember this?’ and kiss’d him in his cot. But Annie from her baby’s forehead dipt A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept Thro’ all his future; but now hastily caught His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. She when the day, that Enoch mention’d, came, Borrow’d a glass, but all in vain : perhaps She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous; She saw him not: and while he stood on deck Waving, the moment and the vessel past. Ev’n to the last dip of the vanishing sail She watch’d it, and departed weeping for him ; Then, tho’ she mourn’d his absence as his grave, Set her sad will no less to chime with his, But throve not in her trade, not being bred To barter, nor compensating the want By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, Nor asking overmuch and taking less, And still foreboding * what would Enoch say ?’ For more than once, in days of difficulty ENOCH A EDEN. 129 And pressure, had she sold her wares for less Than what she gave in buying what she sold: She fail’d and sadden’d knowing it; and thus, Expectant of that news which never came, Gain’d for her own a scanty sustenance, And lived a life of silent melancholy. Now the third child was sickly-bom and grew Yet sicklier, tho’ the mother cared for it With all a mother’s care : nevertheless, Whether her business often call’d her from it, Or thro’ the want of what it needed most, Or means to pay the voice who best could tell What most it needed—howsoe’er it was, After a lingering,—ere she was aware,— Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, The little innocent soul flitted away. In that same week when Annie buried it, Philip’s true heart, which hunger’d for her peace (Since Enoch left he had not look’d upon her), Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. ‘ Surely,’ said Philip, ‘ I may see her now, May be some little comfort; ’ therefore went, Past thro’ the solitary room in front, Paused for a moment at an inner door, Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, Enter’d; but Annie, seated with her grief, Fresh from the burial of her little one, Cared not to look on any human face, But turn’d her own toward the wall and wept. Then Philip standing up said falteringly ‘ Annie, I came to ask a favour of you.’ He spoke ; the passion in her moan’d reply ‘ Favour from one so sad and so forlorn As I am ! ’ half abash’d him ; yet unask’d, His bashfulness and tenderness at war, He set himself beside her, saying to her: ‘I came to speak to you of what he wish’d, Enoch, your husband : I have ever said You chose the best among us—a strong man: For where he fixt his heart he set his hand To do the thing he will’d, and bore it thro.’ And wherefore did he go this weary way, And leave you lonely? not to see the world— For pleasure ?—nay, but for the where¬ withal To give his babes a better bringing-up Than his had been, or yours : that was his wish. And if he come again, vext will he be To find the precious morning hours were lost. And it would vex him even in his grave, If he could know his babes were running wild Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now— Have we not known each other all our lives ? I do beseech you by the love you bear Him and his children not to say me nay— For, if you will, when Enoch comes again Why then he shall repay me—if you will, Annie—for I am rich and well-to-do. Now let me put the boy and girl to school: This is the favour that I came to ask.’ Then Annie with her brows against the wall Answer’d ‘ I cannot look you in the face; I seem so foolish and so broken down. When you came in my sorrow broke me down ; And now I think your kindness breaks me down; But Enoch lives ; that is borne in on me: He will repay you: money can be repaid ; Not kindness such as yours.’ And Philip ask’d ‘ Then you will let me, Annie ? ’ There she turn’d, She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him, K 3 ° ENOCH ARDEN And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, Then calling down a blessing on his head Caught at his hand, and wrung it passion¬ ately. And past into the little garth beyond. So lifted up in spirit he moved away. Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, And bought them needful books, and everyway, Like one who does his duty by his own, Made himself theirs ; and tho’ for Annie’s sake, Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit. The late and early roses from his wall, Or conies from the down, and now and then, With some pretext of fineness in the meal To save the offence of charitable, flour From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. But Philip did not fathom Annie’s mind : Scarce could the woman when he came upon her, Out of full heart and boundless gratitude Light on a broken word to thank him with. But Philip was her children’s all-in-all; From distant corners of the street they ran To greet his hearty welcome heartily ; Lords of his house and of his mill were they; Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs Or pleasures, hung upon him, play’d with him And call’d him Father Philip. Philip gain’d As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem’d to them Uncertain as a vision or a dream, Faint as a figure seen in early dawn Down at the far end of an avenue, Going we know not where : and so ten years, Since Enoch left his hearth and native land, Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. It chanced one evening Annie’s children long’d To go with others, nutting to the wood, And Annie would go with them; then they begg’d For Father Philip (as they call’d him) too: Him, like the working bee in blossom- dust, Blanch’d with his mill, they found; and saying to him * Come with us Father Philip’ he denied; But when the children pluck’d at him to g°, He laugh’d, and yielded readily to their wish, For was not Annie with them? and they went. But after scaling half the weary down, Just where the prone edge of the wood began To feather toward the hollow, all her force Fail’d her; and sighing, ‘ Let me rest’ she said : So Philip rested with her well-content; While all the younger ones with jubilant cries Broke from their elders, and tumultuously Down thro’ the whitening hazels made a plunge To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away Their tawny clusters, crying to each other And calling, here and there, about the wood. But Philip sitting at her side forgot Her presence, and remember’d one dark hour Here in this wood, when like a wounded life He crept into the shadow: at last he said, ENOCH ARDEN Lifting his honest forehead, ‘ Listen, Annie, How merry they are down yonder in the wood. Tired, Annie?’ for she did not speak a word. ‘ Tired ?’ but her face had fall’n upon her hands; At which, as with a kind of anger in him, ‘The ship was lost,’ he said, ‘the ship was lost ! No more of that! why should you kill yourself And make them orphans quite?’ And Annie said ‘ I thought not of it: but—I know not why— Their voices make me feel so solitary. ’ Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. ‘ Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, And it has been upon my mind so long. That tho’ I know not when it first came there, I know that it will out at last. O Annie, It is beyond all hope, against all chance, That he who left you ten long years ago Should still be living ; well then—let me speak: I grieve to see you poor and wanting help: I cannot help you as I wish to do Unless — they say that women are so quick— Perhaps you know what I would have you know— I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove A father to your children : I do think They love me as a father : I am sure That I love them as if they were mine own; And I believe, if you were fast my wife, That after all these sad uncertain years, We might be still as happy as God grants To any of his creatures. Think upon it: For I am well-to-do—no kin, no care, No burthen, save my care for you and yours : 131 And we have known each other all our lives, And I have loved you longer than you know. ’ Then answer’d Annie; tenderly she spoke: ‘ You have been as God’s good angel in our house. God bless you for it, God reward you for it, Philip, with something happier than my¬ self. Can one love twice? can you be ever loved As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?’ ‘ I am content ’ he answer’d ‘ to be loved A little after Enoch.’ ‘ O ’ she cried, Scared as it were, ‘dear Philip, wait a while: If Enoch comes—but Enoch will not come— Yet wait a year, a year is not so long: Surely I shall be wiser in a year : O wait a little !’ Philip sadly said ‘ Annie, as I have waited all my life I well may wait a little.’ ‘Nay’ she cried ‘ I am bound : you have my promise—in a year: Will you not bide your year as I bide mine ?’ And Philip answer’d ‘ I will bide my year.’ Here both were mute, till Philip glanc¬ ing up Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day Pass from the Danish barrow overhead ; Then fearing night and chill for Annie, rose And sent his voice beneath him thro’ the wood. Up came the children laden with their spoil; Then all descended to the port, and there At Annie’s door he paused and gave his hand, Saying gently ‘Annie, when I spoke to you, 132 ENOCH ARDEN. That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong, I am always bound to you, but you are free.’ Then Annie weeping answer’d ‘ I am bound.’ She spoke; and in one moment as it were, While yet "she went about her household ways, Ev’n as she dwelt upon his latest words, That he had loved her longer than she knew, That autumn into autumn flash’d again, And there he stood once more before her face, Claiming her promise. ‘ Is it a year?’ she ask’d. ‘ Yes, if the nuts’ he said ‘ be ripe again : Come out and see.’ But she—she put him off— So much to look to—such a change—a month— Give her a month—she knew that she was bound— A month—no more. Then Philip with his eyes Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice Shaking a little like a drunkard’s hand, ‘ Take your own time, Annie, take your own time.’ And Annie could have wept for pity of him ; And yet she held him on delayingly With many a scarce-believable excuse, Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, Till half-another year had slipt away. By this the lazy gossips of the port, Abhorrent of a calculation crost, Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her; Some that she but held off to draw him on; And others laugh’d at her and Philip too, As simple folk that knew not their own minds, And one, in whom all evil fancies clung Like serpent eggs together, laughingly Would hint at worse in either. Her own son Was silent, tho’ he often look’d his wish; But evermore the daughter prest upon her To wed the man so dear to all of them And lift the household out of poverty ; And Philip’s rosy face contracting grew Careworn and wan ; and all these things fell on her Sharp as reproach. At last one night it chanced That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly Pray’d for a sign ‘ my Enoch is he gone ?’ Then compass’d round by the blind wall of night Brook’d not the expectant terror of her heart, Started from bed, and struck herself a light. Then desperately seized the holy Book, Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, Suddenly put her finger on the text, ‘ Under the palm-tree. ’ That was nothing to her: No meaning there : she closed the Book and slept: When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a height, Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun : ‘ He is gone,’ she thought, ‘ he is happy, he is singing Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms Whereof the happy people strowing cried ‘ ‘ Hosanna in the highest! ” ’ Here she woke, Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him ‘ There is no reason why we should not wed.’ ‘Then for God’s sake,’ he answer’d, ‘both our sakes, So you will wed me, let it be at once.’ So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. But never merrily beat Annie’s heart. A footstep seem’d to fall beside her path, ENOCH ARDEN m She knew not whence ; a whisper on her ear, She knew not what; nor loved she to be left Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. What ail’d her then, that ere she enter’d, often Her hand. dwelt lingeringly on the latch, Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew: Such doubts and fears were common to her state, Being with child : but when her child was born, Then her new child was as herself renew’d, Then the new mother came about her heart, Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, And that mysterious instinct wholly died. And where was Enoch ? prosperously sail’d The ship ‘Good Fortune,’ tho’ at setting forth The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook And almost overwhelm’d her, yet unvext She slipt across the summer of the world, Then after a long tumble about the Cape And frequent interchange of foul and fair, She passing thro’ the summer world again, The breath of heaven came continually And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, Till silent in her oriental haven. There Enoch traded for himself, and bought Quaint monsters for the market of those times, A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeed Thro’ many a fair sea-circle, day by day, Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head Stared o’er the ripple feathering from her bows : Then follow’d calms, and then winds variable, Then baffling, a long course of them; and last Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens Till hard upon the cry of ‘breakers’ came The crash of ruin, and the loss of all But Enoch and two others. Half the night, Buoy’d upon floating tackle and broken spars, These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. No want was there of human sustenance, Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots; Nor save for pity was it hard to take The helpless life so wild that it was tame. There in a sea ward-gazing mountain-gorge They built, and thatch’d with leaves of palm, a hut, Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy, Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, Lay lingering out a five-years’ death-in¬ life. They could not leave him. After he was gone, The two remaining found a fallen stem ; And Enoch’s comrade, careless of himself, Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. In those two deaths he read God’s warn¬ ing ‘wait.’ The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, The slender coco’s drooping crown of plumes, The lightning flash of insect and of bird, The lustre of the long convolvuluses That coil’d around the stately stems, and ran Ev’n to the limit of the land, the glows And glories of the broad belt of the world, All these he saw ; but what he fain had seen 134 ENOCH ARDEN. He could not see, the kindly human face, Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, The league-long roller thundering on the reef, The moving whisper of huge trees that branch’d And blossom’d in the zenith, or the sweep Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, As down the shore he ranged, or all day long Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, A shipwreck’d sailor, waiting for a sail: No sail from day to day, but every day The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts Among the palms and ferns and precipices; The blaze upon the waters to the east ; The blaze upon his island overhead ; The blaze upon the waters to the west ; Then the great stars that globed them¬ selves in Heaven, The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again The scarlet shafts of sunrise—but no sail. There often as he watch’d or seem’d to watch, So still, the golden lizard on him paused, A phantom made of many phantoms moved Before him haunting him, or he himself Moved haunting people, things and places, known Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill November dawns and dewy - glooming downs, The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, And the low moan of leaden-colour’d seas. Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, Tho’ faintly, merrily—far and far away— He heard the pealing of his parish bells ; Then, tho’ he knew not wherefore, started up Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle Return’d upon him, had not his poor heart Spoken with That, which being every¬ where Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone, Surely the man had died of solitude. Thus over Enoch’s early-silvering head The sunny and rainy seasons came and went Year after year. His hopes to see his own, And pace the sacred old familiar fields, Not yet had perish’d, when his lonely doom Came suddenly to an end. Another ship (She wanted water) blown by baffling winds, Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, Stay’d by this isle, not knowing where she lay: For since the mate had seen at early dawn Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle The silent waiter slipping from the hills, They sent a crew that landing burst away In search of stream or fount, and fill’d the shores With clamour. Downward from his mountain gorge Stept the long-hair’d long-bearded solitary, Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad, Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it seem’d, With inarticulate rage, and making signs They knew not what: and yet he led the way To where the rivulets of sweet water rah ; And ever as he mingled with the crew, And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue Was loosen’d, till he made them under¬ stand ; Whom, when their casks were fill’d they took aboard : And there the tale he utter’d brokenly, ENOCH ARDEN. 135 Scarce-credited at first but more and more, Amazed and melted all who listen’d to it: And clothes they gave him and free pass¬ age home ; But oft he work’d among the rest and shook His isolation from him. None of these Came from his country, or could answer him, If question’d, aught of what he cared to know. And dull the voyage was with long delays, The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but ever¬ more His fancy fled before the lazy wind Returning, till beneath a clouded moon He like a lover down thro’ all his blood Drew in the dewy meadowy morning- breath Of England, blown across her ghostly wall: And that same morning officers and men Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it: Then moving up the coast they landed him, Ev’n in that harbour whence he sail’d before. There Enoch spoke no word to any one, But homeward—home—what home ? had he a home ? His home, he walk’d. Bright was that afternoon, Sunny but chill; till drawn thro’ either chasm, Where either haven open’d on the deeps, Roll’d a sea-haze and whelm’d the world in gray; Cut off the length of highway on before, And left but narrow breadth to left and right Of wither’d holt or tilth or pasturage. On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped Disconsolate, and thro’ the dripping haze The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down : Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom ; Last, as it seem’d, a great mist-blotted light Flared on him, and he came upon the place. Then down the long street havingslowly stolen, His heart foreshadowing all calamity, His eyes upon the stones, he reach’d the home Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes In those far-off seven happy years were born; But finding neither light nor murmur there (A bill of sale gleam’d thro’ the drizzle) crept Still downward thinking ‘dead or dead to me !’ Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, A front of timber-crost antiquity, So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old, He thought it must have gone ; but he was gone Who kept it; and his widow Miriam Lane, With daily - dwindling profits held the house ; A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. There Enoch rested silent many days. But Miriam Lane was good and garru¬ lous, Nor let him be, but often breaking in, Told him, with other annals of the port, Not knowing—Enoch was so brown, so bow’d, So broken—all the story of his house. His baby’s death, her growing poverty, How Philip put her little ones to school, And kept them in it, his long wooing her, Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth Of Philip’s child : and o’er his counte¬ nance No shadow past, nor motion : any one, Regarding, well had deem’d he felt the tale Less than the teller: only when she closed ‘ Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost ’ ENOCH ARDEN 136 He, shaking his gray head pathetically, Repeated muttering ‘ cast away and lost; ’ Again in deeper inward whispers ‘ lost! ’ But Enoch yearn’d to see her face again ; ‘ If I might look on her sweet face again And know that she is happy.’ So the thought Haunted and harass’d him, and drove him forth, At evening when the dull November day Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. There he sat down gazing on all below ; There did a thousand memories roll upon him. Unspeakable for sadness. By and by The ruddy square of comfortable light, Far-blazing from the rear of Philip’s house, Allured him, as the beacomblaze allures The bird of passage, till he madly strikes Against it, and beats out his weary life. For Philip’s dwelling fronted on the street, The latest house to landward; but be¬ hind, With one small gate that open’d on the waste, Flourish’d a little garden square and wall’d : And in it throve an ancient evergreen, A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk Of shingle, and a walk divided it: But Enoch shunn’d the middle walk and stole Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence That which he better might have shunn’d, if griefs Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. For cups and silver on the burnish’d board Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth: And on the right hand of the hearth he saw Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees ; And o’er her second father stoopt a girl, A later but a loftier Annie Lee, Fair-hair’d and tall, and from her lifted hand Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring To tempt the babe, who rear’d his creasy arms, Caught at and ever miss’d it, and they laugh’d ; And on the left hand of the hearth he saw The mother glancing often toward her babe, But turning now and then to speak with him, Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. Now when the dead man come to life beheld His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe Hers, yet not his, upon the father’s knee, And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, And his own children tall and beautiful, And him, that other, reigning in his place, Lord of his rights and of his children’s love,— Then he, tho’ Miriam Lane had told him all, Because things seen are mightier than things heard, Stagger’d and shook, holding the branch and fear’d To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, Which in one moment, like the blast ol doom, Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. He therefore turning softly like a thief, Lest the harsh shingle should grate under¬ foot, And feeling all along the garden-wall, Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, ENOCH ARDEN. 137 Crept to the gate, and open’d it, and closed, As lightly as a sick man’s chamber-door, Behind him, and came out upon the waste. And there he would have knelt, but that his knees Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug His fingers into the wet earth, and pray’d. ‘ Too hard to bear ! why did they take me thence ? O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness A little longer ! aid me, give me strength Not to tell her, never to let her know. Help me not to break in upon her peace. My children too ! must I not speak to these ? They know me not. I should betray myself. Never : No father’s kiss for me—the girl So like her mother, and the boy, my son.’ There speech and thought and nature fail’d a little, And he lay tranced; but when he rose and paced Back toward his solitary home again, All down the long and narrow street he w'ent Beating it in upon his weary brain, As tho’ it were the burthen of a song, ‘ Not to tell her, never to let her know.’ He was not all unhappy. His resolve Upbore him, and firm faith, and ever¬ more Prayer from a living source within the will, And beating up thro’ all the bitter world, Like fountains of sweet water in the sea, Kept him a living soul. ‘ This miller’s wife ’ He said to Miriam ‘ that you spoke about, Has she no fear that her first husband lives ?’ ‘ Ay, ay, poor soul ’ said Miriam, ‘ fear enow ! If you could tell her you had seen him dead, Why, that would be her comfort;’ and he thought * After the Lord has call’d me she shall know, I wait His time,’ and Enoch set himself, Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. Almost to all things could he turn his hand. Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help’d At lading and unlading the tall barks, That brought the stinted commerce of those days ; Thus earn’d a scanty living for himself: Yet since he did but labour for himself, Work without hope, there was not life in it Whereby the man could live ; and as the year Roll’d itself round again to meet the day When Enoch had return’d, a languor came Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually Weakening the man, till he could do no more, But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck See thro’ the gray skirts of a lifting squall The boat that bears the hope of life approach To save the life despair’d of, than he saw Death dawning on him, and the close of all. For thro’ that dawning gleam’d a kind¬ lier hope On Enoch thinking ‘ after I am gone, Then may she learn I lov’d her to the last. ’ He call’d aloud for Miriam Lane and said ‘ Woman, I have a secret—only swear, Before I tell you—swear upon the bpok Not to reveal it, till you see me dead.’ 138 ENOCH ARDEN. ‘ Dead,’ clamour’d the good woman 1 , ‘hear him talk ! I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round. ’ ‘ Swear ’ added Enoch sternly ‘ on the book.’ And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, ‘ Did you know Enoch Arden of this town ?’ ‘ Know him ?’ she said ‘ I knew him far away. Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street ; Held his head high, and cared for no man, he.’ Slowly and sadly Enoch answer’d her ; ‘ His h£ad is low, and no man cares for him, I think I have not three days more to live; I am the man.’ At which the woman gave A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. ‘You Arden, you ! nay,—sure he was a foot Higher than you be.’ Enoch said again ‘ My God has bow’d me down to what I am ; My grief and solitude have broken me ; Nevertheless, know you that I am he Who married—but that name has twice been changed— I married her who married Philip Ray. Sit, listen.’ Then he told her of his voyage, His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, And how he kept it. As the woman heard, Fast flow’d the current of her easy tears, While in her heart she yearn’d incessantly To rush abroad all round the little haven, Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes; But awed and promise-bounden she for¬ bore, Saying only ‘ See your bairns before you go! Eh, let me fetch ’em, Arden,’ and arose Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung A moment on her words, but then replied : ‘Woman, disturb me not now at the last, But let me hold my purpose till I die. Sit down again; mark me and understand, While I have power to speak. I charge you now, When you shall see her, tell her that I died Blessing her, praying for her, loving her; Save for the bar between us, loving her As when she laid her head beside my own. And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw So like her mother, that my latest breath Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. And tell my son that I died blessing him. And say to Philip that I blest him too ; He never meant us any thing but good. But if my children care to see me dead, Who hardly knew me living, let them come, I am their father; but she must not come, For my dead face would vex her after-life. And now there is but one of all my blood Who will embrace me in the world-to-be: This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it, And I have borne it with me all these years. And thought to bear it with me to my grave ; . But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him, My babe in bliss: wherefore when I am gone, Take, give her this, for it may comfort her : It will moreover be a token to her, That I am he.’ He ceased; and Miriam Lane Made such a voluble answer promising all, That once again he roll’d his eyes upon her Repeating all he wish’d, and once again She promised. Then the third night after this, While Enoch slumber’d motionless and pale, And Miriam watch’d and dozed at inter¬ vals, THE BROOK. 139 There came so loud a calling of the sea, That all the houses in the haven rang. He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad Crying with a loud voice ‘A sail! a sail! I am saved and so fell back and spoke no more. So past the strong heroic soul away. And when they buried him the little port Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. THE BROOK. Here, by this brook, we parted; I to the East And he for Italy—too late—too late : One whom the strong sons of the world despise; For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and share, And mellow metres more than cent for cent; Nor could he understand how money breeds, Thought it a dead thing; yet himself could make The thing that is not as the thing that is. O had he lived ! In our schoolbooks we say, Of those that held their heads above the crowd, They flourish’d then or then ; but life in him Could scarce be said to flourish, only touch’d On such a time as goes before the leaf, When all the wood stands in a mist of green, And nothing perfect : yet the brook he loved, For which, in branding summers of Bengal, Or ev’n the sweet half-English Neilgherry air I panted, seems, as I re-listen to it, Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy, To me that loved him ; for ‘ O brook,’ he says, ‘ O babbling brook,’ says Edmund in his rhyme, ‘ Whence come you?’ and the brook, why not? replies. I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally. And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town. And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip’s farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. ‘ Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out, Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley bridge, It has more ivy; there the river; and there Stands Philip’s farm where brook and river meet. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join tjhe brimming river, For men may come and men may go. But I go on for ever. ‘ But. Philip chatter’d more than brook or bird; Old Philip ; all about the fields you caught His weary daylong chirping, like the dry High-elbow’d grigs that leap in summer grass. I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, 140 THE BROOK. And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. ‘ O darling Katie Willows, his one , child! A maiden of our century, yet most meek ; A daughter of our meadows, yet not coarse; Straight, but as lissome as a hazel wand ; Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell Divides threefold to show the fruit within. ‘ Sweet Katie, once I did her a good turn, Her and her far-off cousin and betrothed, James Willows, of one name and heart with her. For here I came, twenty years back—the week Before I parted with poor Edmund ; crost By that old bridge which, half in ruins then, Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam Beyondit, where the waters marry—crost, Whistling a random bar of Bonny Doon, And push’d at Philip’s garden-gate. The gate, Half-parted from a weak and scolding hinge, Stuck; and he clamour’d from a case¬ ment, “Run” To Katie somewhere in the walks below, “ Run, Katie! ” Katie never ran : she moved To meet me, winding under woodbine bowers, A little flutter’d, with her eyelids down, Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a boon. ‘ What was it ? less of sentiment than sense Had Katie ; not illiterate ; nor of those Who dabbling in the fount of Active tears, And nursed by mealy-mouth’d philan¬ thropies, Divorce the Feeling from her mate the Deed. ‘ She told me. She and James had quarrell’d. Why ? What cause of quarrel ? None, she said, no cause; James had no cause: but when I prest the cause, I learnt that James had flickering jea¬ lousies Which anger’d her. Who anger’d James ? I said. But Katie snatch’d her eyes at once from mine, And sketching with her slender pointed foot Some figure like a wizard pentagram On garden gravel, let my query pass Unclaim’d, in flushing silence, till I ask’d If James were coming. “ Coming every day,” She answer’d, “ever longing to explain, But evermore her father came across With some long-winded tale, and broke him short; And James departed vext with him and her.” How could I help her ? “ Would I—was it wrong ? ” (Claspt hands and that petitionary grace Of sweet seventeen subdued me ere she spoke) “ O would I take her father for one hour, For one half-hour, and let him talk to me! ” And even while she spoke, I saw where James Made toward us, like a wader in the surf, Beyond the brook, waist-deep in meadow¬ sweet. ‘ O Katie, what I suffer’d for your sake ! For in I went, and call’d old Philip out To show the farm : full willingly he rose : He led me thro’ the short sweet-smelling lanes Of his wheat-suburb, babbling as he went. He praised his land, his horses, his machines ; He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, his dogs ; He praised his hens, his geese, his guinea- hens ; THE BROOK. His pigeons, who in session on their roofs Approved him, bowing at their own deserts: Then from the plaintive mother’s teat he took Her blind and shuddering puppies, naming each, And naming those, his friends, for whom they were : Then crost the common into Darnley chase To show Sir Arthur’s deer. In copse and fern Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech, He pointed out a pasturing colt, and said: “That was the four-year-old I sold the Squire.” And there he told a long long-winded tale Of how the Squire had seen the colt at grass, And how it was the thing his daughter wish’d, And how he sent the bailiff to the farm To learn the price, and what the price he ask’d, And how the bailiff swore that he was mad, But he stood firm ; and so the matter hung; He gave them line : and five days after that He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece, Who then and there had offer’d something more, But he stood firm ; and so the matter hung; He knew the man ; the colt would fetch its price ; He gave them line : and how by chance at last (It might be May or April, he forgot, The last of April or the first of May) He found the bailiff riding by the farm, And, talking from the point, he drew him in, And there he mellow’d all his heart with ale, Until they closed a bargain, hand in hand. 141 ‘ Then, while I breathed in sight of haven, he, Poor fellow, could he help it? recom¬ menced, And ran thro’ all the coltish chronicle, Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantivy, Tallyho, Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the Jilt, Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the rest, Till, not to die a listener, I arose, And with me Philip, talking still; and so We turn’d our foreheads from the falling sun, And following our own shadows thrice as long As when they follow’d us from Philip’s door, Arrived, and found the sun of sweet con¬ tent Re-risen in Katie’s eyes, and all things well. I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows ; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars ; I loiter round my cresses ; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. Yes, men may come and go; and these are gone, All gone. My dearest brother, Edmund, sleeps, Not by the well-known stream and rustic spire, But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome Of Brunelleschi; sleeps in peace : and he, Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of words Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb : 142 A ylmer's FIELD. I scraped the lichen from it: Katie walks By the long wash of Australasian seas Far off, and holds her head to other stars, And breathes in converse seasons. All are gone.’ So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a stile In the long hedge, and rolling in his mind Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o’er the brook A tonsured head in middle age forlorn, Mused, and was mute. On a sudden a low breath Of tender air made tremble in the hedge The fragile bindweed - bells and briony rings; And he look’d up. There stood a maiden near, Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell Divides threefold to show the fruit with¬ in : Then, wondering, ask’d her ‘Are you from the farm?’ ‘ Yes ’ answer’d she. ‘ Pray stay a little : pardon me; What do they call you ? ’ ‘ Katie. ’ ‘ That were strange. What surname?’ ‘Willows.’ ‘No!’ ‘ That is my name.’ ‘ Indeed ! ’ and here he look’d so self- perplext, That Katie laugh’d, and laughing blush’d, till he Laugh’d also, but as one before he wakes, Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his dream. Then looking at her ; ‘Too happy, fresh and fair, Too fresh and fair in our sad world’s best bloom. To be the ghost of one who bore your name About these meadows, twenty years ago.’ ‘Have you not heard?’ said Katie, ‘ we came back. We bought the farm we tenanted before. Am I so like her ? so they said on board. Sir, if you knew her in her English days, My mother, as it seems you did, the days That most she loves to talk of, come with me. My brother James is in the harvest-field : But she—you will be welcome—O, come in !’ AYLMER’S FIELD. 1793. Dust are our frames ; and, gilded dust, our pride Looks only for a moment whole and sound; Like that long-buried body of the king, Found lying with his urns and ornaments, Which at a touch of light, an air of heaven, Slipt into ashes, and was found no more. Here is a stoiy which in rougher shape Came from a grizzled cripple, whom I saw Sunning himself in a waste field alone— Old, and a mine of memories—who had served, Long since, a bygone Rector of the place, And been himself a part of what he told. Sir Aylmer Aylmer, that almighty man, The county God—in whose capacious hall, Hung with a hundred shields, the family tree Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate king— Whose blazing wy vern weathercock’d the spire, Stood from his walls and wing’d his entry- gates And swang besides on many a windy sign— Whose eyes from under a pyramidal head A ylmer's field. 143 Saw from his windows nothing save his own— What lovelier of his own had he than her, His only child, his Edith, whom he loved As heiress and not heir regretfully ? But ‘he that marries her marries her name ’ This fiat somewhat soothed himself and wife, His wife a faded beauty of the Baths, Insipid as the Queen upon a card ; Her all of thought and bearing hardly more Than his own shadow in a sickly sun. A land of hops and poppy - mingled corn, Little about it stirring save a brook ! A sleepy land, where under the same wheel The same old rut would deepen year by year; Where almost all the village had one name; Where Aylmer followed Aylmer at the Hall And Averill Averill at the Rectory Thrice over; so that Rectory and Hall, Bound in an immemorial intimacy, Were open to each other; tho’ to dream That Love could bind them closer well had made The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle up With horror, worse than had he heard his priest Preach an inverted scripture, sons of men Daughters of God; so sleepy was the land. And might not Averill, had he will’d it so, Somewhere beneath his own low range of roofs, Have also set his many-shielded tree ? There was an Aylmer-Averill marriage once. When the red rose was redder than itself, And York’s white rose as red as Lancas¬ ter’s, With wounded peace which each had prick’d to death. ‘Not proven’ Averill said, or laughingly ‘Some other race of Averills ’—prov’n or no, What cared he? what, if other or the same ? He lean’d not on his fathers but himself. But Leolin, his brother, living oft With Averill, and a year or two before Call’d to the bar, but ever call’d away By one low voice to one dear neighbour¬ hood, Would often, in his walks with Edith, claim A distant kinship to the gracious blood That shook the heart of Edith hearing him. Sanguine he was : a but less vivid hue Than of that islet in the chestnut-bloom Flamed in his cheek ; and eager eyes, that still Took joyful note of all things joyful, beam’d, Beneath a manelike mass of rolling gold, Their best and brightest, when they dwelt on hers, Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect else, But subject to the season or the mood, Shone like a mystic star between the less And greater glory varying to and fro, We know not wherefore; bounteously made, And yet so finely, that a troublous touch Thinn’d, or would seem to thin her in a day, A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. And these had been together from the first. Leolin’s first nurse was, five years after, hers : So much the boy foreran ; but when his date Doubled her own, for want of playmates, he (Since Averill was a decad and a half His elder, and their parents underground) Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and roll’d 144 A YLMER'S FIELD. His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her dipt Against the rush of the air in the prone swing, Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, ar¬ ranged Her garden, sow’d her name and kept it green In living letters, told her fairy-tales, Show’d her the fairy footings on the grass, The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms, The petty marestail forest, fairy pines, Or from the tiny pitted target blew What look’d a flight of fairy arrows aim’d All at one mark, all hitting: make-be¬ lieves For Edith and himself: or else he forged, But that was later, boyish histories Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, wreck, Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true love Crown’d after trial; sketches rude and faint, But where a passion yet unborn perhaps Lay hidden as the music of the moon Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale. And thus together, save for college-times Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair As ever painter painted, poet sang, Or Heaven in lavish bounty moulded, grew. And more and more, the maiden woman- grown, He wasted hours with Averill ; there, when first The tented winter-field was broken up Into that phalanx of the summer spears That soon should wear the garland ; there again When burr and bine were gather’d; lastly there At Christmas ; ever welcome at the Hall, On whose dull sameness his full tide of youth Broke with a phosphorescence charming even My lady ; and the Baronet yet had laid No bar between them: dull and self- involved, Tall and erect, but bending from his height With half - allowing smiles for all the world, And mighty courteous in the main—his pride Lay deeper than to wear it as his ring— He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism, Would care no more for Leolin’s walking with her Than for his old Newfoundland’s, when they ran To loose him at the stables, for he rose Twofooted at the limit of his chain, Roaring to make a third : and how should Love, Whom the cross-lightnings of four chance- met eyes Flash into fiery life from nothing, follow Such dear familiarities of dawn ? Seldom, but when he does, Master of all. So these young hearts not knowing that they loved, Not she at least, nor conscious of a bar Between them, nor by plight or broken ring Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, Wander’d at will, and oft accompanied By Averill: his, a brother’s love, that hung With wings of brooding shelter o’er her peace, Might have been other, save for Leolin’s— Who knows ? but so they wander’d, hour by hour Gather’d the blossom that rebloom’d, and drank The magic cup that fill’d itself anew. A whisper half reveal’d her to herself. For out beyond her lodges, where the brook Vocal, with here and there a silence, ran By sallowy rims, arose the labourers’ homes, A frequent haunt of Edith, on low knolls That dimpling died into each other, huts At random scatter’d, each a nest in bloom. aylmer's field. 145 Her art, her hand, her counsel all had wrought About them : here was one that, summet- blanch’d, Was parcel-bearded with the traveller’s- joy In Autumn, parcel ivy-clad ; and here The warm-blue breathings of a hidden hearth Broke from a bower of vine and honey¬ suckle : One look’d all rosetree, and another wore A close-set robe of jasmine sown with stars: This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers About it ; this, a milky-way on earth, Like visions in the Northern dreamer’s heavens, A lily-avenue climbing to the doors ; One, almost to the martin-haunted eaves A summer burial deep in hollyhocks ; Each, its own charm ; and Edith’s every¬ where ; And Edith ever visitant with him, He but less loved than Edith, of her poor: For she—so lowly-lovely and so loving, Queenly responsive when the loyal hand Rose from the clay it work’d in as she past, Not sowing hedgerow texts and passing by, Nor dealing goodly counsel from a height That makes the lowest hate it, but a voice Of comfort and an open hand of help, A splendid presence flattering the poor roofs Revered as theirs, but kindlier than them¬ selves To ailing wife or wailing infancy Or old bedridden palsy,—was adored ; He, loved for her and for himself. A grasp Having the warmth and muscle of the heart, A childly way with children, and a laugh Ringing like proven golden coinage true, Were no false passport to that easy realm, Where once with Leolin at her side the girl, Nursing a child, and turning to the warmth The tender pink five-beaded baby-soles, Heard the good mother softly whisper ‘ Bless, God bless ’em : marriages are made in Heaven.’ A flash of semi-jealousy clear’d it to her. My lady’s Indian kinsman unannounced With half a score of swarthy faces came. His own, tho’ keen and bold and soldierly, Sear’d by the close ecliptic, was not fair ; Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled the hour, Tho’ seeming boastful: so when first he dash’d Into the chronicle of a deedful day, Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile Of patron ‘ Good ! my lady’s kinsman ! good !’ My lady with her fingers interlock’d, And rotatory thumbs on silken knees. Call’d all her vital spirits into each ear To listen : unawares they flitted off, Busying themselves about the flowerage That stood from out a stiff brocade in which, The meteor of a splendid season, she, Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago, Stept thro’ the stately minuet of those days : But Edith’s eager fancy hurried with him Snatch’d thro’ the perilous passes of his life: Till Leolin ever watchful of her eye, Hated him with a momentary hate. Wife-hunting, as the rumour ran, was he : I know not, for he spoke not, only shower’d His oriental gifts on everyone And most on Edith : like a storm he came, And shook the house, and like a storm he went. Among the gifts he left her (possibly He flow’d and ebb’d uncertain, to return L 146 Aylmer's field. When others had been tested) there was one, A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels on it Sprinkled about in gold that branch’d itself . Fine as ice-ferns on January panes Made by a breath. I know not whence at first, Nor of what race, the work; but as he told The story, storming a hill-fort of thieves He got it; for their captain after fight, His comrades having fought their last below, Was climbing up the valley; at whom he shot : Down from the beetling crag to which he clung Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet, This dagger with him, which when now admired By Edith whom his pleasure was to please, At once the costly Sahib yielded to her. And Leolin, coming after he was gone, Tost over all her presents petulantly: And when she show’d the wealthy scab¬ bard, saying ‘ Look what a lovely piece of workman¬ ship ! ’ Slight was his answer ‘Well—I care not for it: ’ Then playing with the blade he prick’d his hand, ‘ A gracious gift to give a lady, this ! ’ ‘ But would it be more gracious ’ ask’d the girl ‘Were I to give this gift of his to one That is no lady ?’ ‘Gracious? No’saidhe. ‘ Me ?—but I cared not for it. O pardon me, I seem to be ungraciousness itself.’ ‘ Take it ’ she added sweetly, ‘ tho’ his gift; For I am more ungracious ev’n than you, I care not for it either ; ’ and he said ‘ Why then I love it: ’ but Sir Aylmer past, And neither loved nor liked the thing he heard. The next day came a neighbour. Blues and reds They talk’d of: blues were sure of it, he thought: Then of the latest fox—where started— kill’d In such a bottom : ‘ Peter had the brush, My Peter, first: ’ and did Sir Aylmer know That great pock-pitten fellow had been caught ? Then made his pleasure echo, hand to hand, And rolling as it were the substance of it Between his palms a moment up and down— ‘ The birds were warm, the birds were warm upon him; We have him now : ’ and had Sir Aylmer heard— Nay, but he must—the land was ringing of it— This blacksmith border - marriage—one they knew— Raw from the nursery—who could trust a child ? That cursed France with her egalities ! And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially With nearing chair and lower’d accent) think— For people talk’d—that it was wholly wise To let that handsome fellow Averill walk So freely with his daughter ? people talk’d— The boy might get a notion into him ; The girl might be entangled ere she knew. Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stiffening spoke : ‘ The girl and boy, Sir, know their differ¬ ences ! ’ ‘ Good,’ said his friend, ‘ but watch ! ’ and he, ‘ Enough, More than enough, Sir ! I can guard my own.’ They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer watch’d. Pale, for on her the thunders of the house Had fallen first, was Edith that same night; A ylmer's field. 147 Pale as the Jephtha’s daughter, a rough piece Of early rigid colour, under which Withdrawing by the counter door to that Which Leolin open’d, she cast back upon him A piteous glance, and vanish’d. He, as one Caught in a burst of unexpected storm, And pelted with outrageous epithets, Turning beheld the Powers of the House On either side the hearth, indignant; her, Cooling her false cheek with a featherfan, Him, glaring, by his own stale devil spurr’d, And, like a beast hard-ridden, breathing hard. ‘ Ungenerous, dishonourable, base, Presumptuous ! trusted as he was with her, The sole succeeder to their wealth, their lands, The last remaining pillar of their house, The one transmitter of their ancient name, Their child.’ ‘Our child!’ ‘Our heiress ! ’ ‘ Ours ! ’ for still, Like echoes from beyond a hollow, came Her sicklier iteration. Last he said, ‘ Boy, mark me ! for your fortunes are to make. I swear you shall not make them out of mine. Now inasmuch as you have practised on her, Perplext her, made her half forget herself, Swerve from her duty to herself and us— Things in an Aylmer deem’d impossible, Far as we track ourselves—I say that this— Else I withdraw favour and countenance From you and yours for ever—shall you do. Sir, when you see her—but you shall not see her— No, you shall write, and not to her, but me: And you shall say that having spoken with me, And after look’d into yourself, you find That you meant nothing—as indeed you know That you meant nothing. Such a match as this ! Impossible, prodigious ! ’ These were words, As meted by his measure of himself, Arguing boundless forbearance : after which, And Leolin’s horror-stricken answer, ‘ I So foul a traitor to myself and her, Never oh never,’ for about as long As the wind-hover hangs in balance, paused Sir Aylmer reddening from the storm within, Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and crying ‘ Boy, should I find you by my doors again, My men shall lash you from them like a dog ; Hence ! ’ with a sudden execration drove The footstool from before him, and arose; So, stammering ‘ scoundrel ’ out of teeth that ground As in a dreadful dream, wdiile Leolin still Retreated half-aghast, the fierce old man Follow’d, and under his own lintel stood Storming with lifted hands, a hoary face Meet for the reverence of the hearth, but now, Beneath a pale and unimpassion’d moon, Vext with unworthy madness, and de¬ form’d. Slowly and conscious of the rageful eye That watch’d him, till he heard the ponderous door Close, crashing with long echoes thro’ the land, Went Leolin; then, his passions all in flood And masters of his motion, furiously Down thro’ the bright lawns to his brother’s ran, And foam’d away his heart at Averill’s ear : Whom Averill solaced as he might, amazed : 148 A YLMEF’S FIELD. The man was his, had been his father’s, friend : He must have seen, himself had seen it long; He must have known, himself had known : besides, He never yet had set his daughter forth Here in the woman-markets of the west, Where our Caucasians let themselves be sold. Some one, he thought, had slander’d Leolin to him. ‘ Brother, for I have loved you more as son Than brother, let me tell you: I myself— What is their pretty saying ? jilted, is it ? Jilted I was : I say it for your peace. Pain’d, and, as bearing in myself the shame The woman should have borne, humili¬ ated, I lived for years a stunted sunless life ; Till after our good parents past away Watching your growth, I seem’d again to grow. Leolin, I almost sin in envying you : The very whitest lamb in all my fold Loves you : I know her: the worst thought she has Is whiter even than her pretty hand : She must prove true : for, brother, where two fight The strongest wins, and truth and love are strength, And you are happy: let her parents be.’ But Leolin cried out the more upon them— Insolent, brainless, heartless ! heiress, wealth, Their wealth, their heiress ! wealth enough was theirs For twenty matches. Were he lord of this, Why twenty boys and girls should marry on it, And forty blest ones bless him, and him¬ self Be wealthy still, ay wealthier. He be¬ lieved This filthy marriage-hindering Mammon made . The harlot of the cities : nature crost Was mother of the foul adulteries That saturate soul with body. Name, too ! name, Their ancient name ! they might be proud ; its worth Was being Edith’s. Ah how pale she had look’d Darling, to-night! they must have rated her Beyond all tolerance. These old pheasant- lords, These partridge - breeders of a thousand years, Who had mildew’d in their thousands, doing nothing Since Egbert—why, the greater their disgrace ! Fall back upon a name! rest, rot in that! Not keep it noble, make it nobler ? fools, With such a vantage-ground for nobleness! He had known a man, a quintessence of man, The life of all—who madly loved—and he, Thwarted by one of these old father-fools, Had rioted his life out, and made an end. He would not do it ! her sweet face and faith Held him from that: but he had powers, he knew it: Back would he to his studies, make a name, Name, fortune too: the world should ring of him To shame these mouldy Aylmers in their graves: Chancellor, or what is greatest would he be— ‘ O brother, I am grieved to learn your grief— Give me my fling, and let me say my say. ’ At which, like one that sees his own excess, And easily forgives it as his own, He laugh’d; and then was mute; but presently Wept like a storm : and honest Averill seeing A ylmer's field. 149 How low his brother’s mood had fallen, fetch’d His richest beeswing from a binn reserved For banquets, praised the waning red, and told The vintage—when this Aylmer came of age— Then drank and past it; till at length the two, Tho’ Leolin flamed and fell again, agreed That much allowance must be made for men. After an angry dream this kindlier glow Faded with morning, but his purpose held. Yet once by night again the lovers met, A perilous meeting under the tall pines That darken’d all the northward of her Hall. Him, to her meek and modest bosom prest In agony, she promised that no force, Persuasion, no, nor death could alter her: He, passionately hopefuller, would go, Labour for his own Edith, and return In such a sunlight of prosperity He should not be rejected. ‘ Write to me ! They loved me, and because I love their child They hate me : there is war between us, dear, Which breaks all bonds but ours ; we must remain Sacred to one another.’ So they talk’d, Poor children, for their comfort: the wind blew; The rain of heaven, and their own bitter tears, Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, mixt Upon their faces, as they kiss’d each other In darkness, and above them roar’d the pine. So Leolin went; and as we task our¬ selves To learn a language known but smatter- ingly In phrases here and there at random, toil’d Mastering the lawless science of our law. That codeless myriad of precedent, That wilderness of single instances, Thro’ which a few, by wit or fortune led, May beat a pathway out to wealth and fame. The jests, that flash’d about the pleader’s room, Lightning of the hour, the pun, the scurrilous tale,— Old scandals buried now seven decadsdeep In other scandals that have lived and died, And left the living scandal that shall die— Were dead to him already; bent as he was To make disproof of scorn, and strong in hopes, And prodigal of all brain-labour he, Charier of sleep, and wine, and exercise, Except when for a breathing-while at eve, Some niggard fraction of an hour, he ran Beside the river-bank : and then indeed Harder the times were, and the hands of power Were bloodier, and the according hearts of men Seem’d harder too; but the soft river- breeze, Which fann’d the gardens of that rival rose Yet fragrant in a heart remembering His former talks with Edith, on him breathed Far purelier in his rushings to and fro, After his books, to flush his blood with air, Then to his books again. My lady’s cousin, Half-sickening of his pension’d afternoon, Drove in upon the student once or twice, Ran a Malayan amuck against the times, Had golden hopes for France and all mankind, Answer’d all queries touching those at home With a heaved shoulder and a saucy smile, And fain had haled him out into the world, And air’d him there : his nearer friend would say ‘ Screw not the chord too sharply lest it snap.’ AYLMER'S FIELD. ISO Then left alone he pluck’d her dagger forth From where his worldless heart had kept it warm, Kissing his vows upon it like a knight. And wrinkled benchers often talk’d of him Approvingly, and prophesied his rise : For heart, I think, help’d head: her letters too, Tho’ far between, and coming fitfully Like broken music, written as she found Or made occasion, being strictly watch’d, Charm’d him thro’ every labyrinth till he saw An end, a hope, a light breaking upon him. But they that cast her spirit into flesh, Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued them¬ selves To sell her, those good parents, for her good. Whatever eldest-born of rank or wealth Might lie within their compass, him they lured Into their net made pleasant by the baits Of gold and beauty, wooing him to woo. So month by month the noise about their doors, And distant blaze of those dull banquets, made The nightly wirer of their innocent hare Falter before he took it. All in vain. Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, retum’d Leolin’s rejected rivals from their suit So often, that the folly taking wings Slipt o’er those lazy limits down the wind With rumour, and became in other fields A mockery to the yeomen over ale, And laughter to their lords : but those at home, As hunters round a hunted creature draw The cordon close and closer toward the death, Narrow’d her goings out and comings in ; Forbad her first the house of Averill, Then closed her access to the wealthier farms, Last from her own home-circle of the poor They barr’d her : yet she bore it: yet her cheek Kept colour: wondrous ! but, O mystery! What amulet drew her down to that old oak, So old, that twenty years before, a part Falling had let appear the brand of John— Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, but now The broken base of a black tower, a cave Of touchwood, with a single flourishing spray. There the manorial lord too curiously Raking in that millennial touchwood-dust Found for himself a bitter treasure-trove ; Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and read Writhing a letter from his child, for which Came at the moment Leolin’s emissary, A crippled lad, and coming turn’d to fly, But scared with threats of jail and halter gave To him that fluster’d his poor parish wits The letter which he brought, and swore besides To play their go-between as heretofore Nor let them know themselves betray’d ; and then, Soul - stricken at their kindness to him, went Hating his own lean heart and miserable. Thenceforward oft from out a despot dream The father panting woke, and oft, as dawn Aroused the black republic on his elms, Sweeping the frothfly from the fescue brush’d Thro’ the dim meadow toward his treasure-trove, Seized it, took home, and to my lady,— who made A downward crescent of her minion mouth, Listless in all despondence,—read ; and tore, As if the living passion symbol’d there Were living nerves to feel the rent ; and burnt, Now chafing at his own great self defied, Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks of scorn a ylmer’s field. In babyisms, and dear diminutives Scatter’d all over the vocabulary Of such a love as like a chidden child, After much wailing, hush’d itself at last Hopeless of answer: then tho’ Averill wrote And bad him with good heart sustain himself— All would be well—the lover heeded not, But passionately restless came and went, And rustling once at night about the place, There by a keeper shot at, slightly hurt, Raging return’d : nor was it well for her Kept to the garden now, and grove of pines, Watch’d even there; and one was set to watch The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch’d them all, Yet bitterer from his readings: once indeed, Warm’d with his wines, or taking pride in her, She look’d so sweet, he kiss’d her tenderly Not knowing what possess’d him: that one kiss Was Leolin’s one strong rival upon earth ; Seconded, for my lady follow’d suit, Seem’d hope’s returning rose: and then ensued A Martin’s summer of his faded love, Or ordeal by kindness ; after this He seldom crost his child without a sneer ; The mother flow’d in shallower acrimo¬ nies : Never one kindly smile, one kindly word : So that the gentle creature shut from all Her charitable use, and face to face With twenty months of silence, slowly lost Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on life. Last, some low fever ranging round to spy The weakness of a people or a house, Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, or men, Or almost all that is, hurting the hurt— Save Christ as we believe him—found the girl And flung her down upon a couch of fire, Where careless of the household faces near, And crying upon the name of Leolin, She, and with her the race of Aylmer, past. 151 Star to star vibrates light: may soul to soul Strike thro’ a finer element of her own ? So,—from afar,—touch as at once? or why That night, that moment, when she named his name, Did the keen shriek ‘Yes love, yes, Edith, yes,’ Shrill, till the comrade of his chambers woke, And came upon him half-arisen from sleep, With a weird bright eye, sweating and trembling, His hair as it were crackling into flames, His body half Sung forward in pursuit, And his long arms stretch’d as to grasp a flyer: Nor knew he wherefore he had made the cry ; And being much befool’d and idioted By the rough amity of the other, sank As into sleep again. The second day, My lady’s Indian kinsman rushing in, A breaker of the bitter news from home, Found a dead man, a letter edged with death Beside him, and the dagger which himself Gave Edith, redden’d with no bandit’s blood : ‘ From Edith’ was engraven on the blade. Then Averill went and gazed upon his death. And when he came again, his flock be¬ lieved— Beholding how the years which are not Time’s Had blasted him—that many thousand days Were dipt by horror from his term of life. Yet the sad mother, for the second death Scarce touch’d her thro’ that nearness of the first, And being used to find her pastor texts, Sent to the harrow’d brother, praying him To speak before the people of her child, And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that day rose : 152 A YLMER'S FIELD. Autumn’s mock sunshine of the faded woods Was all the life of it; for hard on these, A breathless burthen of low-folded heavens Stifled and chill’d at once; but every roof Sent out a listener: many too had known Edith among the hamlets round, and since The parents’ harshness and the hapless loves And double death were widely murmur’d, left Their own gray tower, or plain-faced tabernacle, To hear him ; all in mourning these, and those With blots of it about them, ribbon, glove Or kerchief; while the church,—one night, except For greenish glimmerings thro’ the lancets, —made Still paler the pale head of him, who tower’d Above them, with his hopes in either grave. Long o’er his bent brows linger’d Averill, His face magnetic to the hand from which Livid he pluck’d it forth, and labour’d thro’ His brief prayer-prelude, gave the verse * Behold, Your house is left unto you desolate !’ But lapsed into so long a pause again As half amazed half frighted all his flock : Then from his height and loneliness of grief Bore down in flood, and dash’d his angry heart Against the desolations of the world. Never since our bad earth became one sea, Which rolling o’er the palaces of the proud, And all but those who knew the living God- Eight that were left to make a purer world— When since had flood, fire, earthquake, thunder, wrought Such waste and havock as the idolatries, Which from the low light of mortality Shot up their shadows to the Heaven of Heavens, And worshipt their own darkness in the Highest ? ‘ Gash thyself, priest, and honour thy brute Baal, And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself, For with thy w r orst self hast thou clothe^ thy God. Then came a Lord in no wise like to Baal. The babe shall lead the lion. Surely now The wilderness shall blossom as the rose. Crown thyself, worm, and worship thine own lusts !— No coarse and blockish God of acreage Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel to— Thy God is far diffused in noble groves And princely halls, and farms, and flowing lawns, And heaps of living gold that daily grow. And title-scrolls and gorgeous heraldries. In such a shape dost thou behold thy God. Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for him ; for thine Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair Ruffled upon the scarfskin, even while The deathless ruler of thy dying house Is wounded to the death that cannot die ; And tho’ thounumberest with the followers Of One who cried, “Leave all and follow me.” • Thee therefore with His light about thy feet, Thee with His message ringing in thine ears, Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord from Heaven, Born of a village girl, carpenter’s son, Wonderful, Prince of peace, the Mighty God, Count the more base idolater of the two; Crueller : as not passing thro’ the fire Bodies, but souls—thy children’s—thro’ the smoke. A ylmer's field. 153 The blight of low desires—darkening thine own To thine own likeness ; or if one of these, Thy better born unhappily from thee, Should, as by miracle, grow straight and fair— Friends, I was bid to speak of such a one By those who most have cause to sorrow for her— Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well, Fairer than Ruth among the fields of corn, Fair as the Angel that said “ Hail!” she seem’d, Who entering fill’d the house with sudden light. For so mine own was brighten’d: where indeed The roof so lowly but that beam of Heaven Dawn’d sometime thro’ the doorway ? whose the babe Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, Warm’d at her bosom ? The poor child of shame The common care whom no one cared for, leapt To greet her, wasting his forgotten heart, As with the mother he had never known, In gambols; for her fresh and innocent eyes Had such a star of morning in their blue, That all neglected places of the field Broke into nature’s music when they saw her. Low was her voice, but won mysterious way Thro’ the seal’d ear to which a louder one Was all but silence—free of alms her hand— The hand that robed your cottage-walls with flowers Has often toil’d to clothe your little ones ; How often placed upon the sick Alan’s brow Cool’d it, or laid his feverous pillow smooth ! Had you one sorrow and she shared it not ? One burthen and she would not lighten it ? One spiritual doubt she did not soothe ? Or when some heat of difference sparkled out, How sweetly would she glide between your wraths, And steal you from each other ! for she walk’d Wearing the light yoke of that Lord of love, Who still’d the rolling wave of Galilee ! And one — of him I was not bid to speak— Was always with her, whom you also knew. Him too you loved, for he was worthy love. And these had been together from the first; They might have been together till the last. Friends, this frail bark of ours, when sorely tried, May wreck itself without the pilot’s guilt, Without the captain’s knowledge: hope with me. Whose shame is that, if he went hence with shame ? Nor mine the fault, if losing both of these I cry to vacant chairs and widow’d walls, “ My house is left unto me desolate.” ’ While thus he spoke, his hearers wept; but some, Sons of the glebe, with other frowns than those That knit themselves for summer shadow, scowl’d At their great lord. He, when it seem’d he saw No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, but fork’d Of the near storm, and aiming at his head, Sat anger-charm’d from sorrow, soldier¬ like. Erect: but when the preacher’s cadence flow’d Softening thro’ all the gentle attributes Of his lost child, the wife, who watch’d his face, 154 aylmer's field. Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron mouth; And ‘ O pray God that he hold up ’ she thought ‘ Or surely I shall shame myself and him. ’ ‘ Nor yours the blame—for who beside your hearths Can take her place—if echoing me you cry “ Our house is left unto us desolate ”? But thou, O thou that killest, hadst thou known, O thou that stonest, hadst thou under¬ stood The things belonging to thy peace and ours ! Is there no prophet but the voice that calls Doom upon kings, or in the waste “ Re¬ pent ’’? Is not our own child on the narrow way, Who down to those that saunter in the broad Cries “ Come up hither,” as a prophet to us? Is there no stoning save with flint and rock ? Yes, as the dead we weep for testify— No desolation but by sword and fire ? Yes, as your moanings witness, and my¬ self Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for my loss. Give me your prayers, for he is past your prayers, Not past the living fount of pity in Heaven. But I that thought myself long-suffering, meek, Exceeding “poor in spirit”—how the words Have twisted back upon themselves, and mean Vileness, we are grown so proud — I wish’d my voice A rushing tempest of the wrath of God To blow these sacrifices thro’ the world— Sent like the twelve-divided concubine To inflame the tribes: but there—out yonder—earth Lightens from her own central Hell—O there The red fruit of an old idolatry— The heads of chiefs and princes fall so fast, They cling together in the ghastly sack— The land all shambles—naked marriages Flash from the bridge, and ever-murder’d France, By shores that darken with the gathering wolf, Runs in a river of blood to the sick sea. Is this a time to madden madness then ? Was this a time for these to flaunt their pride ? May Pharaoh’s darkness, folds as dense as those Which hid the Holiest from the people’s eyes Ere the great death, shroud this great sin from all ! Doubtless our narrow world must canvass it : O rather pray for those and pity them, Who, thro’ their own desire accomplish’d, bring Their own gray hairs with sorrow to the grave— Who broke the bond which they desired to break, Which else had link’d their race with times to come— Who wove coarse webs to snare her purity, Grossly contriving their dear daughter’s good— Poor souls, and knew not what they did, but sat Ignorant, devising their own daughter’s death ! May not that earthly chastisement suffice ? Have not our love and reverence left them bare ? Will* not another take their heritage ? Will there be children’s laughter in their hall For ever and for ever, or one stone Left on another, or is it a light thing That I, their guest, their host, their ancient friend, AYLMER'S FIELD . 155 I made by these the last of all my race, Must cry to these the last of theirs, as cried Christ ere His agony to those that swore Not by the temple but the gold, and made Their own traditions God, and slew the Lord, And left their memories a world’s curse— “ Behold, Your house is left unto you desolate ”?’ Ended he had not, but she brook’d no more: Long since her heart had beat remorse- ’ lessly, Her crampt-up sorrow pain’d her, and a sense Of meanness in her unresisting life. Then their eyes vext her ; for on entering He had cast the curtains of their seat aside— Black velvet of the costliest—she herself Had seen to that: fain had she closed them now, Yet dared not stir to do it, only near’d Her husband inch by inch, but when she laid, Wifelike, her hand in one of his, he veil’d His face with the other, and at once, as falls A creeper when the prop is broken, fell The woman shrieking at his feet, and swoon’d. Then her own people bore along the nave Her pendent hands, and narrow meagre face Seam’d with the shallow cares of fifty years: And her the Lord of all the landscape round Ev’n to its last horizon, and of all Who peer’d at him so keenly, follow’d out Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle Reel’d, as a footsore ox in crowded ways Stumbling across the market to his death, Unpitied ; for he groped as blind, and seem’d Always about to fall, grasping the pews And oaken finials till he touch’d the door; Yet to the lychgate, where his chariot stood, Strode from the porch, tall and erect again. But nevermore did either pass the gate Save under pall with bearers. In one month, Thro’ weary and yet ever wearier hours, The childless mother went to seek her child ; And when he felt the silence of his house About him, and the change and not the change, And those fixt eyes of painted ancestors Staring for ever from their gilded walls On him their last descendant, his own head Began to droop, to fall; the man became Imbecile ; his one word was ‘ desolate ;’ Dead for two years before his death was he; But when the second Christmas came, escaped His keepers, and the silence which he felt, To find a deeper in the narrow gloom By wife and child ; nor wanted at his end The dark retinue reverencing death At golden thresholds; nor from tender hearts, And those who sorrow’d o’er a vanish’d race, Pity, the violet on the tyrant’s grave. Then the great Hall was wholly broken down, And the broad woodland parcell’d into farms ; And where the two contrived their daughter’s good, Lies the hawk’s cast, the mole has made his run, The hedgehog underneath the plantain bores, The rabbit fondles his own harmless face, The slow-worm creeps, and the thin weasel there Follows the mouse, and all is open field. 56 SEA BREAMS. SEA DREAMS. A CITY clerk, but gently born and bred ; His wife, an unknown artist’s orphan child- One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three years old : They, thinking that her clear germander eye Droopt in the giant-factoried city-gloom, Came, with a month’s leave given them, to the sea: For which his gains were dock’d, however small: Small were his gains, and hard his work; besides. Their slender household fortunes (for the man Had risk’d his little) like the little thrift, Trembled in perilous places o’er a deep : And oft, when sitting all alone, his face Would darken, as he cursed his credulous¬ ness, And that one unctuous mouth which lured him, rogue, To buy strange shares in some Peruvian mine. Now seaward-bound for health they gain’d a coast, All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave, At close of day; slept, woke, and went the next, The Sabbath, pious variers from the church, To chapel; where a heated pulpiteer, Not preaching simple Christ to simple men, Announced the coming doom, and ful¬ minated Against the scarlet woman and her creed; For sideways up he swung his arms, and shriek’d ‘ Thus, thus with violence,’ ev’n as if he held The Apocalyptic millstone, and himself Were that great Angel; ‘ Thus with violence Shall Babylon be cast into the sea ; Then comes the close.’ The gentle- hearted wife Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world; He at his own: but when the wordy storm Had ended, forth they came and paced the shore, Ran in and out the long sea-framing caves, Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce believed (The sootflake of so many a summer still Clung to their fancies) that they saw, the sea. So now on sand they walk’d, and now on cliff, Lingering about the thymy promontories, Till all the sails were darken’d in the west, And rosed in the east: then homeward and to bed : Where she, who kept a tender Christian hope, Haunting a holy text, and still to that Returning, as the bird returns, at night, ‘ Let not the sun go down upon your wrath,’ Said, ‘ Love, forgive him: ’ but he did not speak ; And silenced by that silence lay the wife, Remembering her dear Lord who died for all, And musing on the little lives of men, And how they mar this little by their feuds. But while the two were sleeping, a full tide Rose with ground - swell, which, on the foremost rocks Touching, upjetted in spirts of wild sea- smoke, And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, and fell In vast sea-cataracts—ever and anon Dead claps of thunder from within the cliffs Heard thro’ the living roar. At this the babe, Their Margaret cradled near them, wail’d and woke The mother, and the father suddenly cried, ‘ A wreck, a wreck ! ’ then turn’d, and groaning said, ‘ Forgive ! How many will say, “ for¬ give,” and find A sort of absolution in the sound SEA BREAMS. 157 To hate a little longer ! No ; the sin That neither God nor man can well for¬ give, Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. Is it so true that second thoughts are best ? Not first, and third, which are a riper first? Too ripe, too late ! they come too late for use. Ah love, there surely lives in man and beast Something divine to warn them of their foes: And such a sense, when first I fronted him, Said, “ Trust him notbut after, when I came To know him more, I lost it, knew him less; Fought with what seem’d my own un¬ charity ; Sat at his table ; drank his costly wines ; Made more and more allowance for his talk ; Went further, fool! and trusted him with all, All my poor scrapings from a dozen years Of dust and deskwork : there is no such mine. None; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold, Not making. Ruin’d ! ruin’d ! the sea roars Ruin : a fearful night! ’ ‘Not fearful; fair,’ Said the good wife, ‘ if every star in heaven Can make it fair: you do but hear the tide. Had you ill dreams ?’ ‘ O yes,’ he said, ‘ I dream’d Of such a tide swelling toward the land, And I from out the boundless outer deep Swept with it to the shore, and enter’d one Of those dark caves that run beneath the cliffs. I thought the motion of the boundless deep Bore thro’ the cave, and I was heaved upon it In darkness : then I saw one lovely star Larger and larger. “ What a world,” I thought, “To live in !” but in moving on I found Only the landward exit of the cave, Bright with the sun upon the stream beyond : And near the light a giant woman sat, All over earthy, like a piece of earth, A pickaxe in her hand: then out I slipt Into a land all sun and blossom, trees As high as heaven, and every bird that sings : And here the night-light flickering in my eyes Awoke me.’ ‘ That was then your dream,’ she said, ‘ Not sad, but sweet.’ ‘ So sweet, I lay,’ said he, ‘And mused upon it, drifting up the stream In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced The broken vision; for I dream’d that still The motion of the great deep bore me on, And that the woman walk’d upon the brink : I wonder’d at her strength, and ask’d her of it: “It came,” she said, “ by working in the mines: ” O then to ask her of my shares, I thought; And ask’d; but not a word; she shook her head. And then the motion of the current ceased, And there was rolling thunder ; and we reach’d A mountain, like a wall of burs and thorns ; But she with her strong feet up the steep hill Trod out a path : I follow’d ; and at top She pointed seaward : there a fleet of glass, That seem’d a fleet of jewels under me, Sailing along before a gloomy cloud That not one moment ceased to thunder, past In sunshine: right across its track there lay, Down in the water, a long reef of gold, Or what seem’d gold : and I was glad at first 158 SEA DREAMS. To think that in our often-ransack’d world Still so much gold was left; and then I fear’d Lest the gay navy there should splinter on it, And fearing waved my arm to warn them off; An idle signal, for the brittle fleet (I thought I could have died to save it) near’d, Touch’d, clink’d, and clash’d, and vanish’d, and I woke, I heard the clash so clearly. Now I see My dream was Life; the woman honest Work; And my poor venture but a fleet of glass Wreck’d on a reef of visionary gold.’ ‘Nay,’ said the kindly wife to comfort him, ‘ You raised your arm, you tumbled down and broke The glass with little Margaret’s medicine in it; And, breaking that, you made and broke your dream: A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks.’ ‘No trifle,’ groan’d the husband; ‘ yesterday I met him suddenly in the street, and ask’d That which I ask’d the woman in my dream. Like her, he shook his head. “Show me the books ! ” He dodged me with a long and loose account. “The books, the books!” but he, he could not wait, Bound on a matter he of life and death : When the great Books (see Daniel seven and ten) Were open’d, I should find he meant me well; And then began to bloat himself, and ooze All over with the fat affectionate smile That makes the widow lean. “ My dearest friend, Have faith, have faith ! We live by faith,” said he; “ And all things work together for the good Of those”—it makes me sick to quote him —last Gript my hand hard, and with God-bless- you went. I stood like one that had received a blow: I found a hard friend in his loose accounts, A loose one in the hard grip of his hand, A curse in his God-bless-you: then my eyes Pursued him down the street, and far away, Among the honest shoulders of the crowd, Read rascal in the motions of his back, And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee.’ ‘Was he so bound, poor soul?’ said the good wife; ‘ So are we all: but do not call him, love, Before you prove him, rogue, and proved, forgive. His gain is loss; for he that wrongs his friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar, ever condemn’d: And that drags down his life: then comes what comes Hereafter : and he meant, he said he meant, Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you well.’ ‘ “With all his conscience and one eye askew ”— Love, let me quote these lines, that you may learn A man is likewise counsel for himself, Too often, in that silent court of yours— “With all his conscience and one eye askew, So false, he partly took himself for true ; Whose pious talk, when most his heart was dry, Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round his eye; Who, never naming God except for gain, So never took that useful name in vain, SEA DREAMS. 159 Made Him his catspaw and the Cross his tool, And Christ the bait to trap his dupe and fool; Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he forged, And snake-like slimed his victim ere he gorged ; And oft at Bible meetings, o’er the rest Arising, did his holy oily best, Dropping the too rough H in Hell and Heaven, To spread the Word by which himself had thriven.” How like you this old satire ?’ ‘Nay,’ she said, ‘ I loathe it: he had never kindly heart, Nor ever cared to better his own kind, Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it. But will you hear my dream, for I had one That altogether went to music ? Still It awed me.’ Then she told it, having dream’d Of that same coast. —But round the North, a light, A belt, it seem’d, of luminous vapour, lay, And ever in it a low musical note Swell’d up and died ; and, as it swell’d, a ridge Of breaker issued from the belt, and still Grew with the growing note, and when the note Had reach’d a thunderous fulness, on those cliffs Broke, mixt with awful light (the same as that Living within the belt) whereby she saw That all those lines of cliffs were cliffs no more, But huge cathedral fronts of every age, Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye could see, One after one : and then the great ridge drew, Lessening to the lessening music, back, And past into the belt and swell’d again Slowly to music : ever when it broke The statues, king or saint, or founder fell; Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin left Came men and women in dark clusters round. Some crying, ‘ Set them up ! they shall not fall !’ And others, ‘ Let them lie, for they have fall’n.’ And still they strove and wrangled : and she grieved In her strange dream, she knew not why, to find Their wildest wailings never out of tune With that sweet note; and ever as their shrieks Ran highest up the gamut, that great wave Returning, while none mark’d it, on the crowd Broke, mixt with awful light, and show’d their eyes Glaring, and passionate looks, and swept away The men of flesh and blood, and men of stone, To the waste deeps together. ‘ Then I fixt My wistful eyes on two fair images, Both crown’d with stars and high among the stars,— The Virgin Mother standing with her child High up on one of those dark minster- fronts— Till she began to totter, and the child Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry Which mixt with little Margaret’s, and I woke, And my dream awed me :—well—but what are dreams ? Yours came but from the breaking of a glass, And mine but from the crying of a child.’ ‘Child? No!’ said he, ‘but this tide’s roar, and his, Our Boanerges with his threats of doom, And loud-lung’d Antibabylonianisms (Altho’ I grant but little music there) i6o SEA DREAMS. Went both to make your dream: but if there were A music harmonizing our wild cries. Sphere-music such as that you dream’d about, Why, that would make our passions far too like The discords dear to the musician. No— One shriek of hate would jar all the hymns of heaven: True Devils with no ear, they howl in tune With nothing but the Devil! ’ * “ True ” indeed ! One of our town, but later by an hour Here than ourselves, spoke with me on the shore ; While you were running down the sands, and made The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbelow flap, Good man, to please the child. She brought strange news. Why were you silent when I spoke to¬ night ? I had set my heart on your forgiving him Before you knew. We must forgive the dead.’ * Dead ! who is dead ?’ ‘ The man your eye pursued. A little after you had parted with him, He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease. ’ ‘Dead? he? of heart-disease? what heart had he To die of? dead !’ ‘ Ah, dearest, if there be A devil in man, there is an angel too, And if he did that wrong you charge him with, His angel broke his heart. But your rough voice (You spoke so loud) has roused the child again. Sleep, little birdie, sleep ! will she not sleep Without her “little birdie”? well then, sleep, And I will sing you “birdie.”’ Saying this, The woman half turn’d round from him she loved, Left him one hand, and reaching thro’ the night Her other, found (for it was close be¬ side) And half - embraced the basket cradle- head With one soft arm, which, like the pliant bough That moving moves the nest and nestling, sway’d The cradle, while she sang this baby song. What does little birdie say In her nest at peep of day ? Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away. Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger. So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away. What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day ? Baby says, like little birdie, Let me rise and fly away. Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger. If she sleeps a little longer, Baby too shall fly away. ‘ She sleeps : let us too, let all evil, sleep. He also sleeps—another sleep than ours. He can do no more wrong : forgive him, dear, And I shall sleep the sounder ! ’ Then the man, ‘ His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come. Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound : I do forgive him ! ’ ‘ Thanks, my love,’ she said, ‘ Your own will be the sweeter,’ and they slept. LUCRETIUS. 161 LUCRETIUS. Lu cilia, wedded to Lucretius, found Her master cold ; for when the morning flush Of passion and the first embrace had died Between them, tho’ he lov’d her none the less, Yet often when the woman heard his foot Return from pacings in the field, and ran To greet him with a kiss, the master took Small notice, or austerely, for—his mind Half buried in some weightier argument, Or fancy-borne perhaps upon the rise And long roll of the Hexameter—he past To turn and ponder those three hundred scrolls Left by the Teacher, whom he held divine. She brook’d it not; but wrathful, petulant, Dreaming some rival, sought and found a witch Who brew’d the philtre which had power, they said, To lead an errant passion home again. And this, at times, she mingled with his drink, And this destroy’d him ; for the wicked broth Confused the chemic labour of the blood, And tickling the brute brain within the man’s Made havock among those tender cells, and check’d His power to shape : he loathed himself; and once After a tempest woke upon a morn That mock’d him with returning calm, and cried: ‘ Storm in the night! for thrice I heard the rain Rushing; and once the flash of a thunderbolt— Methought I never saw so fierce a fork— Struck out the streaming mountain-side, and show’d A riotous confluence of watercourses Blanching and billowing in a hollow of it, Where all but yester-eve was dusty-dry. * Storm, and what dreams, ye holy Gods, what dreams ! For thrice I waken’d after dreams. Per¬ chance We do but recollect the dreams that come Just ere the waking: terrible! for it seem’d A void was made in Nature ; all her bonds Crack’d; and I saw the flaring atom- streams And torrents of her myriad universe, Ruining along the illimitable inane, Fly on to clash together again, and make Another and another frame of things For ever: that was mine, my dream, I knew it— Of and belonging to me, as the dog With inward yelp and restless forefoot plies His function of the woodland: but the next! I thought that all the blood by Sylla shed Came driving rainlike down again on earth, And where it dash’d the reddening mea¬ dow, sprang No dragon warriors from Cadmean teeth, For these I thought my dream would show to me, But girls, Hetairai, curious in their art, Hired animalisms, vile as those that made The mulberry - faced Dictator’s orgies worse Than aught they fable of the quiet Gods. And hands they mixt, and yell’d and round me drove In narrowing circles till I yell’d again Half-suffocated, and sprang up, and saw— Was it the first beam of my latest day ? * Then, then, from utter gloom stood out the breasts, The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly a sword Now over and now under, now direct, Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down shamed At all that beauty ; and as I stared, a fire, The fire that left a roofless Ilion, Shot out of them, and scorch’d me that I woke. M 162 LUCRETIUS. ‘ Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus, thine, Because I would not one of thine own doves, Not ev’n a rose, were offer’d to thee ? thine, Forgetful how my rich prooemion makes Thy glory fly along the Italian field, In lays that will outlast thy Deity? ‘Deity? nay, thy worshippers. My tongue Trips, or I speak profanely. Which of these Angers thee most, or angers thee at all ? Not if thou be’st of those who, far aloof From envy, hate and pity, and spite and scorn, Live the great life which all our greatest fain Would follow, center’d in eternal calm. * Nay, if thou canst, O Goddess, like ourselves Touch, and be touch’d, then would I cry to thee To kiss thy Mavors, roll thy tender arms Round him, and keep him from the lust of blood That makes a steaming slaughter-house of Rome. ‘ Ay, but I meant not thee; I meant not her, Whom all the pines of Ida shook to see , Slide from that quiet heaven of hers, and tempt The Trojan, while his neat-herds were abroad; Nor her that o’er her wounded hunter wept Her Deity false in human-amorous tears ; Nor whom her beardless apple-arbiter Decided fairest. Rather, O ye Gods, Poet-like, as the great Sicilian called Calliope to grace his golden verse— Ay, and this Kypris also—did I take That popular name of thine to shadow forth The all-generating powers and genial heat Of Nature, when she strikes thro’ the thick blood Of cattle, and light is large, and lambs are glad Nosing the mother’s udder, and the bird Makes his heart voice amid the blaze of flowers: Which things appear the work of mighty Gods. ‘ The Gods! and if I go my work is left Unfinish’d —if I go. The Gods, who haunt The lucid interspace of world and world, Where never creeps a cloud, or moves a wind. Nor ever falls the least white star of sno'Tr, Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans, Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to mar Their sacred everlasting calm ! and such, Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm, Not such, nor all unlike it, man may gain Letting his own life go. The Gods, the Gods! If all be atoms, how then should the Gods Being atomic not be dissoluble, Not follow the great law? My master held That Gods there are, for all men so believe. I prest my footsteps into his, and meant Surely to lead my Memmius in a train Of flowery clauses onward to the proof That Gods there are, and deathless. * Meant ? I meant ? I have forgotten what I meant: my mind Stumbles, and all my faculties are lamed. ‘ Look where another of our Gods, the Sun, Apollo, Delius, or of older use All-seeing Hyperion—what you will— Has mounted yonder; since he never sware, Except his wrath were wreak’d on wretched man, LUCRETIUS. 163 That he would only shine among the dead Hereafter ; tales ! for never yet on earth Could dead flesh creep, or bits of roast¬ ing ox Moan round the spit—nor knows he what he sees; King of the East altho’ he seem, and girt With song and flame and fragrance, slowly lifts His golden feet on those empurpled stairs That climb into the windy halls of heaven: And here he glances on an eye new-born, And gets for greeting but a wail of pain ; And here he stays upon a freezing orb That fain would gaze upon him to the last ; And here upon a yellow eyelid fall’n And closed by those who mourn a friend in vain, Not thankful that his troubles are no more. And me, altho’ his fire is on my face Blinding, he sees not, nor at all can tell Whether I mean this day to end myself, Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, That men like soldiers may not quit the post Allotted by the Gods: but he that holds The Gods are careless, wherefore need he care Greatly for them, nor rather plunge at once, Being troubled, wholly out of sight, and sink Past earthquake—ay, and gout and stone, that break Body toward death, and palsy, death-in- life, And wretched age—and worst disease of all, These prodigies of myriad nakednesses, And twisted shapes of lust, unspeakable, Abominable, strangers at my hearth Not welcome, harpies miring every dish, The phantom husks of something foully done, And fleeting thro’ the boundless universe, And blasting the long quiet of my breast With animal heat and dire insanity ? ‘ How should the mind, except it loved them, clasp These idols to herself? or do they fly Now thinner, and now thicker, like the flakes In a fall of snow, and so press in, perforce Of multitude, as crowds that in an hour Of civic tumult jam the doors, and bear The keepers down, and throng, their rags and they The basest, far into that council-hall Where sit the best and stateliest of the land ? ‘ Can I not fling this horror off me again, Seeing with how great ease Nature can smile, Balmier and nobler from her bath of storm, At random ravage ? and how easily The mountain there has cast his cloudy slough, Now towering o’er him in serenest air, A mountain o’er a mountain,—ay, and within All hollow as the hopes and fears of men ? * But who was he, that in the garden snared Picus and Faunus, rustic Gods? a tale To laugh at—more to laugh at in myself— For look ! what is it ? there ? yon arbutus Totters ; a noiseless riot underneath Strikes through the wood, sets all the tops quivering— The mountain quickens into Nymph and Faun ; And here an Oread—how the sun delights To glance and shift about her slippery sides, And rosy knees and supple roundedness, And budded bosom-peaks—who this way runs Before the rest—A satyr, a satyr, see, Follows ; but him I proved impossible ; Twy-natured is no nature : yet he draws Nearer and nearer, and I scan him now Beastlier than any phantom of his kind 164 LUCRETIUS. That ever butted his rough brother-brute For lust or lusty blood or provender : I hate, abhor, spit, sicken at him; and she Loathes him as well; such a precipitate heel, Fledged as it were with Mercury’s ankle¬ wing, Whirls her to me': but will she fling herself, Shameless upon me? Catch her, goat- foot : nay, Hide, hide them, million-myrtled wilder¬ ness. And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide ! do I wish— What ?—that the bush were leafless ? or to whelm All of them in one massacre ? O ye Gods, I know you careless, yet, behold, to you From childly wont and ancient use I call— I thought I lived securely as yourselves— No lewdness, narrowing envy, monkey- spite, No madness of ambition, avarice, none : No larger feast than under plane or pine With neighbours laid along the grass, to take Only such cups as left us friendly-warm, Affirming each his own philosophy— Nothing to mar the sober majesties Of settled, sweet. Epicurean life. But now it seems some unseen monster lays His vast and filthy hands upon my will, Wrenching it backward into his; and spoils My bliss in being; and it was not great; For save when shutting reasons up in rhythm, Or Heliconian honey in living words, To make a truth less harsh, I often grew Tired of so much within our little life, Or of so little in our little life— Poor little life that toddles half an hour Crown’d with a flower or two, and there an end— And since the nobler pleasure seems to fade, Why should I, beastlike as I find myself, Not manlike end myself?—our privilege— What beast has heart to do it ? And what man, What Roman would be dragg’d in triumph thus? Not I; not he, who bears one name with her Whose death-blow struck the dateless doom of kings, When, brooking not the Tarquin in her veins, She made her blood in sight of Collatine And all his peers, flushing the guiltless air, Spout from the maiden fountain in her heart. And from it sprang the Commonwealth, which breaks As I am breaking now ! ‘ And therefore now Let her, that is the womb and tomb of all, Great Nature, take, and forcing far apart Those blind beginnings that have made me man, Dash them anew together at her will Thro’ all her cycles—into man once more, Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent flower: But till this cosmic order everywhere Shatter’d into one earthquake in one day Cracks all to pieces,—and that hour perhaps Is not so far when momentary man Shall seem no more a something to him¬ self, But he, his hopes and hates, his homes and fanes, And even his bones long laid within the grave, The very sides of the grave itself shall pass, Vanishing, atom and void, atom and void, Into the unseen for ever,—till that hour, My golden work in which I told a truth That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel, And numbs the Fury’s ringlet-snake, and plucks The mortal soul from out immortal hell, Shall stand : ay, surely: then it fails at last THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. And perishes as I must; for O Thou, Passionless bride, divine Tranquillity, Yearn’d after by the wisest of the wise, Who fail to find thee, being as thou art Without one pleasure and without one pain, Howbeit I know thou surely must be mine Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus I woo thee roughly, for thou carest not How roughly men may woo thee so they win— Thus—thus: the soul flies out and dies in the air.’ 165 With that he drove the knife into his side : She heard him raging, heard him fall; ran in, Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon herself As having fail’d in duty to him, shriek’d That she but meant to win him back, fell on him, Clasp’d, kiss’d him, wail’d : he answer’d, ‘ Care not thou ! Thy duty? What is duty? Fare thee well!’ THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. PROLOGUE. Sir Walter Vivian all a summer’s day Gave his broad lawns until the set of sun Up to the people : thither flock’d at noon His tenants, wife and child, and thither half The neighbouring borough with their Institute Of which he was the patron. I was there From college, visiting the son,—the son A Walter too,—with others of our set, Five others: we were seven at Vivian- place. And me that morning Walter show’d the house, Greek, set with busts : from vases in the hall Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier than their names, Grew side by side ; and on the pavement lay Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the park, Huge Ammonites, and the first bones of Time; And on the tables every clime and age Jumbled together ; celts and calumets, Claymore and snowshoe, toys in lava, fans Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries, Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere, The cursed Malayan crease, and battle- clubs From the isles of palm: and higher on the walls, Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and deer, His own forefathers’ arms and armour hung. And ‘ this ’ he said ‘ was Hugh’s at Agincourt; And that was old Sir Ralph’s at As- calon: A good knight he ! we keep a chronicle With all about him ’—which he brought, and I Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt with knights, Half-legend, half-historic, counts and kings Who laid about them at their wills and died ; And mixt with these, a lady, one that arm’d THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 166 Her own fair head, and sallying thro’ the gate, Had beat her foes with slaughter from her walls. ‘ O miracle of women,’ said the book, ‘ O noble heart who, being strait-besieged By this wild king to force her to his wish, Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunn’d a soldier’s death, But now when all was lost or seem’d as lost— Her stature more than mortal in the burst Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on fire— Brake with a blast of trumpets from the gate, And, falling on them like a thunderbolt, She trampled some beneath her horses’ heels, And some were whelm’d with missiles of the wall. And some were push’d with lances from the rock, And part were drown’d within the whirl¬ ing brook : O miracle of noble womanhood !’ So sang the gallant glorious chronicle ; And, I all rapt in this, ‘Come out,’ he said, ‘ To the Abbey: there is Aunt Elizabeth And sister Lilia with the rest.’ We went (I kept the book and had my finger in it) Down thro’ the park : strange was the sight to me; For all the sloping pasture murmur’d, sown With happy faces and with holiday. There moved the multitude, a thousand heads: The patient leaders of their Institute Taught them with facts. One rear’d a font of stone And drew, from butts of water on the slope, The fountain of the moment, playing, now A twisted snake, and now a rain of pearls, Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded ball Danced like a wisp : and somewhat lower down A man with knobs and wires and vials fired A cannon : Echo answer’d in her sleep From hollow fields : and here were tele¬ scopes For azure views ; and there a group of girls In circle waited, whom the electric shock Dislink’d with shrieks and laughter: round the lake A little clock-work steamer paddling plied And shook the lilies: perch’d about the knolls A dozen angry models jetted steam : A petty railway ran : a fire-balloon Rose gem-like up before the dusky groves And dropt a fairy parachute and past: And there thro’ twenty posts of telegraph They flash’d a saucy message to and fro Between the mimic stations ; so that sport Went hand in hand with Science ; other¬ where Pure sport : a herd of boys with clamour bowl’d And stump’d the wicket; babies roll’d about Like tumbled fruit in grass ; and men and maids Arranged a country dance, and flew thro’ light And shadow, while the twangling violin Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and over¬ head The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty lime Made noise with bees and breeze from end to end. Strange was the sight and smacking of the time; And long we gazed, but satiated at length Came to the ruins. High-arch’d and ivy- claspt, Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire, Thro’ one wide chasm of time and frost they gave The park, the crowd, the house ; but all within | The sward was trim as any garden lawn; THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 167 And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, And Lilia with the rest, and lady friends From neighbour seats : and there was Ralph himself, A broken statue propt against the wall, As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport, Half child half woman as she was, had wound A scarf of orange round the stony helm, And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk, That made the old warrior from his ivied nook Glow like a sunbeam : near his tomb a feast Shone, silver-set; about it lay the guests, And there we join’d them: then the maiden Aunt Took this fair day for text, and from it preach’d An universal culture for the crowd, And all things great; but we, unworthier, told Of college : he had climb’d across the spikes, And he had squeezed himself betwixt the bars, And he had breathed the Proctor’s dogs ; and one Discuss’d his tutor, rough to common men, But honeying at the whisper of a lord; And one the Master, as a rogue in grain Veneer’d with sanctimonious theory. But while they talk’d, above their heads I saw The feudal warrior lady-clad ; which brought My book to mind : and opening this I read Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that rang With tilt and tourney; then the tale of her That drove her foes with slaughter from her walls, And much I praised her nobleness, and * Where,’ Ask’d Walter, patting Lilia’s head (she lay Beside him) ‘ lives there such a woman now ? ’ Quick answer’d Lilia * There are thou¬ sands now Such women, but convention beats them down : It is but bringing up ; no more than that : You men have done it: how I hate you all! Ah, were I something great! I wish I were Some mighty poetess, I would shame you then, That love to keep us children ! O I wish That I were some great princess, I would build Far off from men a college like a man’s, And I would teach them all that men are taught; We are twice as quick ! ’ And here she shook aside The hand that play’d the patron with her curls. And one said smiling ‘ Pretty were the sight If our old halls could change their sex, and flaunt With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans, And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair. I think they should not wear our rusty gowns, But move as rich as Emperor-moths, or Ralph Who shines so in the corner ; yet I fear, If there were many Lilias in the brood, However deep you might embower the nest, Some boy would spy it.’ At this upon the sward She tapt her tiny silken-sandal’d foot: ‘That’s your light way; but I would make it death For any male thing but to peep at us.’ Petulant she spoke, and at herself she laugh’d ; A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, And sweet as English air could make her, she : THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 168 But Walter hail’d a score of names upon her, And ‘petty Ogress,’ and ‘ungrateful Puss,’ And swore he long’d at college, only long’d, All else was well, for she-society. They boated and they cricketed; they talk’d At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics ; They lost their weeks; they vext the souls of deans; They rode ; they betted ; made a hundred friends, And caught the blossom of the flying terms. But miss’d the mignonette of Vivian-place, The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus he spoke, Part banter, part affection. ‘ True,’ she said, ‘ We doubt not that. O yes, you miss’d us much. I’ll stake my ruby ring upon it you did.’ She held it out; and as a parrot turns Up thro’ gilt wires a crafty loving eye, And takes a lady’s finger with all care, And bites it for true heart and not for harm, So he with Lilia’s. Daintily she shriek’d And wrung it. ‘ Doubt my word again ! ’ he said. ‘ Come, listen ! here is proof that you were miss’d : We seven stay’d at Christmas up to read; And there we took one tutor as to read : The hard-grain’d Muses of the cube and square Were out of season : never man, I think, So moulder’d in a sinecure as he : For while our cloisters echo’d frosty feet, And our long walks were stript as bare as brooms, We did but talk you over, pledge you all In wassail; often, like as many girls— Sick for the hollies and the yews of home— As many little trifling Lilias—play’d Charades and riddles as at Christmas here, And what's my thought and when and where and how. And often told a tale from mouth to mouth As here at Christmas.’ She remember’d that: A pleasant game, she thought: she liked it more Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest. But these—what kind of tales did men tell men, She wonder’d, by themselves ? A half-disdain Perch’d on the pouted blossom of her lips: And Walter nodded at me ; ‘ He began, The rest would follow, each in turn; and so We forged a sevenfold story. Kind? what kind ? Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas solecisms, Seven-headed monsters only made to kill Time by the fire in winter.’ ‘ Kill him now, The tyrant ! kill him in the summer too, ’ Said Lilia ; ‘ Why not now ?’ the maiden Aunt. ‘ Why not a summer’s as a winter’s tale ? A tale for summer as befits the time, And something it should be to suit the place, Heroic, for a hero lies beneath, Grave, solemn ! 1 Walter warp’d his mouth at this To something so mock-solemn, that I laugh’d And Lilia woke with sudden-shrilling mirth An echo like a ghostly woodpecker, Hid in the ruins; till the maiden Aunt (A little sense of wrong had touch’d her face With colour) turn’d to me with ‘ As you will; Heroic if you will, or what you will, Or be yourself your hero if you will.’ ‘ Take Lilia, then, for heroine ’ clam¬ our’d he, ‘ And make her some great Princess, six feet high, Grand, epic, homicidal; and be you The Prince to win her ! ’ THE PRINCESS / A MEDLEY. 169 ‘Then follow me, the Prince,’ I answer’d, ‘ each be hero in his turn ! Seven and yet one, like shadows in a dream.— Heroic seems our Princess as required— But something made to suit with Time and place, A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, A talk of college and of ladies’ rights, A feudal knight in silken masquerade, And, yonder, shrieks and strange experi¬ ments For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt them all— This were a medley ! we should have him back Who told the “Winter’s tale ” to do it for us. No matter : we will say whatever comes. And let the ladies sing us, if they will. From time to time, some ballad or a song To give us breathing-space.’ So I began, And the rest follow’d : and the women sang Between the rougher voices of the men, Like linnets in the pauses of the wind : And here I give the story and the songs. A prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face, Of temper amorous, as the first of May, With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a girl, For on my cradle shone the Northern star. There lived an ancient legend in our house. Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grandsire burnt Because he cast no shadow, had fore¬ told, Dying, that none of all our blood should know The shadow from the substance, and that one Should come to fight with shadows and to fall. For so, my mother said, the stoiy ran. And, truly, waking dreams were, more or less, An old and strange affection of the house. Myself too had weird seizures, Heaven knows what: On a sudden in the midst of men and day, And while I walk’d and talk’d as hereto¬ fore, I seem’d to move among a world of ghosts, And feel myself the shadow of a dream. Our great court-Galen poised his gilt-head cane, And paw’d his beard, and mutter’d ‘catalepsy.’ My mother pitying made a thousand prayers; My mother was as mild as any saint, Half-canonized by all that look’d on her, So gracious was her tact and tenderness : But my good father thought a king a king ; He cared not for the affection of the house; He held his sceptre like a pedant’s wand To lash offence, and with long arms and hands Reach’d out, and pick’d offenders from the mass For judgment. Now it chanced that I had been, While life was yet in bud and blade, betroth’d To one, a neighbouring Princess: she tome Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf At eight years old ; and still from time to time Came murmurs of her beauty from the South, And of her brethren, youths of puissance; And still I wore her picture by my heart, And one dark tress ; and all around them both Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees about their queen. But when the days drew nigh that I should wed, My father sent ambassadors with furs And jewels, gifts, to fetch her: these brought back A present, a great labour of the loom ; And therewithal an answer vague as wind: 170 THE PRINCESS / A MEDLEY. Besides, they saw the king ; he took the gifts ; He said there was a compact; that was true: But then she had a will; was he to blame ? And maiden fancies ; loved to live alone Among her women; certain, would not wed. That morning in the presence room I stood With Cyril and with Florian, my two friends : The first, a gentleman of broken means (His father’s fault) but given to starts and bursts Of revel; and the last, my other heart, And almost my half-self, for still we moved Together, twinn’d as horse’s ear and eye. Now, while they spake, I saw my father’s face Grow long and troubled like a rising moon, Inflamed with wrath: he started on his feet, Tore the king’s letter, snow’d it down, and rent The wonder of the loom thro’ warp and woof From skirt to skirt; and at the last he sware That he would send a hundred thousand men, And bring her in a whirlwind : then he chew’d The thrice-turn’d cud of wrath, and cook’d his spleen, Communing with his captains of the war. At last I spoke. ‘ My father, let me go. It cannot be but some gross error lies In this report, this answer of a king, Whom all men rate as kind and hospitable: Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once seen, Whate’er my grief to find her less than fame, May rue the bargain made.’ And Florian said : ‘ I have a sister at the foreign court, Who moves about the Princess ; she, you know, Who wedded with a nobleman from thence: He, dying lately, left her, as I hear, The lady of three castles in that land : Thro’her this matter might be sifted clean. ' - And Cyril whisper’d : ‘ Take me with you too.’ Then laughing * what, if these weird seizures come Upon you in those lands, and no one near To point you out the shadow from the truth ! Take me : I’ll serve you better in a strait; I grate on rusty hinges here : ’ but ‘ No ! ’ Roar’d the rough king, ‘ you shall not; we ourself Will crush her pretty maiden fancies dead In iron gauntlets : break the council up.’ But when the council broke, I rose and past Thro’ the wild woods that hung about the town ; Found a still place, and pluck’d her like¬ ness out; Laid it on flowers, and watch’d it lying bathed In the green gleam of dewy-tassell’d trees: What were those fancies? wherefore break her troth ? Proud look’d the lips : but while I medi¬ tated A wind arose and rush’d upon the South, And shook the songs, the whispers, and the shrieks Of the wild woods together ; and a Voice Went with it, ‘ Follow, follow, thou shalt win.’ Then, ere the silver sickle of that month Became her golden shield, I stole from court With Cyril and with Florian, unperceived, Cat-footed thro’ the town and half in dread To hear my father’s clamour at our backs With Ho ! from some bay-window shake the night; But all was quiet: from the bastion’d walls THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. Like threaded spiders, one* by one, we dropt, And flying reach’d the frontier : then we crost To a livelier land ; and so by tilth and grange, And vines, and blowing bosks of wilder¬ ness, We gain’d the mother-city thick with towers, And in the imperial palace found the king. His name was Gama ; crack’d and small his voice, But bland the smile that like a wrinkling wind On glassy water drove his cheek in lines ; A little dry old man, without a star, Not like a king : three days he feasted us, And on the fourth I spake of why we came, And my betroth’d. ‘ You do us, Prince,’ he said, Airing a snowy hand and signet gem, ‘All honour. We remember love our¬ selves In our sweet youth : there did a compact pass Long summers back, a kind of ceremony— I think the year in which our olives fail’d. I would you had her, Prince, with all my heart, With my full heart: but there were widows here, Two widows, Lady Psyche, Lady Blanche; They fed her theories, in and out of place Maintaining that with equal husbandry The woman were an equal to the man. They harp’d on this ; with this our ban¬ quets rang ; Our dances broke and buzz’d in knots of talk ; Nothing but this ; my very ears were hot To hear them: knowledge, so my daughter held, Was all in all: they had but been, she thought, As children; they must lose the child, assume 171 The woman : then, Sir, awful odes she wrote, Too awful, sure, for what they treated of, But all she is and does is awful; odes About this losing of the child ; and rhymes And dismal lyrics, prophesying change Beyond all reason: these the women sang; And they that know such things—I sought but peace; No critic I — would call them master¬ pieces : They master’d me. At last she begg’d a boon, A certain summer-palace which I have Hard by your father’s frontier : I said no, Yet being an easy man, gave it: and there, All wild to found an University For maidens, on the spur she fled; and more We know not,—only this: they see no men, Not ev’n her brother Arac, nor the twins Her brethren, tho’ they love her, look upon her As on a kind of paragon ; and I (Pardon me saying it) were much loth to breed Dispute betwixt myself and mine : but since (And I confess with right) you think me bound In some sort, I can give you letters to her; And yet, to speak the truth, I rate your chance Almost at naked nothing.’ Thus the king; And I, tho’ nettled that he seem’d to slur With garrulous ease and oily courtesies Our formal compact, yet, not less (all frets But chafing me on fire to find my bride) Went forth again with both my friends. We rode Many a long league back to the North. At last From hills, that look’d across a land of hope, We dropt with evening on a rustic town Set in a gleaming river’s crescent-curve. Close at the boundary of the liberties ; 72 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. There, enter’d an old hostel, call’d mine host To council, plied him with his richest wines, And show’d the late-writ letters of the king. He with a long low sibilation, stared As blank as death in marble j then ex¬ claim’d Averring it was clear against all rules For any man to go : but as his brain Began to mellow, ‘ If the king,’ he said, ‘ Had given us letters, was he bound to speak ? The king would bear him out; ’ and at the last— The summer of the vine in all his veins— ‘ No doubt that we might make it worth his while. She once had past that way; he heard her speak ; She scared him ; life ! he never saw the like; She look’d as grand as doomsday and as grave : And he, he reverenced his liege-lady there; He always made a point to post with mares; His daughter and his housemaid were the boys : The land, he understood, for miles about Was till’d by women; all the swine were sows, And all the dogs ’— But while he jested thus, A thought flash’d thro’ me which I clothed in act, Remembering how we three presented Maid Or Nymph, or Goddess, at high tide of feast, In masque or pageant at my father’s court. We sent mine host to purchase female gear ; He brought it, and himself, a sight to shake The midriff of despair with laughter, holp To lace us up, till, each, in maiden plumes We rustled : *him we gave a costly bribe To guerdon silence, mounted our good steeds, And boldly ventured on the liberties. We follow’d up the river as we rode, And rode till midnight when the college lights Began to glitter firefly-like in copse And linden alley : then we past an arch, Whereon a woman - statue rose with wings From four wing’d horses dark against the stars ; And some inscription ran along the front, But deep in shadow: further on we gain’d A little street half garden and half house; But scarce could hear each other speak for noise Of clocks and chimes, like silver hammers falling On silver anvils, and the splash and stir Of fountains spouted up and showering down In meshes of the jasmine and the rose : And all about us peal’d the nightingale, Rapt in her song, and careless of the snare. There stood a bust of Pallas for a sign, By two sphere lamps blazon’d like Heaven and Earth With constellation and with continent, Above an entry : riding in, we call’d ; A plump-arm’d Ostleress and a stable wench Came running at the call, and help’d us down. Then stept a buxom hostess forth, and sail’d, Full-blown, before us into rooms which gave Upon a pillar’d porch, the bases lost In laurel: her we ask’d of that and this, And who were tutors. ‘Lady Blanche’ she said, * And Lady Psyche. ’ * Which was prettiest, Best-natured ?’ ‘ Lady Psyche.’ ‘Hers are we,’ THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 173 One voice, we cried ; and I sat down and wrote, In such a hand as when a field of corn Bows all its ears before the roaring East; ‘Three ladies of the Northern empire pray Your Highness would enroll them with your own, As Lady Psyche’s pupils.’ This I seal’d: The seal was Cupid bent above a scroll, And o’er his head Uranian Venus hung, And raised the blinding bandage from his eyes: I gave the letter to be sent with dawn; And then to bed, where half in doze I seem’d To float about a glimmering night, and watch A full sea glazed with muffled moonlight, swell On some dark shore just seen that it was rich. 11. As thro’ the land at eve we went, And pluck’d the ripen’d ears, We fell out, my wife and I, O we fell out I know not why, And kiss’d again with tears. And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears ! For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years, There above the little grave, O there above the little grave, We kiss’d again with tears. At break of day the College Portress came: She brought us Academic silks, in hue The lilac, with a silken hood to each, And zoned with gold ; and now when these were on, And we as rich as moths from dusk cocoons, She, curtseying her obeisance, let us know The Princess Ida waited : out we paced, I first, and following thro’ the porch that sang. All round with laurel, issued in a court Compact of lucid marbles, boss’d with lengths Of classic frieze, with ample awnings gay Betwixt the pillars, and with great urns of flowers. The Muses and the Graces, group’d in threes, Enring’d a billowing fountain in the midst; And here and there on lattice edges lay Or book or lute ; but hastily we past, And up a flight of stairs into the hall. There at a board by tome and paper sat. With two tame leopards couch’d beside her throne All beauty compass’d in a female form, The Princess ; liker to the inhabitant Of some clear planet close upon the Sun, Than our man’s earth ; such eyes were in her head, And so much grace and power, breathing down From over her arch’d brows, with every turn Lived thro’ her to the tips of her long hands, And to her feet. She rose her height, and said : * We give you welcome: not without redound Of use and glory to yourselves ye come, The first-fruits of the stranger : aftertime, And that full voice which circles round the grave, Will rank you nobly, mingled up with me. What! are the ladies of your land so tall ?’ ‘We of the court ’ said Cyril. ‘ From the court ’ She answer’d, ‘then ye know the Prince?’ and he: ‘ The climax of his age ! as tho’ there were One rose in all the world, your Highness that, He worships your ideal: ’ she replied : 174 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. * We scarcely thought in our own hall to hear This barren verbiage, current among men, Light coin, the tinsel clink of compliment. Your flight from out your bookless wilds would seem As arguing love of knowledge and of power ; Your language proves you still the child. Indeed, We dream not of him : when we set our hand To this great work, we purposed with ourself Never to wed. You likewise will do well, Ladies, in entering here, to cast and fling The tricks, which make us toys of men, that so, Some future time, if so indeed you will, You may with those self-styled our lords ally Your fortunes, justlier balanced, scale with scale.’ At those high words, we conscious of ourselves. Perused the matting ; then an officer Rose up, and read the statutes, such as these : Not for three years to correspond with home ; Not for three years to cross the liberties; Not for three years to speak with any men ; And many more, which hastily subscribed, We enter’d on the boards: and ‘ Now,’ she cried, ‘Ye are green wood, see ye warp not. Look, our hall! Our statues !—not of those that men desire, Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode, Nor stunted squaws of West or East; but she That taught the Sabine how to rule, and she The foundress of the Babylonian wall, The Carian Artemisia strong in war, The Rhodope, that built the pyramid, Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene That fought Aurelian, and the Roman brows Of Agrippina. Dwell with these, and lose Convention, since to look on noble forms Makes noble thro’ the sensuous organism That which is higher. O lift your natures up: Embrace our aims : work out your free¬ dom. Girls, Knowledge is now no more a fountain seal’d: Drink deep, until the habits of the slave, The sins of emptiness, gossip and spite And slander, die. Better not be at all Than not be noble. Leave us : you may go: To-day the Lady Psyche will harangue The fresh arrivals of the week before; For they press in from all the provinces, And fill the hive. ’ She spoke, and bowing waved Dismissal: back again we crost the court To Lady Psyche’s : as we enter’d in, There sat along the forms, like morning doves That sun their milky bosoms on the thatch, A patient range of pupils ; she herself Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, A quick brunette, well-moulded, falcon¬ eyed, And on the hither side, or so she look’d, Of twenty summers. At her left, a child, In shining draperies, headed like a star, Her maiden babe, a double April old, Aglaia slept. We sat: the Lady glanced: Then Florian, but no livelier than the dame That whisper’d ‘ Asses’ ears,’ among the sedge, ‘ My sister.’ ‘ Comely, too, by all that’s fair,’ Said Cyril. ‘O hush, hush!’ and she began. ‘ This world was once a fluid haze of light, Till toward the centre set the starry tides, And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 75 The planets : then the monster, then the man ; Tattoo’d or woaded, winter-clad in skins, Raw from the prime, and crushing down his mate; As yet we find in barbarous isles, and here Among the lowest.’ Thereupon she took A bird’s-eye-view of all the ungracious past; Glanced at the legendary Amazon As emblematic of a nobler age ; Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke of those That lay at wine with Lar and Lucumo ; Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Roman lines Of empire, and the woman’s state in each, How far from just; till warming with her theme She fulmined out her scorn of laws Salique And little - footed China, touch’d on Mahomet With much contempt, and came to chivalry: When some respect, however slight, was paid To woman, superstition all awry : However then commenced the dawn : a beam Had slanted forward, falling in a land Of promise ; fruit would follow. Deep, indeed, Their debt of thanks to her who first had dared To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, Disyoke their necks from custom, and assert None lordlier than themselves but that which made Woman and man. She had founded ; they must build. Here might they learn whatever men were taught: Let them not fear: some said their heads were less: Some men’s were small ; not they the least of men ; For often fineness compensated size : Besides the brain was like the hand, and grew With using; thence the man’s, if more was more ; He took advantage of his strength to be First in the field: some ages had been lost; But woman ripen’d earlier, and her life Was longer ; and albeit their glorious names Were fewer, scatter’d stars, yet since in truth The highest is the measure of the man, And not the Kaffir, Hottentot, Malay, Nor those horn-handed breakers of the glebe, But Homer, Plato, Verulam ; even so With woman : and in arts of government Elizabeth and others ; arts of war The peasant Joan and others; arts of grace Sappho and others vied with any man : And, last not least, she who had left her place, And bow’d her state to them, that they might grow To use and power on this Oasis, lapt In the arms of leisure, sacred from the blight Of ancient influence and scorn. At last She rose upon a wind of prophecy Dilating on the future ; ‘ everywhere Two heads in council, two beside the hearth, Two in the tangled business of the world, Two in the liberal offices of life, Two plummets dropt for one to sound the abyss Of science, and the secrets of the mind : Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, more: And everywhere the broad and bounteous Earth Should bear a double growth of those rare souls, Poets, whose thoughts enrich the blood of the world.’ She ended here, and beckon’d us : the rest Parted; and, glowing full-faced welcome, she 76 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. Began to address us, and was moving on In gratulation, till as when a boat Tacks, and the slacken’d sail flaps, all her voice Faltering and fluttering in her throat, she cried ‘ My brother ! ’ * Well, my sister.’ ‘ O,’ she said, ‘ What do you here ? and in this dress ? and these ? Why who are these ? a wolf within the fold ! A pack of wolves ! the Lord be gracious to me ! A plot, a plot, a plot, to ruin all! ’ ‘No plot, no plot,’ he answer’d. ‘ Wretched boy, How saw you not the inscription on the gate, Let no man enter in on pain of DEATH?’ ‘ And if I had,’ he answer’d, ‘ who could think The softer Adams of your Academe, O sister, Sirens tho’ they be, were such As chanted on the blanching bones of men?’ ‘ But you will find it otherwise ’ she said. * You jest: ill jesting with edge-tools ! my vow Binds me to speak, and O that iron will, That axelike edge unturnable, our Head, The Princess.’ ‘ Well then, Psyche, take my life, And nail me like a weasel on a grange For warning: bury me beside the gate, And cut this epitaph above my bones; Here lies a brother by a sister slain, All for the common good of womankind.'* ‘ Let me die too, ’ said Cyril, ‘ having seen And heard the Lady Psyche.’ I struck in : ‘Albeit so mask’d, Madam, I love the truth; Receive it; and in me behold the Prince Your countryman, affianced years ago To the Lady Ida : here, for here she was, And thus (what other way Was left) I came.’ ‘ O Sir, O Prince, I have no country ; none; If any, this ; but none. Whate’er I was Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. Affianced, Sir ? love - whispers may not breathe Within this vestal limit, and how should I, Who am not mine, say, live: the thunder¬ bolt Hangs silent; but prepare : I speak ; it falls.’ ‘ Yet pause,’ I said: * for that inscription there, I think no more of deadly lurks therein, Than in a clapper clapping in a garth, To scare the fowl from fruit: if more there be, If more and acted on, what follows ? war; Your own work marr’d : for this your Academe, Whichever side be Victor, in the halloo Will topple to the trumpet down, and pass With all fair theories only made to gild A stormless summer.’ ‘Let the Princess judge Of that’ she said: ‘farewell, Sir—and to you. I shudder at the sequel, but I go.’ ‘Are you that Lady Psyche,’ I re¬ join’d, ‘ The fifth in line from that old Florian, Yet hangs his portrait in my father’s hall (The gaunt old Baron with his beetle brow Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights) As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he fell, And all else fled ? we point to it, and we say, The loyal warmth of Florian is not cold, But branches current yet in kindred veins.’ ‘Are you that Psyche,’ Florian added; ‘she With whom I sang about the morning hills, Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the purple fly, THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 177 And snared the squirrel of the glen ? are you That Psyche, wont to bind my throbbing brow, To smoothe my pillow, mix the foaming draught Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and read My sickness down to happy dreams ? are you That brother-sister Psyche, both in one ? You were that Psyche, but what are you now?’ ‘You are that Psyche,’ Cyril said, ‘for whom I would be that for ever which I seem, Woman, if I might sit beside your feet, And glean your scatter’d sapience.’ Then once more, ‘Are you that Lady Psyche,’ I began, ‘ That on her bridal morn before she past From all her old companions, when the king Kiss’d her pale cheek, declared that ancient ties Would still be dear beyond the southern hills ; That were there any of our people there In want or peril, there was one to hear And help them ? look ! for such are these and I.’ ‘ Are you that Psyche,’ Florian ask’d, ‘ to whom. In gentler days, your arrow-wounded fawn Came flying while you sat beside the well ? The creature laid his muzzle on your lap, And sobb’d, and you sobb’d with it, and the blood Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and you wept. That was fawn’s blood, not brother’s, yet you wept. O by the bright head of my little niece, You were that Psyche, and what are you now?’ ‘You are that Psyche,’ Cyril said again, ‘ The mother of the sweetest little maid, That ever crow’d for kisses.’ ‘ Out upon it! ’ She answer’d, ‘ peace ! and why should I not play The Spartan Mother with emotion, be The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind ? Him you call great: he for the common weal, The fading politics of mortal Rome, As I might slay this child, if good need were, Slew both his sons: and I, shall I, on whom The secular emancipation turns Of half this world, be swerved from right to save A prince, a brother ? a little will I yield. Best so, perchance, for us, and well for you. O hard, when love and duty clash ! I fear My conscience will not count me fleck¬ less ; yet— Hear my conditions : promise (otherwise You perish) as you came, to slip away To-day, to-morrow, soon: it shall be said, These women were too barbarous, would not learn; They fled, who might have shamed us: promise, all.’ What could we else, we promised each; and she, Like some wild creature newly-caged, commenced A to-and-fro, so pacing till she paused By Florian ; holding out her lily arms Took both his hands, and smiling faintly said: ‘ I knew you at the first: tho’ you have grown You scarce have alter’d: I am sad and glad To see you, Florian. I give thee to death My brother ! it was duty spoke, not I. My needful seeming harshness, pardon it. Our mother, is she well?’ With that she kiss’d His forehead, then, a moment after, clung About him, and betwixt them blossom’d up From out a common vein of memory Sweet household talk, and phrases of the hearth, N 78 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. And far allusion, till the gracious dews Began to glisten and to fall: and while They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came a voice, ‘ I brought a message here from Lady Blanche.’ Back started she, and turning round we saw The Lady Blanche’s daughter where she stood, Melissa, with her hand upon the lock, A rosy blonde, and in a college gown, That clad her like an April daffodilly (Her mother’s colour) with her lips apart, And all her thoughts as fair within her eyes. As bottom agates seen to wave and float In crystal currents of clear morning seas. So stood that same fair creature at the door. Then Lady Psyche, ‘ Ah—Melissa—you! You heard us?’ and Melissa, ‘O pardon me I heard, I could not help it, did not wish: But, dearest Lady, pray you fear me not, Nor think I bear that heart within my breast, To give three gallant gentlemen to death.’ ‘ I trust you,’ said the other, ‘ for we two Were always friends, none closer, elm and vine: But yet your mother’s jealous tempera¬ ment— Let not your prudence, dearest, drowse, or prove The Danai'd of a leaky vase, for fear This whole foundation ruin, and I lose My honour, these their lives.’ ‘Ah, fear me not ’ Replied Melissa; ‘no—I would not tell, No, not for all Aspasia’s cleverness, No, not to answer, Madam, all those hard things - That Sheba came to ask of Solomon.’ ‘ Be it so ’ the other, ‘ that we still may lead The new light up, and culminate in peace, For Solomon may come to Sheba yet.’ Said Cyril, ‘ Madam, he the wisest man Feasted the woman wisest then, in halls Of Lebanonian cedar : nor should you (Tho’ Madam you should answer, we would ask) Less welcome find among us, if you came Among us, debtors for our lives to you, Myself for something more.’ He said not what, But ‘Thanks,’ she answer’d ‘Go : we have been too long Together: keep your hoods about the face; They do so that affect abstraction here. Speak little ; mix not with the rest; and hold Your promise: all, I trust, may yet be well.’ We turn’d to go, but Cyril took the child, And held her round the knees against his waist, And blew the swoll’n cheek of a trumpeter, While Psyche watch’d them, smiling, and the child Push’d her flat hand against his face and laugh’d ; And thus our conference closed. And then we stroll’d For half the day thro’ stately theatres Bench’d crescent-wise. In each we sat, we heard The grave Professor. On the lecture slate The circle rounded under female hands With flawless demonstration: follow’d then A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted out By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies And quoted odes, and jewels five-words- long That on the stretch’d forefinger of all Time Sparkle for ever : then we dipt in all That treats of whatsoever is, the state, The total chronicles of man, the mind, The morals, something of the frame, the rock, THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 179 The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, the flower, Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest, And whatsoever can be taught and known ; Till like three horses that have broken fence, And glutted all night long breast-deep in corn, We issued gorged with knowledge, and I spoke: ‘Why, Sirs, they do all this as well as we.’ ‘ They hunt old trails ’ said Cyril ‘ very well; But when did woman ever yet invent ? ’ ‘Ungracious!’ answer’d Florian; ‘have you learnt No more from Psyche’s lecture, you that talk’d The trash that made me sick, and almost sad ?’ ‘ O trash ’ he said, ‘ but with a kernel in it. Should I not call her wise, who made me wise? And learnt ? I learnt more from her in a flash, Than if my brainpan were an empty hull, And every Muse tumbled a science in. A thousand hearts lie fallow in these halls, And round these halls a thousand baby loves Fly twanging headless arrows at the hearts, Whence follows many a vacant pang; but O With me, Sir, enter’d in the bigger boy, The Head of all the golden-shafted firm, The long-limb’d lad that had a Psyche too ; He cleft me thro’ the stomacher; and now What think you of it, Florian ? do I chase The substance or the shadow? will it hold ? I have no sorcerer’s malison on me, No ghostly hauntings like his Highness. I Flatter myself that always everywhere I know the substance when I see it. Well, Are castles shadows? Three of them? Is she The sweet proprietress a shadow ? If not, Shall those three castles patch my tatter’d coat ? For dear are those three castles to my wants, And dear is sister Psyche to my heart, And two dear things are one of double worth, And much I might have said, but that my zone Unmann’d me : then the Doctors ! O to hear The Doctors ! O to watch the thirsty plants Imbibing! once or twice I thought to roar, To break my chain, to shake my mane : but thou, Modulate me, Soul of mincing mimicry ! Make liquid treble of that bassoon, my throat; Abase those eyes that ever loved to meet Star-sisters answering under crescent brows; Abate the stride, which speaks of man, and loose A flying charm of blushes o’er this cheek, Where they like swallows coming out of time Will wonder why they came : but hark the bell For dinner, let us go !’ And in we stream’d Among the columns, pacing staid and still By twos and threes, till all from end to end With beauties every shade of brown and fair In colours gayer than the morning mist, The long hall glitter’d like a bed of flowers. How might a. man not wander from his wits Pierced thro’ with eyes, but that I kept mine own Intent on her, who rapt in glorious dreams, The second-sight of some Astraean age, Sat compass’d with professors : they, the while, i8o THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. Discuss’d a doubt and tost it to and fro : A clamour thicken’d, mixt with inmost terms Of art and science : Lady Blanche alone Of faded form and haughtiest lineaments, With all her autumn tresses falsely brown, Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat In act to spring. At last a solemn grace Concluded, and we sought the gardens: there One walk’d reciting by herself, and one In this hand held a volume as to read, And smoothed a petted peacock down with that : Some to a low song oar’d a shallop by, Or under arches of the marble bridge Hung, shadow’d from the heat: some hid and sought In the orange thickets : others tost a ball Above the fountain-jets, and back again With laughter: others lay about the lawns, Of the older sort, and murmur’d that their May Was passing: what was learning unto them ? They wish’d to marry ; they could rule a house; Men hated learned women : but we three Sat muffled like the Fates; and often came Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts Of gentle satire, kin to charity, That harm’d not: then day droopt; the chapel bells Call’d us: we left the walks; we mixt with those Six hundred maidens clad in purest white, Before two streams of light from wall to wall, While the great organ almost burst his pipes, Groaning for power, and rolling thro’ the court A long melodious thunder to the sound Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies, The work of Ida, to call down from Heaven A blessing on her labours for the world. III. Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea. Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea ! Over the rolling waters go. Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me ; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon ; Rest, rest, on mother’s breast, Father will come to thee soon ; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon : Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. Morn in the white wake of the morning star Came furrowing all the orient into gold. We rose, and each by other drest with care Descended to the court that lay three parts In shadow, but the Muses’ heads were touch’d Above the darkness from their native East. There while we stood beside the fount, and watch’d Or seem’d to watch the dancing bubble, approach’d Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of sleep, Or grief, and glowing round her dewy eyes The circled Iris of a night of tears; ‘And fly,’she cried, ‘O fly, while yet you may ! My mother knows and when I ask’d her ‘how,’ ‘ My fault ’ she wept * my fault! and yet not mine ; Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon me. My mother, ’tis her wont from night to night To rail at Lady Psyche and her side. She says the Princess should have been the Head, Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms ; THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 181 And so it was agreed when first they came ; But Lady Psyche was the right hand now, And she the left, or not, or seldom used ; Hers more than half the students, all the love. And so last night she fell to canvass you : Her countrywomen! she did not envy her. “Who ever saw such wild barbarians? Girls?—more like men !” and at these words the snake, My secret, seem’d to stir within my breast; And oh, Sirs, could I help it, but my cheek Began to burn and burn, and her lynx eye To fix and make me hotter, till she laugh’d: “O marvellously modest maiden, you ! Men ! girls, like men ! why, if they had been men You need not set your thoughts in rubric thus For wholesale comment.” Pardon, I am shamed That I must needs repeat for my excuse What looks so little graceful: “ men ” (for still My mother went revolving on the word) “And so they are,—very like men in¬ deed— And with that woman closeted for hours! ” Then came these dreadful words out one by one, “Why—these— are —men: ” I shudder’d: “ and you know it.” “ O ask me nothing,” I said : “ And she knows too, And she conceals it.” So my mother clutch’d The truth at once, but with no word from me; And now thus early risen she goes to inform The Princess: Lady Psyche will be crush’d ; But you may yet be saved, and therefore fly: But heal me with your pardon ere you go. ’ ‘ What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a blush?’ Said Cyril: ‘ Pale one, blush again: than wear Those lilies, better blush our lives away. Yet let us breathe for one hour more in Heaven ’ He added, ‘ lest some classic Angel speak In scorn of us, “ They mounted, Gany- medes, To tumble, Vulcans, on the second morn.” But I will melt this marble into wax To yield us farther furlough: ’ and he went. Melissa shook her doubtful curls, and thought He scarce would prosper. ‘Tell us,’ Florian ask’d, ‘ How grew this feud betwixt the right and left.’ ‘O long ago,’ she said, ‘betwixt these two Division smoulders hidden ; ’tis my mother, Too jealous, often fretful as the wind Pent in a crevice : much I bear with her: I never knew my father, but she says (God help her) she was wedded to a fool; And still she rail’d against the state of things. She had the care of Lady Ida’s youth, And from the Queen’s decease she brought her up. But when your sister came she won the heart Of Ida : they were still together, grew (For so they said themselves) inosculated; Consonant chords that shiver to one note; One mind in all things : yet my mother still Affirms your Psyche thieved her theories, And angled with them for her pupil’s love : She calls her plagiarist; I know not what: But I must go : I dare not tarry,’ and light, As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled. Then murmur’d Florian gazing after her, ‘ An open-hearted maiden, true and pure. 182 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. If I could love, why this were she : how pretty Her blushing was, and how she blush’d again, As if to close with Cyril’s random wish : Not like your Princess cramm’d with erring pride, Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags in tow.’ ‘ The crane,’ I said, ‘ may chatter of the crane, The dove may murmur of the dove, but I An eagle clang an eagle to the sphere. My princess, O my princess ! true she errs, But in her own grand way: being herself Three times more noble than three score of men, She sees herself in every woman else, And so she wears her error like a crown To blind the truth and me : for her, and her, Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix The nectar ; but—ah she—whene’er she moves The Samian Here rises and she speaks A Memnon smitten with the morning Sun.’ So saying from the court we paced, and gain’d The terrace ranged along the Northern front, And leaning there on those balusters, high Above the empurpled champaign, drank the gale That blown about the foliage underneath, And sated with the innumerable rose, Beat balm upon our eyelids. Hither came Cyril, and yawning ‘ O hard task,’ he cried; ‘ No fighting shadows here ! I forced a way Thro’ solid opposition crabb’d and gnarl’d. Better to clear prime forests, heave and thump A league of street in summer solstice down, Than hammer at this reverend gentle¬ woman. I knock’d and, bidden, enter’d; found her there At point to move, and settled in her eyes The green malignant light of coming storm. Sir, I was courteous, every phrase well- oil’d, As man’s could be ; yet maiden-meek I pray’d Concealment : she demanded who we were, And why we came ? I fabled nothing fair. But, your example pilot, told her all. Up went the hush’d amaze of hand and eye. But when I dwelt upon your old affiance, She answer’d sharply that I talk’d astray. I urged the fierce inscription on the gate, And our three lives. True—we had limed ourselves With open eyes, and we must take the chance. But such extremes, I told her, well might harm The woman’s cause. “Not more than now,” she said, “ So puddled as it is with favouritism.” I tried the mother’s heart. Shame might befall Melissa, knowing, saying not she knew : Her answer was “ Leave me to deal with that.” I spoke of war to come and many deaths, And she replied, her duty was to speak, And duty duty, clear of consequences. I grew discouraged, Sir; but since I knew No rock so hard but that a little wave May beat admission in a thousand years, I recommenced; “Decide not ere you pause. I find you here but in the second place, Some say the third—the authentic found¬ ress you. I offer boldly : we will seat you highest: Wink at our advent: help my prince to . gain His rightful bride, and here I promise you Some palace in our land, where you shall reign THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 83 The head and heart of all our fair she- world, And your great name flow on with broad¬ ening time For ever.” Well, she balanced this a little, And told me she would answer us to-day, Meantime be mute : thus much, nor more I gain’d.’ He ceasing, came a message from the Head. ‘ That afternoon the Princess rode to take The dip of certain strata to the North. Would we go with her? we should find the land Worth seeing ; and the river made a fall Out yonder: ’ then she pointed on to where A double hill ran up his furrowy forks Beyond the thick-leaved platans of the vale. Agreed to, this, the day fled on thro’ all Its range of duties to the appointed hour. Then summon’d to the porch we went. She stood Among her maidens, higher by the head, Her back against a pillar, her foot on one Of those tame leopards. Kittenlike he roll’d And paw’d about her sandal. I drew near ; I gazed. On a sudden my strange seizure came Upon me, the weird vision of our house : The Princess Ida seem’d a hollow show, Her gay-furr’d cats a painted fantasy, Her college and her maidens, empty masks, And I myself the shadow of a dream. For all things were and were not. Yet I felt My heart beat thick with passion and with awe ; Then from my breast the involuntary sigh Brake, as she smote me with the light of eyes That lent my knee desire to kneel, and shook My pulses, till to horse we got, and so Went forth in long retinue following up The river as it narrow’d to the hills. I rode beside her and to me she said : ‘ O friend, we trust that you esteem’d us not Too harsh to your companion yestermorn; Unwillingly we spake. ’ ‘ No—not to her, ’ I answer’d, ‘ but to one of whom we spake 'Your Highness might have seem’d the thing you say.’ ‘Again?’ she cried, ‘are you ambassa¬ dresses From him to me? we give you, being strange, A license : speak, and let the topic die.’ I stammer’d that I knew him—could have wish’d— ‘Our king expects—was there no pre¬ contract ? There is no truer-hearted—ah, you seem All he prefigured, and he could not see The bird of passage flying south but long’d To follow : surely, if-your Highness keep Your purport, you will shock him ev’n to death, Or baser courses, children of despair.’ ‘ Poor boy,’ she said, ‘ can he not read —no books ? Quoit, tennis, ball—no games ? nor deals in that Which men delight in, martial exercise ? To nurse a blind ideal like a girl, Methinks he seems no better than a girl; As girls were once, as we ourself have been : We had our dreams ; perhaps he mixt with them : We touch on our dead self, nor shun to do it, Being other—since we learnt our meaning here, To lift the woman’s fall’n divinity Upon an even pedestal with man.’ 1 84 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. She paused, and added with a haughtier smile ‘ And as to precontracts, we move, my friend, At no man’s beck, but know ourself and thee, O Vashti, noble Vashti ! Summon’d out She kept her state, and left the drunken king To brawl at Shushan underneath the palms.’ ‘ Alas your Highness breathes full' East,’ I said, * On that which leans to you. I know the Prince, I prize his truth: and then how vast a work To assail this gray preeminence of man ! You grant me license; might I use it? think ; Ere half be done perchance your life may fail; Then comes the feebler heiress of your plan, And takes and ruins all; and thus your pains May only make that footprint upon sand Which old-recurring waves of prejudice Resmooth to nothing: might I dread that you, With only Fame for spouse and your great deeds For issue, yet may live in vain, and miss, Meanwhile, what every woman counts her due, Love, children, happiness?’ And she exclaim’d, ‘ Peace, you young savage of the Northern wild ! What! tho’ your Prince’s love were like a God’s, Have we not made ourself the sacrifice ? You are bold indeed : we are not talk’d to thus : Yet will we say for children, would they grew Like field-flowers everywhere ! we like them well: But children die; and let me tell you, girl, Howe’er you babble, great deeds cannot die ; They with the sun and moon renew their light For ever, blessing those that look on them. Children—that men may pluck them from our hearts, Kill us with pity, break us with ourselves— O—children—there is nothing upon earth More miserable than she that has a son And sees him err : nor would we work for fame; Tho’ she perhaps might reap the applause of Great, Who learns the one pou sto whence after¬ hands May move the world, tho’ she herself effect But little : wherefore up and act, nor shrink For fear our solid aim be dissipated By frail successors. Would, indeed, we had been, In lieu of many mortal flies, a race Of giants living, each, a thousand years, That we might see our own work out, and watch The sandy footprint harden into stone.'’ I answer’d nothing, doubtful in myself If that strange Poet-princess with her grand Imaginations might at all be won. And she broke out interpreting my thoughts : ‘ No doubt we seem a kind of monster to you ; We are used to that: for women, up till this Cramp’d under worse than South-sea-isle taboo, Dwarfs of the gynseceum, fail so far In high desire, they know not, cannot guess How much their welfare is a passion to us. If we could give them surer, quicker proof— Oh if our end were less achievable THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. By slow approaches, than by single act Of immolation, any phase of death. We were as prompt to spring against the pikes, Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it, To compass our dear sisters’ liberties.’ She bow’d as if to veil a noble tear ; And up we came to where the river sloped To plunge in cataract, shattering on black blocks A breadth of thunder. O’er it shook the woods, And danced the colour, and, below, stuck out The bones of some vast bulk that lived and roar’d Before man was. She gazed awhile and said, 4 As these rude bones to us, are we to her That will be.’ ‘Dare we dream of that,’ I ask’d, ‘ Which wrought us, as the workman and his work, That practice betters ? ’ ‘ How, ’ she cried, ‘ you love The metaphysics ! read and earn our prize, A golden brooch : beneath an emerald plane Sits Diotima, teaching him that died Of hemlock ; our device ; wrought to the life ; She rapt upon her subject, he on her : For there are schools for all.’ ‘And yet’ I said ‘ Methinks I have not found among them all One anatomic.’ ‘ Nay, we thought of that,’ She answer’d, ‘ but it pleased us not: in truth We shudder but to dream our maids should ape Those monstrous males that carve the living hound, And cram him with the fragments of the grave, Or in the dark dissolving human heart, And holy secrets of this microcosm, 185 Dabbling a shameless hand with shameful jest, Encarnalize their spirits : yet we know Knowledge is knowledge, and this matter hangs: Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty, Nor willing men should come among us, learnt, For many weary moons before we came, This craft of healing. Were you sick, ourself Would tend upon you. To your question now, Which touches on the workman and his work. Let there be light and there was light: ’tis so: For was, and is, and will be, are but is ; And all creation is one act at once, The birth of light: but we that are not all, As parts, can see but parts, now this, now that, And live, perforce, from thought to thought, and make One act a phantom of succession : thus Our weakness somehow shapes the shadow, Time ; But in the shadow will we work, and mould The woman to the fuller day.’ She spake With kindled eyes: we rode a league beyond, And, o’er a bridge of pinewood crossing, came On flowery levels underneath the crag, Full of all beauty. ‘ O how sweet’ I said (For I was half-oblivious of my mask) ‘To linger here with one that loved us.’ ‘Yea,’ She answer’d, ‘ or with fair philosophies That lift the fancy; for indeed these fields Are lovely, lovelier not the Elysian lawns, Where paced the Demigods of old, and saw The soft white vapour streak the crowned towers Built to the Sun :’ then, turning to her maids, ‘ Pitch our pavilion here upon the sward; 186 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. Lay out the viands.’ At the word, they raised A tent of satin, elaborately wrought With fair Corinna’s triumph; here she stood, Engirt with many a florid maiden-cheek, The woman-conqueror; woman-conquer’d there The bearded Victor of ten-thousand hymns, And all the men mourn’d at his side : but we Set forth to climb; then, climbing, Cyril kept With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I With mine affianced. Many a little hand Glanced like a touch of sunshine on the rocks, Many a light foot shone like a jewel set In the dark crag: and then we turn’d, we wound About the cliffs, the copses, out and in, Hammering and clinking, chattering stony names Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap and tuff, Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sun Grew broader toward his death and fell, and all The rosy heights came out above the lawns. IV. The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going ! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river : Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. ‘There sinks the nebulous star we call the Sun, If that hypothesis of theirs be sound ’ Said Ida ; ‘ let us down and rest; ’ and we Down from the lean and wrinkled preci¬ pices, By every coppice - feather’d chasm and cleft, Dropt thro’ the ambrosial gloom to where below No bigger than a glow-worm shone the tent Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she lean’d on me, Descending; once or twice she lent her hand, And blissful palpitations in the blood, Stirring a sudden transport rose and fell. But when we planted level feet, and dipt Beneath the satin dome and enter’d in, There leaning deep in broider’d down we sank Our elbows : on a tripod in the midst A fragrant flame rose, and before us glow’d Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and gold. Then she, ‘ Let some one sing to us : lightlier move The minutes fledged with music : ’ and a maid, Of those beside her, smote her harp, and sang. ‘ Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. ‘ Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge ; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. ‘ Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken’d birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 187 ‘ Dear as remember’d kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign’d On lips that are for others ; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more.’ She ended with such passion that the tear, She sang of, shook and fell, an erring pearl Lost in her bosom: but with some disdain Answer’d the Princess, ‘If indeed there haunt About the moulder’d lodges of the Past So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men, Well needs it we should cram our ears with wool And so pace by: but thine are fancies hatch’d In silken-folded idleness ; nor is it Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, But trim our sails, and let old bygones be, While down the streams that float us each and all To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice, Throne after throne, and molten on the waste Becomes a cloud: for all things serve their time Toward that great year of equal mights and rights, Nor would I fight with iron laws, in the end Pound golden : let the past be past; let be Their cancell’d Babels: tho’ the rough kex break The starr’d mosaic, and the beard-blown goat Hang on the shaft, and the wild figtree split Their monstrous idols, care not while we hear A trumpet in the distance pealing news Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, bums Above the unrisen morrow : ’ then to me; ‘ Know you no song of your own land,’ she said, ‘ Not such as moans about the retrospect, But deals with the other distance and the hues Of promise ; not a death’s-head at the wine. ’ Then I remember’d one myself had made, What time I watch’d the swallow wing¬ ing south From mine own land, part made long since, and part Now while I sang, and maidenlike as far As I could ape their treble, did I sing. ‘ O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves. And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. ‘ O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North. ‘O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 1 O were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. ‘ Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays To clothe herself, when all the woods are green ? ' O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown : Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, But in the North long since my nest is made. ‘ O tell her, brief is life but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South. ‘ O Swallow, flying from the golden woods. Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.’ I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each, Like the Ithacensian suitors in old time, Stared with great eyes, and laugh’d with alien lips, And knew not what they meant; for still my voice Rang false: but smiling ‘ Not for thee,’ she said, THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 188 ‘ O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan Shall burst her veil: marsh-divers, rather, maid, Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow- crake Grate her harsh kindred in the grass : and this A mere love-poem ! O for such, my friend, We hold them slight: they mind us of the time When we made bricks in Egypt. Knaves are men, That lute and flute fantastic tenderness, And dress the victim to the offering up. And paint the gates of Hell with Paradise, And play the slave to gain the tyranny. Poor soul ! I had a maid of honour once; She wept her true eyes blind for such a one, A rogue of canzonets and serenades. I loved her. Peace be with her. She is dead. So they blaspheme the muse ! But great is song Used to great ends: ourself have often tried Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have dash’d The passion of the prophetess ; for song Is duer unto freedom, force and growth Of spirit than to junketing and love. Love is it ? Would this same mock-love, and this Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter bats, Till all men grew to rate us at our worth, Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes To be dandled, no, but living wills, and sphered Whole in ourselves and owed to none. Enough ! But now to leaven play with profit, you, Know you no song, the true growth of your soil, That gives the manners of your country¬ women ?’ She spoke and turn’d her sumptuous head with eyes Of shining expectation fixt on mine. Then while I dragg’d my brains for such a song, Cyril, with whom the bell-mouth’d glass had wrought, Or master’d by the sense of sport, began To troll a careless, careless tavern-catch Of Moll and Meg, and strange experiences Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded at him, I frowning; Psyche flush’d and wann’d and shook; The lilylike Melissa droop’d her brows ; ‘ Forbear,’ the Princess cried ; ‘ Forbear, Sir’ I; And heated thro’ and thro’ with wrath and love, I smote him on the breast; he started up; There rose a shriek as of a city sack’d ; Melissa clamour’d ‘ Flee the death ‘To horse ’ Said Ida ; ‘ home ! to horse ! ’ and fled, as flies A troop of snowy doves athwart the dusk, When some one batters at the dovecote- doors. Disorderly the women. Alone I stood With Florian, cursing Cyril, vext at heart, In the pavilion : there like parting hopes I heard them passing from me : hoof by hoof, And every hoof a knell to my desires, Clang’d on the bridge ; and then another shriek, ‘The Head, the Head, the Princess, O the Head! ’ For blind with rage she miss’d the plank, and roll’d In the river. Out I sprang from glow to gloom : There whirl’d her white robe like a blossom’d branch Rapt to the horrible fall: a glance I gave, No more ; but woman-vested as I was Plunged; and the flood drew; yet I caught her; then Oaring one arm, and bearing in my left The weight of all the hopes of half the world, Strove to buffet to land in vain. A tree THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 189 Was half-disrooted from his place and stoop’d To drench his dark locks in the gurgling wave Mid-channel. Right on this we drove and caught, And grasping down the boughs I gain’d the shore. There stood her maidens glimmeringly group’d In the hollow bank. One reaching forward drew My burthen from mine arms ; they cried * she lives : ’ They bore her back into the tent: but I, So much a kind of shame within me wrought, Not yet endured to meet her opening eyes, Nor found my friends ; but push’d alone on foot (For since her horse was lost I left her mine) Across the woods, and less from Indian craft Than beelike instinct hiveward, found at length The garden portals. Two great statues, Art And Science, Caryatids, lifted up A weight of emblem, and betwixt were valves Of open-work in which the hunter rued His rash intrusion, manlike, but his brows Had sprouted, and the branches thereupon Spread out at top, and grimly spiked the gates. A little space was left between the horns, Thro’ which I clamber’d o’er at top with pain, Dropt on the sward, and up the linden walks, And, tost on thoughts that changed from hue to hue, Now poring on the glowworm, now the star, I paced the terrace, till the Bear had wheel’d Thro’ a great arc his seven slow suns. A step Of lightest echo, then a loftier form Than female, moving thro’ the uncertain gloom, Disturb’d me with the doubt * if this were she,’ But it was Florian. ‘ Hist O Hist,’ he said, ‘ They seek us : out so late is out of rules. Moreover ‘ seize the strangers ’ is the cry. How came you here ? ’ I told him : ‘ I ’ said he, ‘ Last of the train, a moral leper, I, To whom none spake, half-sick at heart, return’d. Arriving all confused among the rest With hooded brows I crept into the hall, And, couch’d behind a Judith, underneath The head of Holofernes peep’d and saw. Girl after girl was call’d to trial: each Disclaim’d all knowledge of us : last of all, Melissa : trust me, Sir, I pitied her. She, question’d if she knew us men, at first Was silent; closer prest, denied it not : And then, demanded if her mother knew, Or Psyche, she affirm’d not, or denied : From whence the Royal mind, familiar with her, Easily gather’d either guilt. She sent For Psyche, but she was not there; she call’d For Psyche’s child to cast it from the doors; She sent for Blanche to accuse her face to face; And I slipt out: but whither will you now ? And where are Psyche, Cyril ? both are fled : What, if together ? that were not so well. Would rather we had never come! I dread His wildness, and the chances of the dark,’ ‘ And yet,’ I said, ‘you wrong him more than I That struck him : this is proper to the clown, Tho’ smock’d, or furr’d and purpled, still the clown, THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 190 To harm the thing that trusts him, and to shame That which he says he loves: for Cyril, howe’er He deal in frolic, as to-night—the song Might have been worse and sinn’d in grosser lips Beyond all pardon—as it is, I hold These flashes on the surface are not he. He has a solid base of temperament: But as the waterlily starts and slides Upon the level in little puffs of wind, Tho’ anchor’d to the bottom, such is he.’ Scarce had I ceased when from a tamarisk near Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, * Names: ’ He, standing still, was clutch’d; but I began To thrid the musky-circled mazes, wind And double in and out the boles, and race By all the fountains : fleet I was of foot: Before me shower’d the rose in flakes; behind I heard the puff’d pursuer ; at mine ear Bubbled the nightingale and heeded not, And secret laughter tickled all my soul. At last I hook’d my ankle in a vine, That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, And falling on my face was caught and known. They haled us to the Princess where she sat High in the hall: above her droop’d a lamp, And made the single jewel on her brow Burn like the mystic fire on a mast¬ head, Prophet of storm : a handmaid on each side Bow’d toward her, combing out her long black hair Damp from the river ; and close behind her stood Eight daughters of the plough, stronger than men, Huge women blowzed with health, and wind, and rain, And labour. Each was like a Druid rock; Or like a spire of land that stands apart Cleft from the main, and wail’d about with mews. Then, as we came, the crowd dividing clove An advent to the throne: and therebeside, Half-naked as if caught at once from bed And tumbled on the purple footcloth, lay The lily-shining child ; and on the left, Bow’d on her palms and folded up from wrong, Her round white shoulder shaken with her sobs, Melissa knelt; but Lady Blanche erect Stood up and spake, an affluent orator. ‘ It was not thus, O Princess, in old days : You prized my counsel, lived upon my lips: I led you then to all the Castalies ; I fed you with the milk of every Muse ; I loved you like this kneeler, and you me Your second mother : those were gracious times. Then came your new friend : you began to change— I saw it and grieved—to slacken and to cool; Till taken with her seeming openness You turn’d your warmer currents all to her, To me you froze : this was my meed for all. Yet I bore up in part from ancient love, And partly that I hoped to win you back, And partly conscious of my own deserts, And partly that you were my civil head, And chiefly you were born for something great, In which I might your fellow-worker be, When time should serve; and thus a noble scheme Grew up from seed we two long since had sown; In us true growth, in her a Jonah’s gourd, Up in one night and due to sudden sun : We took this palace ; but even from the first THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 191 You stood in your own light and darken’d mine. What student came but that you planed her path To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, A foreigner, and I your countrywoman, I your old friend and tried, she new in all ? But still her lists were swell’d and mine were lean; Yet I bore up in hope she would be known: Then came these wolves : they knew her : they endured, Long-closeted with her the yestermorn, To tell her what they were, and she to hear: And me none told : not less to an eye like mine A lidless watcher of the public weal, Last night, their mask was patent, and my foot Was to you : but I thought again : I fear’d To meet a cold “We thank you, we shall hear of it From Lady Psyche: ” you had gone to her, She told, perforce; and winning easy grace, No doubt, for slight delay, remain’d among us In our young nursery still unknown, the stem Less grain than touchwood, while my honest heat Were all miscounted as malignant haste To push my rival out of place and power. But public use required she should be known ; And since my oath was ta’en for public use, I broke the letter of it to keep the sense. I spoke not then at first, but watch’d them well, Saw that they kept apart, no mischief done; And yet this day (tho’ you should hate me for it) I came to tell you ; found that you had gone, Ridd’n to the hills, she likewise: now, I thought, That surely she will speak; if not, then I: Did she ? These monsters blazon’d what they were, According to the coarseness of their kind, For thus I hear; and known at last (my work) And full of cowardice and guilty shame, I grant in her some sense of shame, she flies; And I remain on whom to wreak your rage, I, that have lent my life to build up yours, I that have wasted here health, wealth, and time, And talent, I—you know it—I will not boast: Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan, Divorced from my experience, will be chaff For every gust of chance, and men will say We did not know the real light, but chased The wisp that flickers where no foot can tread.’ She ceased: the Princess answer’d coldly, ‘ Good : Your oath is broken: we dismiss you: go. For this lost lamb (she pointed to the child) Our mind is changed: we take it to our¬ self.’ Thereat the Lady stretch’d a vulture throat, And shot from crooked lips a haggard smile. ‘ The plan was mine. I built the nest ’ she said ‘To hatch the cuckoo. Rise! ’ and stoop’d to updrag Melissa : she, half on her mother propt, Half-drooping from her, turn’d her face, and cast A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer, Which melted Florian’s fancy as she hung, A Niobean daughter, one arm out, Appealing to the bolts of Heaven; and while We gazed upon her came a little stir About the doors, and on a sudden rush’d Among us, out of breath, as one pursued, A woman-post in flying raiment. Fear 192 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. Stared in her eyes, and chalk’d her face, and wing’d Her transit to the throne, whereby she fell Delivering seal’d dispatches which the Head Took half-amazed, and in her lion’s mood Tore open, silent we with blind surmise Regarding, while she read, till over brow And cheek and bosom brake the wrath¬ ful bloom As of some fire against a stormy cloud, When the wild peasant rights himself, the rick Flames, and his anger reddens in the heavens; For anger most it seem’d, while now her breast, Beaten with some great passion at her heart, Palpitated, her hand shook, and we heard In the dead hush the papers that she held Rustle : at once the lost lamb at her feet Sent out a bitter bleating for its dam ; The plaintive cry jarr’d on her ire; she crush’d The scrolls together, made a sudden turn As if to speak, but, utterance failing her, She whirl’d them on to me, as who should say * Read,’ and I read—two letters—one her sire’s. ‘ Fair daughter, when we sent the Prince your way We knew not your ungracious laws, which learnt, We, conscious of what temper you are built, Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but fell Into his father’s hands, who has this night, You lying close upon his territory, Slipt round and in the dark invested you, And here he keeps me hostage for his son.’ The second was my father’s running thus: ‘You have our son: touch not a hair of his head : Render him up unscathed : give him your hand: Cleave to your contract: tho’ indeed we hear You hold the woman is the better man ; A rampant heresy, such as if it spread Would make all women kick against their Lords Thro’ all the world, and which might well deserve That we this night should pluck your palace down ; And we will do it, unless you send us back Our son, on the instant, whole. ’ So far I read ; And then stood up and spoke impetuously. ‘ O not to pry and peer on your reserve, But led by golden wishes, and a hope The child of regal compact, did I break Your precinct; not a scomer of your sex But venerator, zealous it should be All that it might be : hear me, for I bear, Tho’ man, yet human, whatsoe’er your wrongs, From the flaxen curl to the gray lock a life Less mine than yours: my nurse would tell me of you ; I babbled for you, as babies for the moon, Vague brightness; when a boy, you stoop’d to me From all high places, lived in all fair lights, Came in long breezes rapt from inmost south And blown to inmost north; at eve and dawn With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods ; The leader wildswan in among the stars Would clang it, and lapt in wreaths of glowworm light The mellow breaker murmur’d Ida. Now, Because I would have reach’d you, had you been Sphered up with Cassiopeia, or the en¬ throned Persephone in Hades, now at length, Those winters of abeyance all worn out, A man I came to see you: but,'indeed, Not in this frequence can I lend full tongue, O noble Ida, to those thoughts that wait THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 193 On you, their centre : let me say but this, That many a famous man and woman, town And landskip, have I heard of, after seen The dwarfs of presage : tho’ when known, there grew Another kind of beauty in detail Made them, worth knowing ; but in you I found My boyish dream involved and dazzled down And master’d, while that after-beauty makes Such head from act to act, from hour to hour, Within me, that except you slay me here, According to your bitter statute-book, I cannot cease to follow you, as they say The seal does music ; who desire you more Than growing boys their manhood ; dy¬ ing lips, With many thousand matters left to do, The breath of life; O more than poor men wealth, Than sick men health—yours, yours, not mine—but half Without you ; with you, whole; and of those halves You worthiest; and howe’er you block and bar Your heart with system out from mine, I hold That it becomes no man to nurse despair, But in the teeth of clench’d antagonisms To follow up the worthiest till he die : Yet that I came not all unauthorized Behold your father’s letter.’ On one knee Kneeling, I gave it, which she caught, and dash’d Unopen’d at her feet : a tide of fierce Invective seem’d to wait behind her lips, As waits a river level with the dam Ready to burst and flood the world with foam : And so she would have spoken, but there rose A hubbub in the court of half the maids Gather’d together: from the illumined hall Long lanes of splendour slanted o’er a press Of snowy shoulders, thick as herded ewes, And rainbow robes, and gems and gem¬ like eyes, And gold and golden heads ; they to and fro Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some red, some pale, All open-mouth’d, all gazing to the light, Some crying there was an army in the land, And some that men were in the very walls, And some they cared not; till a clamour grew As of a new-world Babel, woman-built, And worse-confounded : high above them stood The placid marble Muses, looking peace. Not peace she look’d, the Head : but rising up Robed in the long night of her deep hair, so To the open window moved, remaining there Fixt like a beacon-tower above the waves Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling eye Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the light Dash themselves dead. She stretch’d her arms and call’d Across the tumult and the tumult fell. ‘What fear ye, brawlers? am not I your Head ? On me, me, me, the storm first breaks : I dare All these male thunderbolts : what is it ye fear? Peace ! there are those to avenge us and they come : If not,—myself were like enough, O girls, To unfurl the maiden banner of our rights, And clad in iron burst the ranks of war, Or, falling, protomartyr of our cause, Die : yet I blame you not so much for fear ; o 194 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. Six thousand years of fear have made you that From which I would redeem you: but for those That stir this hubbub—you and you—I know Your faces there in the crowd—to-morrow morn We hold a great convention : then shall they That love their voices more than duty, learn With whom they deal, dismiss’d in shame to live No wiser than their mothers, household stuff, Live chattels, mincers of each other’s fame, Full of weak poison, turnspits for the clown, The drunkard’s football, laughing-stocks of Time, Whose brains are in their hands and in their heels, But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to thrum, To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and to scour, For ever slaves at home and fools abroad.’ She, ending, waved her hands : thereat the crowd Muttering, dissolved : then with a smile, that look’d A stroke of cruel sunshine on the cliff, When all the glens are drown’d in azure gloom Of thunder-shower, she floated to us and said : ‘You have done well and like a gentleman, And like a prince : you have our thanks for all: And you look well too in your woman’s dress: Well have you done and like a gentleman. You saved our life : we owe you bitter thanks: Better have died and spilt our bones in the flood— Then men had said—but now—What hinders me To take such bloody vengeance on you both ?— Yet since our father—Wasps in our good hive, You would-be quenchers of the light to be, Barbarians, grosser than your native bears— O would I had his sceptre for one hour ! You that have dared to break our bound, and gull’d Our servants, wrong’d and lied ancl thwarted us— / wed with thee ! / bound by precontract Your bride, your bondslave ! not tho’ all the gold That veins the world were pack’d to make your crown, And every spoken tongue should lord you. Sir, Your falsehood and yourself are hateful to us: I trample on your offers and on you : Begone: we will not look upon you more. Here, push them out at gates.’ In wrath she spake. Then those eight mighty daughters of the plough Bent their broad faces toward us and address’d Their motion : twice I sought to plead my cause, But on my shoulder hung their heavy hands, The weight of destiny: so from her face They push’d us, down the steps, and thro’ the court, And with grim laughter thrust us out at gates. We cross’d the street and gain’d a petty mound Beyond it, whence we saw the lights -and heard The voices murmuring. While I listen’d, came On a sudden the weird seizure and the doubt: THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 195 I seem’d to move among a world of ghosts; The Princess with her monstrous woman- guard, The jest and earnest working side by side, The cataract and the tumult and the kings Were shadows; and the long fantastic night With all its doings had and had not been, And all things were and were not. This went by As strangely as it came, and on my spirits Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy ; Not long; I shook it off; for spite of doubts And sudden ghostly shadowings I was one To whom the touch of all mischance but came As night to him that sitting on a hill Sees the midsummer, midnight, Norway sun Set into sunrise ; then we moved away. Thy voice is heard thro’ rolling drums, That beat to battle where he stands ; Thy face across his fancy comes, And gives the battle to his hands : A moment, while the trumpets blow, He sees his brood about thy knee ; The next, like fire he meets the foe. And strikes him dead for thine and thee. So Lilia sang: we thought her half- possess’d, She struck such warbling fury thro’ the words; And, after, feigning pique at what she call’d The raillery, or grotesque, or false sub¬ lime— Like one that wishes at a dance to change The music—clapt her hands and cried for war, Or some grand fight to kill and make an end : And he that next inherited the tale Half turning to the broken statue, said, ‘ Sir Ralph has got your colours : if I prove Your knight, and fight your battle, what for me?’ It chanced, her empty glove upon the tomb Lay by her like a model of her hand. She took it and she flung it. ‘ Fight ’ she said, ‘ And make us all we would be, great and good.’ He knightlike in his cap instead of casque, A cap of Tyrol borrow’d from the hall, Arranged the favour, and assumed the Prince. v. Now, scarce three paces measured from the mound, We stumbled on a stationary voice, And ‘ Stand, who goes ?’ ‘ Two from the palace’ I. ‘The second two: they wait,’ he said, ‘ pass on ; His Highness wakes: ’ and one, that clash’d in arms, By glimmering lanes and walls of canvas led Threading the soldier-city, till we heard The drowsy folds of our great ensign shake From blazon’d lions o’er the imperial tent Whispers of war. Entering, the sudden light Dazed me half-blind : I stood and seem’d to hear, As in a poplar grove when a light wind wakes A lisping of the innumerous leaf and dies, Each hissing in his neighbour’s ear ; and then A strangled titter, out of which there brake On all sides, clamouring etiquette to death, Unmeasured mirth ; while now the two old kings Began to wag their baldness up and down, The fresh young captains flash’d their glittering teeth, The huge bush-bearded Barons heaved and blew, And slain with laughter roll’d the gilded Squire. 196 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. At length my Sire, his rough cheek wet with tears, Panted from weary sides ‘ King, you are free ! We did but keep you surety for our son, If this be he,—or a draggled mawkin, thou, That tends her bristled grunters in the sludge: ’ For I was drench’d with ooze, and torn with briers, More crumpled than a poppy from the sheath, And all one rag, disprinced from head to heel. Then some one sent beneath his vaulted palm A whisper’d jest to some one near him, ‘ Look, He has been among his shadows. ’ ‘ Satan take The old women and their shadows! (thus the King Roar’d) make yourself a man to fight with men. Go : Cyril told us all.’ As boys that slink From ferule and the trespass-chiding eye, Away we stole, and transient in a trice From what was left of faded woman- slough To sheathing splendours and the golden scale Of harness, issued in the sun, that now Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the Earth, And hit the Northern hills. Here Cyril met us. A little shy at first, but by and by We twain, with mutual pardon ask’d and given For stroke and song, resolder’d peace, whereon Follow’d his tale. Amazed he fled away Thro’ the dark land, and later in the night Had come on Psyche weeping : ‘ then we fell Into your father’s hand, and there she lies, But will not speak, nor stir.’ He show’d a tent A stone-shot off: we enter’d in, and there Among piled arms and rough accoutre¬ ments, Pitiful sight, wrapp’d in a soldier’s cloak, Like some sweet sculpture draped from head to foot, And push’d by rude hands from its pedestal, All her fair length upon the ground she lay: And at her head a follower of the camp, A charr’d and wrinkled piece of woman¬ hood, Sat watching like a watcher by the dead. Then Florian knelt, and ‘ Come ’ he whisper’d to her, ‘ Lift up your head, sweet sister : lie not thus. What have you done but right ? you could not slay Me, nor your prince : look up : be com¬ forted : Sweet is it to have done the thing one ought, When fall’n in darker ways.’ And like¬ wise I: ‘ Be comforted : have I not lost her too, In whose least act abides the nameless charm That none has else for me ?’ She heard, she moved, She moan’d, a folded voice; and up she sat, And raised the cloak from brows as pale and smooth As those that mourn half-shrouded over death In deathless marble. ‘ Her,’ she said, ‘ my friend— Parted from her—betray’d her cause and mine— Where shall I breathe ? why kept ye not your faith ? O base and bad ! what comfort? none for me !’ To whom remorseful Cyril, ‘Yet I pray Take comfort: live, dear lady, for your child!’ At which she lifted up her voice and cried. THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 197 ‘ Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah, my child, My one sweet child, whom I shall see no more ! For now will cruel Ida keep her back ; And either she will die from want of care, Or sicken with ill-usage, when they say The child is hers—for every little fault, The child is hers ; and they will beat my girl Remembering her mother: O my flower! Or they will take her, they will make her hard, And she will pass me by in after-life With some cold reverence worse than were she dead. Ill mother that I was to leave her there, To lag behind, scared by the cry they made, The horror of the shame among them all: But I will go and sit beside the doors, And make a wild petition night and day, Until they hate to hear me like a wind Wailing for ever, till they open to me, And lay my little blossom at my feet, My babe, my sweet Agla'ia, my one child: And I will take her up and go my way, And satisfy my soul with kissing her : Ah ! what might that man not deserve of me Who gave me back my child?’ ‘Be comforted,’ Said Cyril, ‘you shall have it:’ but again She veil’d her brows, and prone she sank, and so Like tender things that being caught feign death, Spoke not, nor stirr’d. By this a murmur ran Thro’ all the camp and inward raced the scouts With rumour of Prince Arac hard at hand. We left her by the woman, and without Found the gray kings at parle: and ‘ Look you ’ cried My father ‘ that our compact be fulfill’d : You have spoilt this child ; she laughs at you and man : She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, and him : But red-faced war has rods of steel and fire ; She yields, or war.’ Then Gama turn’d to me : ‘ We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy time With our strange girl: and yet they say that still You love her. Give us, then, your mind at large : How say you, war or not ?’ ‘ Not war, if possible, O king,’ I said, ‘lest from the abuse of war, The desecrated shrine,, the trampled year, The smouldering homestead, and the household flower Torn from the lintel—all the common wrong— A smoke go up thro’ which I loom to her Three times a monster : now she lightens scorn At him that mars her plan, but then would hate (And every voice she talk’d with ratify it, And every face she look’d on justify it) The general foe. More soluble is this knot, By gentleness than war. I want her love. What were I nigher this altho’ we dash’d Your cities into shards with catapults, She would not love;—or brought her chain’d, a slave, The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord, Not ever would she love; but brooding turn The book of scorn, till all my flitting chance Were caught within the record of her wrongs, And crush’d to death : and rather, Sire, than this I would the old God of war himself were dead, Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills, Rotting on some wild shore with ribs of wreck, Or like an old-world mammoth bulk’d in ice, Not to be molten out.’ THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 198 And roughly spake My father, ‘Tut, you know them not, the girls. Boy, when I hear you prate I almost think That idiot legend credible. Look you, Sir ! Man is the hunter ; woman is his game : The sleek and shining creatures of the chase, We hunt them for the beauty of their skins ; They love us for it, and we ride them down. Wheedling and siding with them ! Out! for shame ! Boy, there’s no rose that’s half so dear to them As he that does the thing they dare not do, Breathing and sounding beauteous battle, comes With the air of the trumpet round him, and leaps in Among the women, snares them by the score Flatter’d and fluster’d, wins, tho’ dash’d with death He reddens what he kisses: thus I won Your mother, a good mother, a good wife, Worth winning; but this firebrand— gentleness To such as her ! if Cyril spake her true, To catch a dragon in a cherry net, To trip a tigress with a gossamer, Were wisdom to it.’ ‘Yea but Sire,’ I cried, ‘ Wild natures need wise curbs. The soldier ? No : What dares not Ida do that she should prize The soldier ? I beheld her, when she rose The yesternight, and storming in extremes, Stood for her cause, and flung defiance down Gagelike to man, and had not shunn’d the death, No, not the soldier’s: yet I hold her, king, True woman : but you clash them all in one, That have as many differences as we. The violet varies from the lily as far As oak from elm : one loves the soldier, one The silken priest of peace, one this, one that, And some unworthily ; their sinless faith, A maiden moon that sparkles on a sty, Glorifying clown and satyr ; whence they need More breadth of culture: is not Ida right? They worth it ? truer to the law within ? Severer in the logic of a life ? Twice as magnetic to sweet influences Of earth and heaven ? and she of whom you speak, My mother, looks as whole as some serene Creation minted in the golden moods Of sovereign artists; not a thought, a touch, But pure as lines of green that streak the white Of the first snowdrop’s inner leaves; I say, Not like the piebald miscellany, man, Bursts of great heart and slips in sensual mire, But whole and one: and take them all- in-all, Were we ourselves but half as good, as kind, As truthful, much that Ida claims as right Had ne’er been mooted, but as frankly theirs As dues of Nature. To our point: not war: Lest I lose all.’ ‘ Nay, nay, you spake but sense ’ Said Gama. ‘ We remember love ourself In our sweet youth ; we did not rate him then This red-hot iron to be shaped with blows. You talk almost like Ida : she can talk ; And there is something in it as you say : But you talk kindlier : we esteem you for it.— He seems a gracious and a gallant Prince, I would he had our daughter: for the rest, Our own detention, why, the causes weigh’d, Fatherly fears—you used us courteously— We would do much to gratify your Prince— We pardon it; and for your ingress here Upon the skirt and fringe of our fair land, THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 199 You did but come as goblins in the night, Nor in the furrow broke the ploughman’s head, Nor burnt the grange, nor buss’d the milking-maid, Nor robb’d the farmer of his bowl of cream : But let your Prince (our royal word upon it, He comes back safe) ride with us to our lines, And speak with Arac: Arac’s word is thrice As ours with Ida: something may be done— I know not what—and ours shall see us friends. You, likewise, our late guests, if so you will, Follow us: who knows ? we four may build some plan Foursquare to opposition.’ Here he reach’d White hands of farewell to my sire, who growl’d An answer which, half-muffled in his beard, Let so much out as gave us leave to go. Then rode we with the old king across the lawns Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings of Spring In every bole, a song on every spray Of birds that piped their Valentines, and woke Desire in me to infuse my tale of love In the old king’s ears, who promised help, and oozed All o’er with honey’d answer as we rode And blossom - fragrant slipt the heavy dews Gather’d by night and peace, with each light air On our mail’d heads : but other thoughts than Peace Burnt in us, when we saw the embattled squares, And squadrons of the Prince, trampling the flowers With clamour: for among them rose a cry As if to greet the king; they made a halt; The horses yell’d; they clash’d their arms; the drum Beat; merrily-blowing shrill’d the martial fife ; And in the blast and bray of the long horn And serpent-throated bugle, undulated The banner: anon to meet us lightly pranced Three captains out; nor ever had I seen Such thews of men: the midmost and the highest Was Arac : all about his motion clung The shadow of his sister, as the beam Of the East, that play’d upon them, made them glance Like those three stars of the airy Giant’s zone, That glitter burnish’d by the frosty dark; And as the fiery Sirius alters hue, And bickers into red and emerald, shone Their morions, wash’d with morning, as they came. And I that prated peace, when first I heard War-music, felt the blind wildbeast of force, Whose home is in the sinews of a man, Stir in me as to strike: then took the king His three broad sons; with now a wander¬ ing hand And now a pointed finger, told them all : A common light of smiles at our disguise Broke from their lips, and, ere the windy jest Had labour’d down within his ample lungs, The genial giant, Arac, roll’d himself Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in words. ‘ Our land invaded, ’sdeath ! and he himself Your captive, yet my father wills not war : And, ’sdeath ! myself, what care I, war or no ? But then this question of your troth re¬ mains : And there’s a downright honest meaning in her; 200 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. She flies too high, she flies too high ! and yet She ask’d but space and fairplay for her scheme ; She prest and prest it on me—I myself, What know I of these things ? but,* life and soul! I thought her half-right talking of her wrongs ; I say she flies too high, ’sdeath! what of that ? I take her for the flower of womankind, And so I often told her, right or wrong, And, Prince, she can be sweet to those she loves, And, right or wrong, I care not : this is all, I stand upon her side : she made me swear it— ’Sdeath—and with solemn rites by candle¬ light— Swear by St. something—I forget her name— Her that talk'd down the fifty wisest men; She was a princess too ; and so I swore. Come, this is all; she will not : waive your claim : If not, the foughten field, what else, at once Decides it, ’sdeath ! against my father’s will.’ I lagg’d in answer loth to render up My precontract, and loth by brainless war To cleave the rift of difference deeper yet; Till one of those two brothers, half aside And fingering at the hair about his lip, To prick us on to combat ‘ Like to like ! The woman’s garment hid the woman’s heart.’ A taunt that clench’d his purpose like a blow ! For fiery-short was Cyril’s counter-scoff, And sharp I answer’d, touch’d upon the point Where idle boys are cowards to their shame, * Decide it here : why not ? we are three to three.’ Then spake the third ‘ But three to three ? no more ? No more, and in our noble sister’s cause ? More, more, for honour: every captain waits Hungry for honour, angry for his king. More, more, some fifty on a side, that each May breathe himself, and quick! by over¬ throw Of these or those, the question settled die. ’ ‘ Yea,’ answer’d I, ‘for this wild wreath of air, This flake of rainbow flying on the highest Foam of men’s deeds—this honour, if ye will. It needs must be for honour if at all: Since, what decision? if we fail, we fail, And if we win, we fail: she would not keep Her compact.’ ‘’Sdeath! but we will send to her,’ Said Arac, ‘worthy reasons why she should Bide by this issue : let our missive thro’, And you shall have her answer by the word. ’ ‘ Boys ! ’ shriek’d the old king, but vainlier than a hen To her false daughters in the pool; for none Regarded ; neither seem’d there more to say: Back rode we to my father’s camp, and found He thrice had sent a herald to the gates, To learn if Ida yet would cede our claim, Or by denial flush her babbling wells With her own people’s life : three times he went: The first, he blew and blew, but none appear’d : He batter’d at the doors; none came : the next, An awful voice within had warn’d him thence : The third, and those eight daughters of the plough Came sallying thro’ the gates, and caught his hair, THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 201 And so belabour’d him on rib and cheek They made him wild : not less one glance he caught Thro’ open doors of Ida station’d there Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, firm Tho’ compass’d by two armies and the noise Of arms ; and standing like a stately Pine Set in a cataract on an is!and-crag, When storm is on the heights, and right and left Suck’d from the dark heart of the long hills roll The torrents, dash’d to the vale : and yet her will Bred will in me to overcome it or fall. But when I told the king that I was pledged To fight in tourney for my bride, he clash’d His iron palms together with a cry ; Himself would tilt it out among the lads : But overborne by all his bearded lords With reasons drawn from age and state, perforce He yielded, wroth and red, with fierce demur : And many a bold knight started up in heat, And sware to combat for my claim till death. All on this side the palace ran the field Flat to the garden-wall: and likewise here, - Above the garden’s glowing blossom-belts, A column’d entry shone and marble stairs, And great bronze valves, emboss’d with Tomyris And what she did to Cyrus after fight, But now fast barr’d : so here upon the flat All that long morn the lists were hammer’d up, And all that morn the heralds to and fro, With message and defiance, went and came; Last, Ida’s answer, in a royal hand, But shaken here and there, and rolling words Oration-like. I kiss’d it and I read. ‘ O brother, you have known the pangs we felt, What heats of indignation when we heard Of those that iron-cramp’d their women’s feet; Of lands in which at the altar the poor bride Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift a scourge; Of living hearts that crack within the fire Where smoulder their dead despots ; and of those,— Mothers,—that, all prophetic pity, fling Their pretty maids in the running flood, and swoops The vulture, beak and talon, at the heart Made for all noble motion : and I saw That equal baseness lived in sleeker times With smoother men : the old leaven leaven’d all: Millions of throats would bawl for civil rights, No woman named: therefore I set my face Against all men, and lived but for mine own. Far off from men I built a fold for them: I stored it full of rich memorial: I fenced it round with gallant institutes, And biting laws to scare the beasts of prey And prosper’d ; till a rout of saucy boys Brake on us at our books, and marr’d our peace, Mask’d like our maids, blustering I know not what Of insolence and love, some pretext held Of baby troth, invalid, since my will Seal’d not the bond—the striplings !—for their sport!— I tamed my leopards : shall I not tame these ? Or you ? or I ? for since you think me touch’d In honour—what, I would not aught of false — Is not our cause pure ? and whereas I know Your prowess, Arac, and what mother’s blood You draw from, fight; you failing, I abide 202 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. What end soever: fail you will not. Still Take not his life: he risk’d it for my own; His mother lives : yet whatsoe’er you do, Fight and fight well; strike and strike home. O dear Brothers, the woman’s Angel guards you, you The sole men to be mingled with our cause, The sole men we shall prize in the after¬ time, Your very armour hallow’d, and your statues Rear’d, sung to, when, this gad-fly brush’d aside, We plant a solid foot into the Time, And mould a generation strong to move With claim on claim from right to right, till she Whose name is yoked with children’s, know herself; And Knowledge in our own land make her free. And, ever following those two crowned twins, Commerce and conquest, shower the fiery grain Of freedom broadcast over all that orbs Between the Northern and the Southern morn. ’ Then came a postscript dash’d across the rest. ‘ See that there be no traitors in your camp: We seem a nest of traitors—none to trust Since our arms fail’d—this Egypt-plague of men ! Almost our maids were better at their homes, Than thus man-girdled here : indeed I think Our chiefest comfort is the little child Of one unworthy mother ; which she left: She shall not have it back : the child shall grow To prize the authentic mother of her mind. I took it for an hour in mine own bed This morning: there the tender orphan hands Felt at my heart, and seem’d to charm from thence The wrath I nursed against the world : farewell.’ I ceased ; he said, * Stubborn, but she may sit Upon a king’s right hand in thunder¬ storms, And breed up warriors ! See now, tho’ yourself Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to sloughs That swallow common sense, the spind¬ ling king, This Gama swamp’d in lazy tolerance. When the man wants weight, the woman takes it up, And topples down the scales; but this is fixt As are the roots of earth and base of all; Man for the field and woman for the hearth: Man for the sword and for the needle she: Man with the head and woman with the heart: Man to command and woman to obey; All else confusion. Look you ! the gray mare Is ill to live with, when her whinny shrills From tile to scullery, and her small good- man Shrinks in his arm-chair while the fires of Hell Mix with his hearth : but you—she’s yet a colt— Take, break her: strongly groom’d and straitly curb’d She might not rank with those detestable That let the bantling scald at home, and brawl Their rights or wrongs like potherbs iji the street. They say she’s comely; there’s the fairer chance: I like her none the less for rating at her ! Besides, the woman wed is not as we, But suffers change of frame. A lusty brace Of twins may weed her of her folly. Boy, The bearing and the training of a child Is woman’s wisdom.’ THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 203 Thus the hard old king : I took my leave, for it was nearly noon : I pored upon her letter which I held, And on the little clause ‘ take not his life: ’ I mused on that wild morning in the woods, And on the ‘ Follow, follow, thou shalt win: ’ I thought on all the wrathful king had said, And how the strange betrothment was to end: Then I remember’d that burnt sorcerer’s curse That one should fight with shadows and should fall; And like a flash the weird affection came: King, camp and college turn’d to hollow shows; I seem’d to move in old memorial tilts, And doing battle with forgotten ghosts, To dream myself the shadow of a dream : And ere I woke it was the point of noon, The lists were ready. Empanoplied and plumed We enter’d in, and waited, fifty there Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet blared At the barrier like a wild horn in a land Of echoes, and a moment, and once more The trumpet, and again: at which the storm Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of spears And riders front to front, until they closed In conflict with the crash of shivering points, And thunder. Yet it seem’d a dream, I dream’d Of fighting. On his haunches rose the steed, And into fiery splinters leapt the lance, And out of stricken helmets sprang the fire. Part sat like rocks : part reel’d but kept their seats: Part roll’d on the earth and rose again and drew : Part stumbled mixt with floundering horses. Down From those two bulks at Arac’s side, and down From Arac’s arm, as from a giant’s flail, The large blows rain’d, as here and every¬ where He rode the mellay, lord of the ringing lists, And all the plain,—brand, mace, and shaft, and shield— Shock’d, like an iron - clanging anvil bang’d With hammers; till I thought, can this be he From Gama’s dwarfish loins? if this be so, The mother makes us most—and in my dream I glanced aside, and saw the palace-front Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies’ eyes, And highest, among the statues, statue¬ like, Between a cymbal’d Miriam and a J ael, With Psyche’s babe, was Ida watching us, A single band of gold about her hair, Like a Saint’s glory up in heaven : but she No saint—inexorable—no tenderness— Too hard, too cruel : yet she sees me fight, Yea, let her see me fall! with that I drave Among the thickest and bore down a Prince, And Cyril, one. Yea, let me make my dream All that I would. But that large-moulded man, His visage all agrin as at a wake, Made at me thro’ the press, and, stagger¬ ing back With stroke on stroke the horse and horseman, came As comes a pillar of electric cloud, Flaying the roofs and sucking up the drains, And shadowing down the champaign till it strikes On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and cracks, and splits, And twists the grain with such a roar that Earth Reels, and the herdsmen cry ; for every¬ thing 204 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. Gave way before him : only Florian, he That loved me closer than his own right eye, Thrust in between ; but Arac rode him down : And Cyril seeing it, push’d against the Prince, With Psyche’s colour round his helmet, tough, Strong, supple, sinew - corded, apt at arms ; But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that smote And threw him : last I spurr’d ; I felt my veins Stretch with fierce heat; a moment hand to hand, And sword to sword, and horse to horse we hung, Till I struck out and shouted; the blade glanced, I did but shear a feather, and dream and truth Flow’d from me ; darkness closed me ; and I fell. VI. Home they brought her warrior dead : She nor swoon’d, nor utter’d cry : All her maidens, watching, said, * She must weep or she will die.’ Then they praised him, soft and low. Call’d him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe ; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face-cloth from the face ; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee— Like summer tempest came her tears— ‘ Sweet my child, I live for thee.’ My dream had never died or lived again. As in some mystic middle state I lay ; Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard : Tho’, if I saw not, yet they told me all So often that I speak as having seen. For so it seem’d, or so they said to me, That all things grew more tragic and more strange ; That when our side was vanquish’d and my cause For ever lost, there went up a great cry, The Prince is slain. My father heard and ran In on the lists, and there unlaced my casque And groveil’d on my body, and after him Came Psyche, sorrowing for Aglai'a. But high upon the palace Ida stood With Psyche’s babe in arm : there on the roofs Like that great dame of Lapidoth she sang. * Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n : the seed, The little seed they laugh’d at in the dark, Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk Of spanless girth, that lays on every side A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun. ‘ Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: they came ; The leaves were wet with women’s tears: they heard A noise of songs they would not understand : They mark’d it with the red cross to the fall, And would have strown it, and are fall’n them¬ selves. ‘ Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: they came, The woodmen with their axes : lo the tree 1 But we will make it faggots for the hearth, And shape it plank and beam for roof and floor, And boats and bridges for the use of men. ‘ Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: they struck; With their own blows they hurt themselves, nor knew There dwelt an iron nature in the grain : The glittering axe was broken in their arms, Their arms were shatter’d to the shoulder blade. ‘ Our enemies have fall’n, but this shall grow A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power : and roll’d With music in the growing breeze of Time, The tops shall strike from star to star, the fangs Shall move the stony bases of the world. THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 205 ‘And now, 0 maids, behold our sanctuary Is violate, our laws broken : fear we not To break them more in their behoof, whose arms Champion’d our cause and won it with a day Blanch’d in our annals, and perpetual feast, When dames and heroines of the golden year Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of Spring, To rain an April of ovation round Their statues, borne aloft, the three : but come, We will be liberal, since our rights are won. Let them not lie in the tents with coarse mankind, Ill nurses ; but descend, and proffer these The brethren of our blood and cause, that there Lie bruised and maim’d, the tender ministries Of female hands and hospitality.’ She spoke, and with the babe yet in her arms, Descending, burst the great bronze valves, and led A hundred maids in train across the Park. Some cowl’d, and some bare-headed, on they came, Their feet in flowers, her loveliest: by them went The enamour’d air sighing, and on their curls From the high tree the blossom wavering fell, And over them the tremulous isles of light Slided, they moving under shade: but Blanche At distance follow’d: so they came : anon Thro’ open field into the lists they wound Timorously; and as the leader of the herd That holds a stately fretwork to the Sun, And follow’d up by a hundred airy does, Steps with a tender foot, light as on air, The lovely, lordly creature floated on To where her wounded brethren lay; there stay’d ; Knelt on one knee,—the child on one,— and prest Their hands, and call’d them dear de¬ liverers, And happy warriors, and immortal names, And said ‘ You shall not lie in the tents but here, And nursed by those for whom you fought, and served With female hands and hospitality. ’ Then, whether moved by this, or was it chance, She past my way. Up started from my side The old lion, glaring with his whelpless eye, Silent; but when she saw me lying stark, Dishelm’d and mute, and motionlessly pale, Cold ev’n to her, she sigh’d ; and when she saw The haggard father’s face and reverend beard Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the blood Of his own son, shudder’d, a twitch of pain Tortured her mouth, and o’er her forehead past A shadow, and her hue changed, and she said: ‘ He saved my life : my brother slew him for it. ’ No more : at which the king in bitter scorn Drew from my neck the painting and the tress, And held them up : she saw them, and a day Rose from the distance on her memory. When the good Queen, her mother, shore the tress With kisses, ere the days of Lady Blanche: And then once more she look’d at my pale face: Till understanding all the foolish work Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all, Her iron will was broken in her mind ; Her noble heart was molten in her breast; 206 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. She bow’d, she set the child on the earth ; she laid A feeling finger on my brows, and presently ‘O Sire,’she said, ‘he lives: he is not dead : O let me have him with my brethren here In our own palace: we will tend on him Like one of these ; if so, by any means, To lighten this great clog of thanks, that make Our progress falter to the woman’s goal.’ She said : but at the happy word ‘ he lives ’ My father stoop’d, re-father’d o’er my wounds. So those two foes above my fallen life, With brow to brow like night and evening mixt Their dark and gray, while Psyche ever stole A little nearer, till the babe that by us, Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden brede, Lay like a new-fall’n meteor on the grass, Uncared for, spied its mother and began A blind and babbling laughter, and to dance Its body, and reach its fatling innocent arms And lazy lingering fingers. She the appeal Brook’d not, but clamouring out ‘ Mine— mine—not youi's, It is not yours, but mine : give me the child ’ Ceased all on tremble: piteous was the cry: So stood the unhappy mother open- mouth’d, And turn’d each face her way: wan was her cheek With hollow watch, her blooming mantle torn, Red grief and mother’s hunger in her eye, And down dead-heavy sank her curls, and half The sacred mother’s bosom, panting, burst The laces toward her babe ; but she nor cared Nor knew it, clamouring on, till Ida heard, Look’d up, and rising slowly from me, stood Erect and silent, striking with her glance The mother, me, the child; but he that lay Beside us, Cyril, batter’d as he was, Trail’d himself up on one knee : then he drew Her robe to meet his lips, and down she look’d At the arm’d man sideways, pitying as it seem’d, Or self-involved ; but when she learnt his face, Remembering his ill-omen’d song, arose Once more thro’ all her height, and o’er him grew Tall as a figure lengthen’d on the sand When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and he said: ‘ O fair and strong and terrible! Lioness That with your long locks play the Lion’s mane ! But Love and Nature, these are two more terrible And stronger. See, your foot is on our necks, We vanquish’d, you the Victor of your will. What would you more? give her the child ! remain Orb’d in your isolation : he is dead, Or all as dead: henceforth we let you be: Win you the hearts of women; and beware Lest, where you seek the common love of these, The common hate with the revolving wheel Should drag you down, and some great Nemesis Break from a darken’d future, crown’d with fire, And tread you out for ever: but how- soe’er Fix’d in yourself, never in your own arms To hold your own, deny not hers to her, THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 207 Give her the child ! O if, I say, you keep One pulse that beats true woman, if you loved The breast that fed or arm that dandled you, Or own one port of sense not flint to prayer, Give her the child ! or if you scorn to lay it, Yourself, in hands so lately claspt with yours, Or speak to her, your dearest, her one fault The tenderness, not yours, that could not kill, Give me it: / will give it her. ’ He said : At first her eye with slow dilation roll’d Dry flame, she listening ; after sank and sank And, into mournful twilight mellowing, dwelt Full on the child ; she took it: * Pretty bud! Lily of the vale ! half open’d bell of the woods ! Sole comfort of my dark hour, when a world Of traitorous friend and broken system made No purple in the distance, mystery, Pledge of a love not to be mine, farewell; These men are hard upon us as of old, We two must part: and yet how fain was I To dream thy cause embraced in mine, to think I might be something to thee, when I felt Thy helpless warmth about my barren breast In the dead prime : but may thy mother prove As true to thee as false, false, false to me! And, if thou needs must bear the yoke, I wish it Gentle as freedom ’—here she kiss’d it: then— ‘ All good go with thee ! take it Sir, ’ and so Laid the soft babe in his hard-mailed hands, Who turn’d half-round to Psyche as she sprang To meet it, with an eye that swum in thanks; Then felt it sound and whole from head to foot, And hugg’d and never hugg’d it close enough, And in her hunger mouth’d and mumbled it, And hid her bosom with it; after that Put on more calm and added suppliantly: ‘ We two were friends: I go to mine own land For ever: find some other : as for me I scarce am fit for your great plans : yet speak to me, Say one soft word and let me part for¬ given.’ But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the child. Then Arac. ‘ Ida— ’sdeath ! you blame the man; You wrong yourselves—the woman is so hard Upon the woman. Come, a grace to me ! I am your warrior: I and mine have fought Your battle: kiss her; take her hand, she weeps: ’Sdeath ! I would sooner fight thrice o’er than see it.’ But Ida spoke not, gazing on theground, And reddening in the furrows of his chin, And moved beyond his custom, Gama said: ‘ I’ve heard that there is iron in the blood, And I believe it. Not one word ? not one? Whence drew you this steel temper ? not from me, Not from your mother, now a saint with saints. She said you had a heart—I heard her say it— “Our Idahasaheart ”—just ere she died— “ But see that some one with authority Be near her still ” and I—I sought for one— 208 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. All people said she had authority— The Lady Blanche: much profit ! Not one word ; No ! tho’ your father sues : see how you stand Stiff as Lot’s wife, and all' the good knights maim’d, I trust that there is no one hurt to death, For your wild whim : and was it then for this, Was it for this we gave our palace up, Where we withdrew from summer heats and state, And had our wine and chess beneath the planes, And many a pleasant hour with her that’s gone, Ere you were born to vex us ? Is it kind? Speak to her I say : is this not she of whom, When first she came, all flush’d you said to me Now had you got a friend of your own age, Now could you share youf thought; now should men see Two women faster welded in one love Than pairs of wedlock ; she you walk’d with, she You talk’d with, whole nights long, up in the tower, Of sine and arc, spheroid and azimuth, And right ascension, Heaven knows what; and now A word, but one, one little kindly word, Not one to spare her : out upon you, flint ! You love nor her, nor me, nor any; nay, You shame your mother’s judgment too. Not one? You will not? well—no heart have you, or such As fancies like the vermin in a nut Have fretted all to dust and bitterness.’ So said the small king moved beyond his wont. But Ida stood nor spoke, drain’d of her force By many a varying influence and so long. Down thro’ her limbs a drooping languor wept: Her head a little bent; and on her mouth A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded moon In a still water : then brake out my sire, Lifting his grim head from my wounds. ‘ O you, Woman, whom we thought woman even now, And were half fool’d tolet you tendour son, Because he might have wish’d it—but we see The accomplice of your madness unfor¬ given, And think that you might mix his draught with death, When your skies change again: the rougher hand Is safer : on to the tents : take up the Prince.’ He rose, and while each ear was prick’d to attend A tempest, thro’ the cloud that dimm’d her broke A genial warmth and light once more, and shone Thro’ glittering drops on her sad friend. ‘ Come hither. O Psyche,’ she cried out, ‘embrace me, come, Quick while I melt; make reconcilement sure With one that cannot keep her mind an hour: Come to the hollow heart they slander so ! Kiss and be friends, like children being chid! / seem no more : / want forgiveness too : I should have had to do with none but maids, That have no links with men. Ah false but dear, Dear traitor, too much loved, why?— why?—Yet see, Before these kings we embrace you yet once more With all forgiveness, all oblivion, And trust, not love, you less. THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 209 And now, O sire, Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait upon him, Like mine own brother. For my debt to him, This nightmare weight of gratitude, I know it; Taunt me no more : yourself and yours shall have Free adit; we will scatter all our maids Till happier times each to her proper hearth : What use to keep them here—now? grant my prayer. Help, father, brother, help ; speak to the king: Thaw this male nature to some touch of that Which kills me with myself, and drags me down From my fixt height to mob me up with all The soft and milky rabble of womankind, Poor weakling ev’n as they are.’ Passionate tears Follow’d : the king replied not: Cyril said : ‘Yourbrother, Lady,—Florian,—ask for him Of your great head—for he is wounded too— That you may tend upon him with the prince.’ ‘ Ay so,’ said Ida with a bitter smile, ‘ Our laws are broken : let him enter too.’ Then Violet, she that sang the mournful song, And had a cousin tumbled on the plain, Petition’d too for him. ‘ Ay so, ’ she said, ‘ I stagger in the stream : I cannot keep My heart an eddy from the brawling hour: We break our laws with ease, but let it be.’ ‘Ay so?’ said Blanche: ‘Amazed am I to hear Your Highness: but your Highness breaks with ease The law your Highness did not make : ’twas I. I had been wedded wife, I knew mankind, And block’d them out; but these men came to woo Your Highness—verily I think to win.’ So she, and turn’d askance a wintry eye: But Ida with a voice, that like a bell Toll’d by an earthquake in a trembling tower, Rang ruin, answer’d full of grief and scorn. ‘ Fling our doors wide ! all, all, not one, but all, Not only he, but by my mother’s soul, Whatever man lies wounded, friend or foe, Shall enter, if he will. Let our girls flit, Till the storm die ! but had you stood by us, The roar that breaks the Pharos from his base Had left us rock. She fain would sting us too, But shall not. Pass, and mingle with your likes. We brook no further insult but are gone.’ She turn’d ; the very nape of her white neck Was rosed with indignation: but the Prince Her brother came; the king her father charm’d Her wounded soul with words : nor did mine own Refuse her proffer, lastly gave his hand. Then us they lifted up, dead weights, and bare Straight to the doors : to them the doors gave way Groaning, and in the Vestal entry shriek’d The virgin marble under iron heels : And on they moved and gain’d the hall, and there Rested : but great the crush was, and each base, To left and right, of those tall columns drown’d In silken fluctuation and the swarm Of female whisperers : at the further end P 210 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. Was Ida by the throne, the two great cats Close by her, like supporters on a shield, Bow-back’d with fear: but in the centre stood The common men with rolling eyes; amazed They glared upon the women, and aghast The women stared • at these, all silent, save When armour clash’d or jingled, while the day, Descending, struck athwart the hall, and shot A flying splendour out of brass and steel, That o’er the statues leapt from head to head, Now fired an angry Pallas on the helm, Now set a wrathful Dian’s moon on flame, And now and then an echo started up, And shuddering fled from room to room, and died Of fright in far apartments. Then the voice Of Ida sounded, issuing ordinance : And me they bore up the broad stairs, and thro’ The long-laid galleries past a hundred doors To one deep chamber shut from sound, and due To languid limbs and sickness ; left me in it ; And others otherwhere they laid ; and all That afternoon a sound arose of hoof And chariot, many a maiden passing home Till happier times ; but some were left of those Heldsagest, and the great lords out and in, From those two hosts that lay beside the walls, Walk’d at their will, and everything was changed. VII. Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; But O too fond, when have I answer’d thee ? Ask me no more. Ask me no more : what answer should I give ? I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die ! Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; Ask me no more. Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are seal’d : I strove against the stream and all in vain : Let the great river take me to the main : No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; Ask me no more. So was their sanctuary violated, So their fair college turn’d to hospital; At first with all confusion: by and by Sweet order lived again with other laws: A kindlier influence reign’d ; and every¬ where Low voices with the ministering hand Hung round the sick: the maidens came, they talk’d, They sang, they read : till she not fair began To gather light, and she that was, became Her former beauty treble ; and to and fro With books, with flowers, with Angel offices, Like creatures native unto gracious act, And in their own clear element, they moved. But sadness on the soul of Ida fell, And hatred of her weakness, blent with shame. Old studies fail’d ; seldom she spoke : but oft Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone for hours On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of men Darkening her female field : void was her use, And she as one that climbs a peak to gaze O’er land and main, and sees a great black cloud Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of night, Blot out the slope of sea from verge to shore, And suck the blinding splendour from the sand. And quenching lake by lake and tarn by tarn THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 21 Expunge the world : so fared she gazing there ; So blacken’d all her world in secret, blank And waste it seem’d and vain ; till down she came, And found fair peace once more among the sick. And twilight dawn’d; and morn by morn the lark Shot up and shrill’d in flickering gyres, but I Lay silent in the muffled cage of life : And twilight gloom’d; and broader-grown the bowers Drew the great night into themselves, and Heaven, Star after star, arose and fell; but I, Deeper than those weird doubts could reach me, lay Quite sunder’d from the moving Universe, Nor knew what eye was on me, nor the hand That nursed me, more than infants in their sleep. But Psyche tended Florian : with her oft, Melissa came ; for Blanche had gone, but left Her child among us, willing she should keep Court-favour: here and there the small bright head, A light of healing, glanced about the couch, Or thro’ the parted silks the tender face Peep’d, shining in upon the wounded man With blush and smile, a medicine in themselves To wile the length from languorous hours, and draw The sting from pain; nor seem’d it strange that soon He rose up whole, and those fair charities Join’d at her side ; nor stranger seem’d that hearts So gentle, so employ’d, should close in love, Than when two dewdrops on the petal shake To the same sweet air, and tremble deeper down, And slip at once all-fragrant into one. Less prosperously the second suit ob¬ tain’d At first with Psyche. Not tho’ Blanche had sworn That after that dark night among the fields She needs must wed him for her own good name ; Not tho’ he built upon the babe restored; Nor tho’ she liked him, yielded she, but fear’d To incense the Head once more ; till on a day When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind Seen but of Psyche : on her foot she hung A moment, and she heard, at which her face A little flush’d, and she past on ; but each Assumed from thence a half-consent in¬ volved In stillness, plighted troth, and were at peace. Nor only these: Love in the sacred halls Held carnival at will, and flying struck With showers of random sweet on maid and man. Nor did her father cease to press my claim, Nor did mine own now reconciled; nor yet Did those twin brothers, risen again and whole ; Nor Arac, satiate with his victory. But I lay still, and with me oft she sat: Then came a change ; for sometimes I would catch Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it hard, And fling it like a viper off, and shriek ‘ You are not Ida ;’ clasp it once again, And call her Ida, tho’ I knew her not, And call her sweet, as if in irony, And call her hard and cold which seem’d a truth: And still she fear’d that I should lose my mind, 212 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. And often she believed that I should die: Till out of long frustration of her care, And pensive tendance in the all-weary noons, And watches in the dead, the dark, when clocks Throbb’d thunder thro’ the palace floors, or call’d On flying Time from all their silver tongues— And out of memories of her kindlier days, And sidelong glances at my father’s grief, And at the happy lovers heart in heart— And out of hauntings of my spoken love, And lonely listenings to my mutter’d dream, And often feeling of the helpless hands, And wordless broodings on the wasted cheek— From all a closer interest flourish’d up, Tenderness touch by touch, and last, to these, Love, like an Alpine harebell hung with tears By some cold morning glacier; frail at first And feeble, all unconscious of itself, But such as gather’d colour day by day. Last I woke sane, but well-nigh close to death For weakness: it was evening: silent light Slept on the painted walls, wherein were wrought T wo grand designs ; for on one side arose The women up in wild revolt, and storm’d At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, they cramm’d The forum, and half-crush’d among the rest A dwarf-like Cato cower’d. On the other side Hortensia spoke against the tax ; behind, A train of dames : by axe and eagle sat, With all their foreheads drawn in Roman scowls, And half the wolf’s-milk curdled in their veins, The fierce triumvirs; and before them paused Hortensia pleading : angry was her face. I saw the forms: I knew not where I was : They did but look like hollow shows; nor more Sweet Ida: palm to palm she sat: the dew Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her shape And rounder seem’d: I moved: I sigh’d: a touch Came round my wrist, and tears upon my hand : Then all for languor and self-pity ran Mine down my face, and with what life I had, And like a flower that cannot all unfold, So drench’d it is with tempest, to the sun, Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on her Fixt my faint eyes, and utter’d whisper- ingly: ‘ If you be, what I think you, some sweet dream, I would but ask you to fulfil yourself: But if you be that Ida whom I knew, I ask you nothing : only, if a dream, Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die to-night. Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die.’ I could no more, but lay like one in trance, That hears his burial talk’d of by his friends, And cannot speak, nor move, nor make one sign, But lies and dreads his doom. She turn’d; she paused ; She stoop’d; and out of languor leapt a cry ; Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of death ; And I believed that in the living world My spirit closed with Ida’s at the lips ; Till back I fell, and from mine arms she rose Glowing all over noble shame ; and all Her falser self slipt from her like a robe, And left her woman, lovelier in her mood Than in her mould that other, when she came THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 213 From barren deeps to conquer all with love ; And down the streaming crystal dropt; and she Far-fleeted by the purple island-sides, Naked, a double light in air and wave, To meet her Graces, where they deck’d her out For worship without end; nor end of mine, Stateliest, for thee ! but mute she glided forth, Nor glanced behind her, and I sank and slept, Fill’d thro’ and thro’ with Love, a happy sleep. Deep in the night I woke: she, near me, held A volume of the Poets of her land : There to herself, all in low tones, she read. ‘Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white ; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk ; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: The fire-fly wakens : waken thou with me. Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me. Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake : So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom and be lost in me.’ I heard her turn the page ; she found a small Sweet Idyl, and once more, as low, she read : * Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height: What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang) In height and cold, the splendour of the hills ? But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, To sit a star upon the sparkling spire ; And come, for Love is of the valley, come, For Love is of the valley, come thou down And find him ; by the happy threshold, he, Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, Or red with spirted purple of the vats, Or foxlike in the vine ; nor cares to walk With Death and Morning on the silver horns, Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice. That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls To roll the torrent out of dusky doors : But follow ; let the torrent dance thee down To find him in the valley ; let the wild Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, That like a broken purpose waste in air : So waste not thou ; but come ; for all the vales Await thee ; azure pillars of the hearth Arise to thee ; the children call, and I Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro’ the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees. ’ So she low-toned ; while with shut eyes I lay Listening ; then look’d. Pale was the perfect face ; The bosom with long sighs labour’d; and meek Seem’d the full lips, and mild the lumi¬ nous eyes, And the voice trembled and the hand. She said Brokenly, that she knew it, she had fail’d In sweet humility ; had fail’d in all; That all her labour was but as a block Left in the quarry; but she still were loth, She still were loth to yield herself to one That wholly scorn’d to help their equal rights Against the sons of men, and barbarous laws. She pray’d me not to judge their cause from her That wrong’d it, sought far less for truth than power In knowledge : something wild within her breast, A greater than all knowledge, beat her down. | And she had nursed me there from week to week : 214 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. Much had she learnt in little time. In part It was ill counsel had misled the girl To vex true hearts: yet was she but a girl— ‘ Ah fool, and made myself a Queen of farce ! When comes another such? never, I think, Till the Sun drop, dead, from the signs.’ Her voice Choked, and her forehead sank upon her hands, And her great heart thro’ all the faultful Past Went sorrowing in a pause I dared not break ; Till notice of a change in the dark world Was lispt about the acacias, and a bird, That early woke to feed her little ones, Sent from a dewy breast a cry for light : She moved, and at her feet the volume fell. ‘ Blame not thyself too much,’ I said, ‘nor blame Too much the sons of men and barbarous laws ; These were the rough ways of the world till now. Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know 7 The woman’s cause is man’s: they rise or sink Together, dwarf’d or godlike, bond or free : For she that out of Lethe scales with man The shining steps of Nature, shares with man His nights, his days, moves with him to one goal, Stays all the fair young planet in her hands— If she be small, slight-natured, miserable, How shall men grow ? but work no more alone ! Our place is much : as far as in us lies We two will serve them both in aiding her— Will clear away the parasitic forms That seem to keep her up but drag her down— Will leave her space to burgeon out of all Within her—let her make herself her own To give or keep, to live and learn and be All that not harms distinctive womanhood. For woman is not undevelopt man, But diverse : could we make her as the man, Sweet Love were slain : his dearest bond is this, Not like to like, but like in difference. Yet in the long years liker must they grow; The man be more of woman, she of man; He gain in sweetness and in moral height, Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world ; She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care, Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind; Till at the last she set herself to man, Like perfect music unto noble words; And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time, Sit side by side, full-summ’d in all their powers, Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, Self-reverent each and reverencing each, Distinct in individualities, But like each other ev’n as those who love. Then comes the statelier Eden back to men : Then reign the world’s great bridals, chaste and calm : Then springs the crowning race of human¬ kind. May these things be ! ’ Sighing she spoke * I fear They will not.’ ‘ Dear, but let us type them now In our own lives, and this proud watch¬ word rest Of equal; seeing either sex alone Is half itself, and in true marriage lies Nor equal, nor unequal: each fulfils Defect in each, and always thought in thought, Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow, The single pure and perfect animal, The two-cell’d heart beating, with one full stroke, Life,’ THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 215 And again sighing she spoke : ‘ A dream That once was mine ! what woman taught you this ?’ ‘Alone,’ I said, ‘from earlier than I know, Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world, I loved the woman : he, that doth not, lives A drowning life, besotted in sweet self, Or pines in sad experience worse than death, Or keeps his wing’d affections dipt with crime : Yet was there one thro’ whom I loved her, one Not learned, save in gracious household ways, Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants, No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, Interpreter between the Gods and men, Who look’d all native to her place, and yet On tiptoe seem’d to touch upon a sphere Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce Sway’d to her from their orbits as they moved, And girdled her with music. Happy he With such a mother ! faith in woman¬ kind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him, and tho’ he trip and fall He shall not blind his soul with clay.’ ‘ But I,’ Said Ida, tremulously, ‘ so all unlike— It seems you love to cheat yourself with words : This mother is your model. I have heard Of your strange doubts : they well might be : I seem A mockery to my own self. Never, Prince ; You cannot love me.’ * Nay but thee ’ I said ‘ From yearlong poring on thy pictured eyes, Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, and saw Thee woman thro’ the crust of iron moods That mask’d thee from men’s reverence up, and forced Sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood : now, Giv’n back to life, to life indeed, thro’ thee, Indeed I love : the new day comes, the light Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults Lived over : lift thine eyes ; my doubts are dead, My haunting sense of hollow shows : the change, This truthful change in thee has kill’d it. Dear, Look up, and let thy nature strike on mine, Like yonder morning on the blind half¬ world ; Approach and fear not; breathe upon my brows ; In that fine air I tremble, all the past Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and this Is morn to more, and all the rich to-come Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. Forgive me, I waste my heart in signs : let be. My bride, My wife, my life. O we will walk this world, Yoked in all exercise of noble end, And so thro’ those dark gates across the wild That no man knows. Indeed I love thee : come, Yield thyself up : my hopes and thine are one : Accomplish thou my manhood and thy¬ self ; Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me.’ 216 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. CONCLUSION. So closed our tale, of which I give you all The random scheme as wildly as it rose : The words are mostly mine ; for when we ceased There came a minute’s pause, and Walter said, ‘ I wish she had not yielded ! ’ then to me, ‘ What, if you drest it up poetically ! ’ So pray’d the men, the women : I gave assent : Yet how to bind the scatter’d scheme of seven Together in one sheaf? What style could suit ? The men required that I should give throughout The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque, With which we banter’d little Lilia first : The women—and perhaps they felt their power. For something in the ballads which they sang, Or in their silent influence as they sat, Had ever seem’d to wrestle with burlesque, And drove us, last, to quite a solemn close— They hated banter, wish’d for something real, A gallant fight, a noble princess—why Not make her true-heroic—true-sublime ? Or all, they said, as earnest as the close ? Which yet with such a framework scarce could be. Then rose a little feud betwixt the two, Betwixt the mockers and the realists : And I, betwixt them both, to please them both, And yet to give the story as it rose, I moved as in a strange diagonal, And maybe neither pleased myself nor them. But Lilia pleased me, for she took no part In our dispute : the sequel of the tale Had touch’d her; and she sat, she pluck’d the grass, She flung it from her, thinking : last, she fixt A showery glance upon her aunt, and said, ‘You—tell us what we are’ who might have told, For she was cramm’d with theories out of books, But that there rose a shout : the gates were closed At sunset, and the crowd were swarming now, To take their leave, about the garden rails. So I and some went out to these : we climb’d The slope to Vivian-place, and turning saw The happy valleys, half in light, and half Far-shadowing from the west, a land of peace; Gray halls alone among their massive groves; Trim hamlets ; here and there a rustic tower Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths of wheat; The shimmering glimpses of a stream ; the seas ; A red sail, or a white ; and far beyond, Imagined more than seen, the skirts of France. ‘ Look there, a garden ! ’ said my college friend, The Tory member’s elder son, ‘and there! God bless the narrow sea which keeps her off, And keeps our Britain, whole within herself, A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled— Some sense of duty, something of a faith, Some reverence for the laws ourselves have made, Some patient force to change them when we will, Some civic manhood firm against the crowd— But yonder, whiff! there comes a sudden heat, THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 217 The gravest citizen seems to lose his head, The king is scared, the soldier will not fight, The little boys begin to shoot and stab, A kingdom topples over with a shriek Like an old woman, and down rolls the world In mock heroics stranger than our own; Revolts, republics, revolutions, most No graver than a schoolboys’ barring out; Too comic for the solemn things they are, Too solemn for the comic touches in them, Like our wild Princess with as wise a dream As some of theirs—God bless the narrow seas ! I wish they were a whole Atlantic broad.’ ‘ Have patience,’ I replied, ‘ ourselves are full Of social wrong; and maybe wildest dreams Are but the needful preludes of the truth : For me, the genial day, the happy crowd, The sport half-science, fill me with a faith, This fine old world of ours is but a child Yet in the go-cart. Patience ! Give it time To learn its limbs : there is a hand that guides.’ In such discourse we gain’d the garden rails, And there we saw Sir Walter where he stood, Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks, Among six boys, head under head, and look’d No little lily-handed Baronet he, A great broad-shoulder’d genial English¬ man, A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, A raiser of huge melons and of pine, A patron of some thirty charities, A pamphleteer on guano and on grain, A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none ; Fair-hair’d and redder than a windy morn ; Now shaking hands with him, now him, of those That stood the nearest—now address’d to speech— Who spoke few words and pithy, such as closed Welcome, farewell, and welcome for the year To follow : a shout rose again, and made The long line of the approaching rookery swerve From the elms, and shook the branches of the deer From slope to slope thro’ distant ferns, and rang Beyond the bourn of sunset; O, a shout More joyful than the city-roar that hails Premier or king ! Why should not these great Sirs Give up their parks some dozen times a year To let the people breathe ? So thrice they cried, I likewise, and in groups they stream’d away. But we went back to the Abbey, and sat on, So much the gathering darkness charm’d: we sat But spoke not, rapt in nameless reverie, Perchance upon the future man : the walls Blacken’d about us, bats wheel’d, and owls whoop’d, And gradually the powers of the night, That range above the region of the wind, Deepening the courts of twilight broke them up Thro’ all the silent spaces of the worlds, Beyond all thought into the Heaven of Heavens. Last little Lilia, rising quietly, Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir Ralph From those rich sill^s, and home well- pleased we went. 218 ODE ON THE DEATH OF ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. PUBLISHED IN 1852. I. Bury the Great Duke With an empire’s lamentation, Let us bury the Great Duke To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation, Mourning when their leaders fall, Warriors carry the warrior’s pall, And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. II. Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore ? Here, in streaming London’s central roar. Let the sound of those he wrought for, And the feet of those he fought for, Echo round his bones for evermore. in. Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, As fits an universal woe, Let the long long procession go, And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, And let the mournful martial music blow; The last great Englishman is low. IV. Mourn, for to us he seems the last, Remembering all his greatness in the Past. No more in soldier fashion will he greet With lifted hand the gazer in the street. O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute : Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, The statesman - warrior, moderate, reso¬ lute, Whole in himself, a common good. Mourn for the man of amplest influence, Yet clearest of ambitious crime, Our greatest yet with least pretence, Great in council and great in war, Foremost captain of his time, Rich in saving comhion-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime. O good gray head which all men knew, O voice from which their omens all men drew, O iron nerve to true occasion true, O fall’n at length that tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew ! Such was he whom we deplore. The long self-sacrifice of life is o’er. The great World-victor’s victor will be seen no more. v. All is over and done : Render thanks to the Giver, England, for thy son. Let the bell be toll’d. Render thanks to the Giver, And render him to the mould. Under the cross of gold That shines over city and river, There he shall rest for ever Among the wise and the bold. Let the bell be toll’d : And a reverent people behold The towering car, the sable steeds: Bright let it be with its blazon’d deeds, Dark in its funeral fold. Let the bell be toll’d : And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll’d ; And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll’d Thro’ the dome of the golden cross ; And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; He knew their voices of old. For many a time in many a clime His captain’s-ear has heard them boom Bellowing victory, bellowing doom : When fie with those deep voices wrought, Guarding realms and kings from shame ; With those deep voices our dead captain taught The tyrant, and asserts his claim In that dread sound to the great name, Which he has worn so pure of blame, In praise and in dispraise the same, THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 219 A man of well-attemper’d frame. 0 civic muse, to such a name, To such a name for ages long, To such a name, Preserve a broad approach of fame, And ever-echoing avenues of song. VI. Who is he that cometh, like an honour’d guest, With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest, With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest ? Mighty Seaman, this is he Was great by land as thou by sea. Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, The greatest sailor since our world began. Now, to the roll of muffled drums, To thee the greatest soldier comes ; For this is he Was great by land as thou by sea; His foes were thine; he kept us free ; O give him welcome, this is he Worthy of our gorgeous rites, And woithy to be laid by thee ; For this is England’s greatest son, He that gain’d a hundred fights, Nor ever lost an English gun ; This is he that far away Against the myriads of Assaye Clash’d with his fiery few and won ; And underneath another sun, Warring on a later day, Round affrighted Lisbon drew The treble works, the vast designs Of his labour’d rampart-lines, Where he greatly stood at bay. Whence he issued forth anew, And ever great and greater grew, Beating from the wasted vines Back to France her banded swarms, Back to France with countless blows, Till o’er the hills her eagles flew Beyond the Pyrenean pines, Follow’d up in valley and glen With blare of bugle, clamour of men, Roll of cannon and clash of arms, And England pouring on her foes. Such a war had such a close. Again their ravening eagle rose In anger, wheel’d on Europe-shadowing wings. And barking for the thrones of kings ; Till one that sought but Duty’s iron crown On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down ; A day of onsets of despair ! Dash’d on every rocky square Their surging charges foam’d themselves away ; Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; Thro’ the long-tormented air Heaven flash’d a sudden jubilant ray, And down we swept and charged and overthrew. So great a soldier taught us there, What long-enduring hearts could do In that world-earthquake, Waterloo ! Mighty Seaman, tender and true, And pure as he from taint of craven guile, O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, If aught of things that here befall Touch a spirit among things divine, If love of country move thee there at all, Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine! And thro’ the centuries let a people’s voice In full acclaim, A people’s voice, The proof and echo of all human fame, A people’s voice, when they rejoice At civic revel and pomp and game, Attest their great commander’s claim With honour, honour, honour, honour to him, Eternal honour to his name. VII. A people’s voice ! we are a people yet. Tho’ all men else their nobler dreams forget, Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers; Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set His Briton in blown seas and storming showers, 220 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. We have a voice, with which to pay the debt Of boundless love and reverence and re¬ gret To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. And keep it ours, O God, from brute control; O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, And save the one true seed of freedom sown Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, That sober freedom out of which there springs Our loyal passion for our temperate kings; For, saving that, ye help to save mankind Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, And drill the raw world for the march of mind, Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just. But wink no more in slothful overtrust. Remember him who led your hosts ; He bad you guard the sacred coasts. Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall; His voice is silent in your council-hall For ever ; and whatever tempests lour For ever silent; even if they broke In thunder, silent; yet remember all He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke; Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, Nor palter’d with Eternal God for power ; Who let the turbid streams of rumour flow Thro’ either babbling world of high and low; Whose life was work, whose language rife With rugged maxims hewn from life; Who never spoke against a foe ; Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke All great self-seekers trampling on the right : Truth-teller was our England’s Alfred named ; Truth-lover was our English Duke ; Whatever record leap to light He never shall be shamed. VIII. Lo, the leader in these glorious wars Now to glorious burial slowly borne, Follow’d by the brave of other lands, He, on whom from both her open hands Lavish Honour shower’d all her stars, And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. Yea, let all good things await Him who cares not to be great, But as he saves or serves the state. Not once or twice in our rough island- story, The path of duty was the way to glory : He that walks it, only thirsting For the right, and learns to deaden Love of self, before his journey closes, He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting Into glossy purples, which outredden All voluptuous garden-roses. Not once or twice in our fair island-story, The path of duty was the way to glory: He, that ever following her commands, On with toil of heart and knees and hands, Thro’ the long gorge to the far light has won His path upward, and prevail’d, Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled Are close upon the shining table-lands To which our God Himself is moon and sun. Such was he : his work is done. But while the races of mankind endure, Let his great example stand Colossal, seen of every land, And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure : Till in all lands and thro’ all human story The path of duty‘be the way to glory : And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame For many and many an age proclaim At civic revel and pomp and game, And when the long - illumined cities flame, Their ever-loyal iron leader’s fame, THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852 . 221 With honour, honour, honour, honour to him, Eternal honour to his name. IX. Peace, his triumph will be sung By some yet unmoulded tongue Far on in summers that we shall not see : Peace, it is a day of pain For one about whose patriarchal knee Late the little children clung: O peace, it is a day of pain For one, upon whose hand and heart and brain Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. Ours the pain, be his the gain ! More than is of man’s degree Must be with us, watching here At this, our great solemnity. Whom we see not we revere ; We revere, and we refrain From talk of battles loud and vain, And brawling memories all too free For such a wise humility As befits a solemn fane : We revere, and while we hear The tides of Music’s golden sea Setting toward eternity, Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, Until we doubt not that for one so true There must be other nobler work to do Than when he fought at Waterloo, And Victor he must ever be. For tho’ the Giant Ages heave the hill And break the shore, and evermore Make and break, and work their will; Tho’ world on world in myriad myriads roll Round us, each with different powers, And other forms of life than ours, What know we greater than the soul ? On God and Godlike men we build our trust. Hush, the Dead March wails in the people’s ears : The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears : The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears ; Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; He is gone who seem’d so great.— Gone ; but nothing can bereave him Of the force he made his own Being here, and we believe him Something far advanced in State, And that he wears a truer crown Than any wreath that man can weave him. Speak no more of his renown, Lay your earthly fancies down, And in the vast cathedral leave him, God accept him, Christ receive him. 1852. THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852. My Lords, we heard you speak : you told us all That England’s honest censure went too far ; That our free press should cease to brawl, Not sting the fiery Frenchman into war. It was our ancient privilege, my Lords, To fling whate’er we felt, not fearing, into words. We love not this French God, the child of Hell, Wild War, who breaks the converse of the wise; But though we love kind Peace so well, We dare not ev’n by silence sanction lies. It might be safe our censures to withdraw; And yet, my Lords, not well: there is a higher law. As long as we remain, we must speak free, Tho’ all the storm of Europe on us break ; No little German state are we, But the one voice in Europe : we must speak ; That if to-night our greatness were struck dead, There might be left some record of the things we said. 222 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. If you be fearful, then must we be bold. Our Britain cannot salve a tyrant o’er. Better the waste Atlantic roll’d On her and us and ours for evermore. What! have we fought for Freedom from our prime, At last to dodge and palter with a public crime ? Shall we fear him? our own we never fear’d. From our first Charles by force we wrung our claims. Prick’d by the Papal spur, we rear’d, We flung the burthen of the second James. I say, we never feared ! and as for these, We broke them on the land, we drove them on the seas. And you, my Lords, you make the people muse In doubt if you be of our Barons’breed— Were those your sires who fought at Lewes ? Is this the manly strain of Runnymede ? O fall’n nobility, that, overawed, Would lisp in honey’d whispers of this monstrous fraud ! We feel, at least, that silence here were sin, Not ours the fault if we have feeble hosts— If easy patrons of their kin Have left the last free race with naked coasts ! They knew the precious things they had to guard : For us, we will not spare the tyrant one hard word. Tho’ niggard throats of Manchester may bawl, What England was, shall her true sons forget ? We are not cotton-spinners all, But some love England and her honour yet. And these in our Thermopylse shall stand, And hold against the world this honour of the land. THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. i. Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. ‘ Forward, the Light Brigade ! Charge for the guns ! ’ he said : Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. II. ‘ Forward, the Light Brigade !’ Was there a man dismay’d ? Not tho’ the soldier knew Some one had blunder’d : Their’s not to make reply, Their’s not to reason why, Their’s but to do and die : Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. HI. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley’d and thunder’d ; Storm’d at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. IV. Flash’d all their sabres bare, Flash’d as they turn’d in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder’d : Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro’ the line they broke ; Cossack and Russian Reel’d from the sabre-stroke Shatter’d and sunder’d. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 223 v. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley’d and thunder’d ; Storm’d at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro’ the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. VI. When can their glory fade ? O the wild charge they made ! All the world wonder’d. Honour the charge they made ! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING OF THE INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION. I. Uplift a thousand voices full and sweet, In this wide hall with earth’s invention stored, And praise the invisible universal Lord, Who lets once more in peace the nations meet, Where Science, Art, and Labour have outpour’d Their myriad horns of plenty at our feet. II. O silent father of our Kings to be Mourn’d in this golden hour of jubilee, For this, for all, we weep our thanks to thee ! ill. The world-compelling plan was thine,— And, lo ! the long laborious miles Of Palace ; lo ! the giant aisles, Rich in model and design ; Harvest-tool and husbandry, Loom and wheel and enginery, Secrets of the sullen mine, Steel and gold, and corn and wine, Fabric rough, or fairy-fine, Sunny tokens of the Line, Polar marvels, and a feast Of wonder, out of West and East, And shapes and hues of Art divine ! All of beauty, all of use, That one fair planet can produce, Brought from under every star, Blown from over every main, And mixt, as life is mixt with pain, The works of peace with works of war. IV. Is the goal so far away ? Far, how far no tongue can say, Let us dream our dream to-day. v. O ye, the wise who think, the wise who reign, From growing commerce loose her latest chain, And let the fair white-wing’d peacemaker fly To happy havens under all the sky, And mix the seasons and the golden hours ; Till each man find his own in all men’s good, And all men work in noble brotherhood, Breaking their mailed fleets and armed towers, And ruling by obeying Nature’s powers, And gathering all the fruits of earth and crown’d with all her flowers. A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. MARCH 7 , 1863. Sea-kings’ daughter from over the sea, Alexandra ! Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, Alexandra ! Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet! Welcome her, thundering cheer of the street ! 224 A WELCOME TO MARIE ALEXANDROVNA. Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet, Scatter the blossom under her feet! Break, happy land, into earlier flowers ! Make music, O bird, in the new-budded bowers ! Blazon your mottoes of blessing and prayer ! Welcome her, welcome her, all that is ours! Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare ! Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers ! Flames, on the windy headland flare ! Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! Clash, ye bells, in the merry March air ! Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire ! Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and higher Melt into stars for the land’s desire ! Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, Roll as a ground-swell dash’d on the strand, Roar as the sea when he welcomes the land, And welcome her, welcome the land’s desire, The sea-kings’ daughter as happy as fair, Blissful bride of a blissful heir, Bride of the heir of the kings of the sea— O joy to the people and joy to the throne, Come to us, love us and make us your own : For Saxon or Dane or Norman we, Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, We are each all Dane in our welcome of thee, Alexandra! A WELCOME TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS MARIE ALEX¬ ANDROVNA, DUCHESS OF EDINBURGH. MARCH 7 , 1874. I. The Son of him with whom we strove for power— Whose will is lord thro’ all his world- domain— Who made the serf a man, and burst his chain— Has given our Prince his own imperial Flower, Alexandrovna. And welcome, Russian flower, a people’s pride, To Britain, when her flowers begin to blow ! From love to love, from home to home you go, From mother unto mother, stately bride, Marie Alexandrovna ! II. The golden news along the -steppes is blown, And at thy name the Tartar tents are stirr’d; Elburz and all the Caucasus have heard; And all the sultry palms of India known, Alexandrovna. The voices of our universal sea On capes of Afric as on cliffs of Kent, The Maoris and that Isle of Continent, And loyal pines of Canada murmur thee, Marie Alexandrovna ! in. Fair empires branching, both, in lusty life !— Yet Harold’s England fell to Norman swords; Yet thine own land has bow’d to Tartar hordes Since English Harold gave its throne a wife, Alexandrovna ! For thrones and peoples are as waifs that swing, And float or fall, in endless ebb and flow; But who love best have best the grace to know That Love by right divine is deathless king, Marie Alexandrovna ! “ I chatter over stony ways In little sharps and trebles, % I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles THE GRANDMOTHER. iv. And Love has led thee to the stranger land, Where men are bold and strongly say their say ;— See, empire upon empire smiles to¬ day. As thou with thy young lover hand in hand Alexandrovna ! So now thy fuller life is in the west, Whose hand at home was gracious to thy poor: Thy name was blest within the narrow door ; Here also, Marie, shall thy name be blest, Marie Alexandrovna ! 225 v. Shall fears and jealous hatreds flame again ? Or at thy coming, Princess, every¬ where, The blue heaven break, and some diviner air Breathe thro’ the world and change the hearts of men, Alexandrovna ? But- hearts that change not, love that cannot cease, And peace be yours, the peace of soul in soul! And howsoever this wild world may roll, Between your peoples truth and manful peace, Alfred—Alexandrovna ! THE GRANDMOTHER. I. And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne ? Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man. And Willy’s wife has written : she never was over-wise, Never the wife for Willy: he wouldn’t take my advice. II. For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save, Hadn’t a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave. Pretty enough, very pretty ! but I was against it for one. Eh !—but he wouldn’t hear me—and Willy, you say, is gone. HI. Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock ; Never a man could fling him : for Willy stood like a rock. ‘ Here’s a leg for a babe of a week ! ’ says doctor ; and he would be bound, There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round. Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue ! I ought to have gone before him : I wonder he went so young. I cannot cry for him, Annie : I have not long to stay; Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away. v. Why do you look at me, Annie ? you think I am hard and cold ; But all my children have gone before me, I am so old : I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest; Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 9 . 226 THE GRANDMOTHER. VI. For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear, All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear. I mean your grandfather, Annie : it cost me a world of woe, Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. VII. For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well That Jenny had tript in her time : I knew, but I would not tell. And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar ! But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire. VIII. And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise, That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies, That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright. But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day; And all things look’d half-dead, tho’ it was the middle of May. Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been ! But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean. And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late I climb’d to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate. The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale, And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale. XI. All of a sudden he stopt : there past by the gate of the farm, Willy,—he didn’t see me,—and Jenny hung on his arm. Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how; Ah, there’s no fool like the old one—it makes me angry now. XII. Willy stood up like a man, and look’d the thing that he meant ; Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking curtsey and went. And I said, ‘ Let us part : in a hundred years it’ll all be the same, You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name.’ XIII. And he turn’d, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine : ‘ Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine. And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill ; But marry me out of hand : we two shall be happy still.’ THE GRANDMOTHER. 227 XIV. ‘ Marry you, Willy ! ’ said I, ‘ but I needs must speak my mind, And I fear you’ll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind. ’ But he turn’d and claspt me in his arms, and answer’d, ‘ No, love, no ; ’ Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. XV. So Willy and I were wedded : I wore a lilac gown ; And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown. But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born, Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. XVI. That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath. I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a wife ; But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life. XVII. His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain : I look’d at the still little body—his trouble had all been in vain. For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn : But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born. XVIII. But he cheer’d me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay : Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, would have his way : Never jealous—not he : we had many a happy year ; And he died, and I could not weep—my own time seem’d so near. XIX. But I wish’d it had been God’s will that I, too, then could have died : I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. And that was ten years back, or more, if I don’t forget : But as to the children, Annie, they’re all about me yet. XX. Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two, Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you : Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will, While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill. XXI. And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too—they sing to their team : Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. 228 NORTHERN FARMER. XXII. And yet I know for a truth, there’s none of them left alive ; For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five : And Willy, my eldest-born, at nigh threescore and ten ; I knew them all as babies, and now they’re elderly men. XXIII. For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve ; I am oftener sitting at home in my father’s farm at eve : And the neighbours come and laugh and gossip, and so do I ; I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by. XXIV. To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad : But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had ; And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease ; And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace. xxv. And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain, And happy has been my life ; but I would not live it again. I seem to be tired a little, that’s all, and long for rest; Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. XXVI. So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower ; But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour,— Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next; I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext ? XXVII. And Willy’s wife has written, she never was over-wise. Get me my glasses, Annie : thank God that I keep my eyes. There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away. But stay with the old woman now : you cannot have long to stay. NORTHERN FARMER. OLD STYLE. I. Wheer ’asta bean saw long and mea liggin’ ’ere aloan? N oorse ? thoort nowt o’ a noorse : whoy, Doctor’s abean an’ agoan : Says that I moant ’a naw moor aale : but I beant a fool : Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gooin’ to break my rule. Northern farmer. £29 11. Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what’s nawways true: Naw soort o’ koind o’ use to saay the things that a do. I’ve ’ed my point o’ aale ivry noight sin’ I bean ’ere, An’ I’ve ’ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year. in. Parson’s a bean loikewoise, an’ a sittin’ ere o’ my bed. ‘ The amoighty’s a taakin o’ you to ’issen, my friend,’ a said, An’ a towd ma my sins, an’s toithe were due, an’ I gied it in hond ; I done moy duty boy ’um, as I ’a done boy the lond. Larn’d a ma’ bea. I reckons I ’annot sa mooch to larn. But a cast oop, thot a did, ’boot Bessy Marris’s barne. Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi’ Squoire an’ choorch an’ staate, An’ i’ the woost o’ toimes I wur niver agin the raate. An’ I hallus coom’d to’s choorch afoor moy Sally wur dead, An’ ’eerd ’um a bummin’ awaay loike a buzzard-clock 1 ower my ’ead, An’ I niver knaw’d whot a mean’d but I thowt a ’ad summut to saay, An’ I thowt a said whot a owt to ’a said an’ I coom’d awaay. VI. Bessy Marris’s barne! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. ’Siver, I kep ’um, I kep ’um, my lass, tha mun understond ; I done moy duty boy ’um as I ’a done boy the lond. VII. But Parson a cooms an’ a goos, an’ a says it easy an’ freea ‘ The amoighty’s a taakin o’ you to ’issen, my friend,’ says ’ea. I weant saay men be loiars, thaw summun said it in ’aaste : But ’e reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an’ I ’a stubb’d Thurnaby waaste. VIII. D’ya moind the waaste, my lass ? naw, naw, tha was not born then ; Theer wur a boggle in it, I often ’eerd ’um mysen ; Moast loike a butter-bump , 2 fur I ’eerd ’um aboot an’ aboot, But I stubb’d ’um oop wi’ the lot, an’ raaved an’ rembled ’um oot. IX. Reaper’s it wur ; fo’ they fun ’um theer a-laaid of ’is faace Doon i’ the woild ’enemies 3 afoor I coom’d to the plaace. Noaks or Thimbleby—to’aner ’ed shot ’um as dead as a naail. Noaks wur ’ang’d for it oop at ’soize—but git ma my aale. 1 Cockchafer. 2 Bittern. 3 Anemones. 230 NORTHERN FARMER. x. Dubbut loook at the waaste : theer warn’t not feead for a cow ; Nowt at all but bracken an’ fuzz, an’ loook at* it now— Warnt worth nowt a haacre, an’ now theer’s lots o’ feead, Fourscoor yows upon it an’ some on it doon i’ seead. XI. Nobbut a bit on it’s left, an’ I mean’d to ’a stubb’d it at fall, Done it ta-year I mean’d, an’ runn’d plow thrufif it an’ all, If godamoighty an’ parson ’ud nobbut let ma aloan, Mea, wi’ haate oonderd haacre o’ Squoire’s, an’ lond o’ my oan. XII. Do godamoighty knaw what a’s doing a-taakin’ o’ mea ? I beant wonn as saws ’ere a bean an’ yonder a pea ; An’ Squoire ’ull be sa mad an’ all—a’ dear a’ dear ! And I ’a managed for Squoire coom Michaelmas thutty year. XIII. A mowt ’a ta'aen owd Joanes, as ’ant nor a ’aapoth o’ sense, Or a mowt ’a taaen young Robins—a niver mended a fence : But godamoighty a moost taake mea an’ ta'ake ma now Wi’ aaf the cows to cauve an’ Thurnaby hoalms to plow ! XIV. Loook ’ow quoloty smoiles when they seeas ma a passin’ boy, Says to thessen naw doubt ‘ what a man a bea sewer-loy ! ’ Fur they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin fust a coom’d to the ’All ; I done moy duty by Squoire an’ I done moy duty boy hall. xv. Squoire’s i’ Lunnon, an’ summun I reckons ’ull ’a to wroite, For whoa’s to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles ma quoit; Sartin-sewer I bea, thot a weant niver give it to Joanes, Naw, nor a moant to Robins—a niver rembles the sto'ans. XVI. But summun ’ull come ater mea mayhap wi’ ’is kittle o’ steam Huzzin’ an’ maazin’ the blessed fealds wi’ the Divil’s oan team. Sin’ I mun doy I mun doy, thaw loife they says is sweet, But sin’ I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to see it. XVII. What atta stannin’ theer fur, an’ doesn bring ma the aale ? Doctor’s a ’toattler, lass, an a’s hallus i’ the owd taale; I weant break rules fur Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a floy; Git ma my aale I tell tha, an’ if I mun doy I mun doy. NORTHERN FARMER. 231 NORTHERN FARMER. NEW STYLE. I. Dosn’t thou ’ear my ’erse’s legs, as they canters awaay ? Proputty, proputty, proputty—that’s what I ’ears ’em saay. Proputty, proputty, proputty—Sam, thou’s an ass for thy paai'ns : Theer’s moor sense i’ one o’ ’is legs nor in all thy braains. Woa—theer’s a craw to pluck wi’ tha, Sam : yon’s parson’s ’ouse— Dosn’t thou knaw that a man mun be eather a man or a mouse ? Time to think on it then; for thou’ll be twenty to weeak . 1 Proputty, proputty—woa then woa—let ma ’ear mysen speak. ill. Me an’ thy muther, Sammy, ’as bean a-talkin’ o’ thee ; Thou’s bean talkin’ to muther, an’ she bean a tellin’ it me. Thou’ll not marry for munny—thou’s sweet upo’ parson’s lass— Noa—thou’ll marry for luvv—an’ we boath on us thinks tha an ass. IV. Seea’d her todaay goa by—Saaint’s-daay—they was ringing the bells. She’s a beauty thou thinks—an’ soa is scoors o’ gells, Them as ’as munny an’ all—wot’s a beauty ?—the flower as blaws. But proputty, proputty sticks, an’ proputty, proputty graws. v. Do’ant be stunt : 2 taake time : I knaws what maakes tha sa mad. Warn’t I craazed fur the lasses mysen when I wur a lad ? But I knaw’d a Quaaker feller as often ’as towd ma this : * Doant thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny is ! ’ VI. An’ I went wheer munny war : an’ thy muther coom to ’and, Wi’ lots o’ munny laaid by, an’ a nicetish bit o’ land. Maaybe she warn’t a beauty :—I niver giv it a thowt— But wam’t she as good to cuddle an’ kiss as a lass as ’ant nowt ? VII. Parson’s lass ’ant nowt, an’ she weant ’a nowt when ’e’s dead, Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle 3 her bread : Why ? fur ’e’s nobbut a curate, an’ weant niver git naw ’igher ; An’ ’e maade the bed as ’e ligs on afoor ’e coom’d to the shire. 1 This week. 2 Obstinate. 3 Earn. 232 NORTHERN FARMER. VIII. An thin ’e coom’d to the parish wi’ lots o’ Varsity debt, Stook to his taail they did, an* ’e ’ant got shut on ’em yet. An’ ’e ligs on ’is back i’ the grip, wi’ noan to lend ’im a shove, Woorse nor a far-welter’d 1 yowe : fur, Sammy, ’e married fur luvv. IX. Luw ? what’s luvv ? thou can luvv thy lass an’ ’er munny too, Maakin’ ’em goa togither as they’ve good right to do. Could’n I luvv thy muther by cause o’ ’er munny laai'd by ? Naay—fur I luvv’d ’er a vast sight moor fur it: reason why. x. Ay an’ thy muther says thou wants to marry the lass, Cooms of a gentleman burn : an’ we boiith on us thinks tha an ass. Woa then, proputty, wiltha ?—an ass as near as mays nowt 2 — Woa then, wiltha ? dangtha !—the bees is as fell as owt . 3 XI. Break me a bit o’ the esh for his ’ead, lad, out o’ the fence ! Gentleman burn ! what’s gentleman bum ? is it shillins an’ pence ? Proputty, proputty’s ivrything ’ere, an’, Sammy, I’m blest If it isn’t the saame oop yonder, fur them as ’as it’s the best. XII. Tis’n them as ’as munny as breaks into ’ouses an’ steals, Them as ’as coats to their backs an’ taakes their regular meals. Noa, but it’s them as niver knaws wheer a meal’s to be ’ad. Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad. XIII. Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun ’a bean a laazy lot, Fur work mun ’a gone to the gittin’ whiniver munny was got. Feyther ’ad ammost nowt; leastways ’is munny was ’id. But ’e tued an’ moil’d ’issen dead, an ’e died a good un, ’e did. XIV. Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out by the ’ill! Feyther run oop to the farm, an’ I runs oop to the mill; An’ I’ll run oop to the brig, an’ that thou’ll live to see ; And if thou marries a good un I’ll leave the land to thee. xv. Thim’s my noations, Sammy, wheerby I means to stick ; But if thou marries a bad un, I’ll leave the land to Dick.— Coom oop, proputty, proputty—that’s what I ’ears ’im saay— Proputty, proputty, proputty—canter an’ canter awaay. 1 Or fow-welter’d,—said of a sheep lying on its back in the furrow. 2 Makes nothing. 3 The flies are as fierce as anything. THE DAISY. 233 THE DAISY. WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH. O love, what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine ; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. What Roman strength Turbia show’d In ruin, by the mountain road ; How like a gem, beneath, the city Of little Monaco, basking, glow’d. How richly down the rocky dell The torrent vineyard streaming fell To meet the sun and sunny waters, That only heaved with a summer swell. What slender campanili grew By bays, the peacock’s neck in hue ; Where, here and there, on sandy beaches A. milky-bell’d amaryllis blew. How young Columbus seem’d to rove, Yet present in his natal grove, Now watching high on mountain cor¬ nice, And steering, now, from a purple cove, Now pacing mute by ocean’s rim ; Till, in a narrow street and dim, I stay’d the wheels at Cogoletto, And drank, and loyally drank to him. Nor knew we well what pleased us most, Not the dipt palm of which they boast; But distant colour, happy hamlet, A moulder’d citadel on the coast, Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen A light amid its olives green ; Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; Or rosy blossom in hot ravine, Where oleanders flush’d the bed Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ; And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten Of ice, far up on a mountain head. We loved that hall, tho’ white and cold, Those niched shapes of noble mould, A princely people’s awful princes, The grave, severe Genovese of old. At Florence too what golden hours, In those long galleries, were ours ; What drives about the fresh Cascine, Or walks in Boboli’s ducal bowers. In bright vignettes, and each complete, Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet, Or palace, how the city glitter’d, Thro’ cypress avenues, at our feet. But when we crost the Lombard plain Remember what a plague of rain ; Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma; At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. And stern and sad (so rare the smiles Of sunlight) look’d the Lombard piles; Porch-pillars on the lion resting, And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. O Milan, O the chanting quires, The giant windows’ blazon’d fires, The height, the space, the gloom, the glory ! A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! I climb’d the roofs at break of day ; Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. I stood among the silent statues, And statued pinnacles, mute as they. How faintly-flush’d, how phantom-fair, Was Monte Rosa, hanging there A thousand shadowy-pencill’d valleys And snowy dells in a golden air. Remember how we came at last To Como ; shower and storm and blast Had blown the lake beyond his limit, And all was flooded ; and how we past From Como, when the light was gray, And in my head, for half the day, The rich Virgilian rustic measure Of Lari Maxume, all the way, 234 TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. Like ballad-burthen music, kept, As on The Lariano crept To that fair port below the castle Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept; Or hardly slept, but watch’d awake A cypress in the moonlight shake, The moonlight touching o’er a terrace One tall Agave above the lake. What more ? we took our last adieu, And up the snowy Splugen drew, But ere we reach’d the highest summit I pluck’d a daisy, I gave it you. It told of England then to me, And now it tells of Italy. O love, we two shall go no longer To lands of summer across the sea ; So dear a life your arms enfold Whose crying is a cry for gold : Yet here to-night in this dark city, When ill and weary, alone and cold, I found, tho’ crush’d to hard and dry, This nurseling of another sky Still in the little book you lent me, And where you tenderly laid it by : And I forgot the clouded Forth, The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth, The bitter east, the misty summer And gray metropolis of the North. Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, Perchance, to dream you still beside me, My fancy fled to the South again. TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. Come, when no graver cares employ, Godfather, come and see your boy : Your presence will be sun in winter, Making the little one leap for joy. For, being of that honest few, Who give the Fiend himself his due, Should eighty-thousand college-councils Thunder ‘ Anathema,’ friend, at you ; Should all our churchmen foam in spite At you, so careful of the right, Yet one lay-hearth would give you wel¬ come (Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight; Where, far from noise and smoke of town, I watch the twilight falling brown All round a careless-order’d garden Close to the ridge of a noble down. You’ll have no scandal while you dine, But honest talk and wholesome wine, And only hear the magpie gossip Garrulous under a roof of pine : For groves of pine on either hand, To break the blast of winter, stand ; And further on, the hoary Channel Tumbles a billow on chalk and sand ; Where, if below the milky steep Some ship of battle slowly creep, And on thro’ zones of light and shadow Glimmer away to the lonely deep, We might discuss the Northern sin Which made a selfish war begin ; Dispute the claims, arrange the chances; Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win : Or whether war’s avenging rod Shall lash all Europe into blood ; Till you should turn to dearer matters, Dear to the man that is dear to God; How best to help the slender store, How mend the dwellings, of the poor ; How gain in life, as life advances, Valour and charity more and more. Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as yet Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet; But when the wreath of March has blossom’d, Crocus, anemone, violet, Or later, pay one visit here, For those are few we hold as dear; Nor pay but one, but come for many, Many and many a happy year. January, 1854. WILL—THE FLO WEE. 235 WILL. I. O well for him whose will is strong ! He suffers, but he will not suffer long; He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong : For him nor moves the loud world’s random mock, Nor all Calamity’s hugest waves confound, Who seems a promontory of rock, That, compass’d round with turbulent sound, In middle ocean meets the surging shock, Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown’d. II. But ill for him who, bettering not with time, Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended Will, And ever weaker grows thro’ acted crime, Or seeming-genial venial fault, Recurring and suggesting still ! He seems as one whose footsteps halt, Toiling in immeasurable sand, And o’er a weary sultry land, Far beneath a blazing vault, Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill, The city sparkles like a grain of salt. IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ. All along the valley, stream that flashest white, Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night, All along the valley, where thy waters flow, I walk’d with one I loved two and thirty years ago. All along the valley, while I walk’d to-day, The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away ; For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed, Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead, And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree, The voice of the dead was a living voice to me. IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINSTON. Nightingales warbled without, Within was weeping for thee : Shadows of three dead men Walk’d in the walks with me, Shadows of three dead men and thou wast one of the three. Nightingales sang in his woods : The Master was far away : Nightingales warbled and sang Of a passion that lasts but a day ; Still in the house in his coffin the Prince of courtesy lay. Two dead men have I known In courtesy like to thee : Two dead men have I loved With a love that ever will be : Three dead men have I loved and thou art last of the three. THE FLOWER. Once in a golden hour I cast to earth a seed. Up there came a flower, The people said, a weed. To and fro they went Thro’ my garden-bower, And muttering discontent Cursed me and my flower. Then it grew so tall It wore a crown of light, But thieves from o’er the wall Stole the seed by night. Sow’d it far and wide By every town and tower, Till all the people cried, ‘ Splendid is the flower.’ Read my little fable : He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed. 236 REQU1ESCAT — THE SAILOR BOY—THE ISLET. And some are pretty enough, And some are poor indeed; And now again the people Call it but a weed. REQUIESCAT. Fair is her cottage in its place, Where yon broad water sweetly slowly glides. It sees itself from thatch to base Dream in the sliding tides. And fairer she, but ah how soon to die ! Her quiet dream of life this hour may cease. Her peaceful being slowly passes by To some more perfect peace. THE SAILOR BOY. He rose at dawn and, fired with hope. Shot o’er the seething harbour-bar, And reach’d the ship and caught the rope, And whistled to the morning star. And while he whistled long and loud He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, ‘ O boy, tho’ thou art young and proud, I see the place where thou wilt lie. ‘ The sands and yeasty surges mix In caves about the dreary bay, And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, And in thy heart the scrawl shall play. ’ ‘ Fool,’ he answer’d, ‘ death is sure To those that stay and those that roam, But I will nevermore endure To sit with empty hands at home. ‘ My mother clings about my neck, My sisters crying, ‘ ‘ Stay for shame ; ” My father raves of death and wreck, They are all to blame, they are all to blame. ‘ God help me ! save I take my part Of danger on the roaring sea, A devil rises in my heart, Far worse than any death to me.’ THE ISLET. ‘ Whither, O whither, love, shall we go, For a score of sweet little summers or so ?’ The sweet little wife of the singer said, On the day that follow’d the day she was wed, ‘ Whither, O whither, love, shall we go?’ And the singer shaking his curly head Turn’d as he sat, and struck the keys There at his right with a sudden crash, Singing, ‘ And shall it be over the seas With a crew that is neither rude nor rash, But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek’d, In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak’d, With a satin sail of a ruby glow, To a sweet little Eden on earth that I know, A mountain islet pointed and peak’d ; Waves on a diamond shingle dash, Cataract brooks to the ocean run, Fairily-delicate palaces shine Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine, And overstream’d and silvery-streak’d With many a rivulet high against the Sun The facets of the glorious mountain flash Above the valleys of palm and pine.’ ‘ Thither, O thither, love, let us go.’ ‘ No, no, no ! For in all that exquisite isle, my dear, There is but one bird with a musical throat, And his compass is but of a single note, That it makes one weaiy to hear.’ ‘ Mock me not ! mock me not! love, let us go.’ ‘ No, love, no. For the bud ever breaks into bloom on the tree, And a storm never wakes on the lonely sea, And a worm is there in the lonely wood, That pierces the liver and blackens the blood ; And makes it a sorrow to be.’ CHILD-SONGS—THE SPITEFUL LETTER. 237 CHILD-SONGS. THE CITY CHILD. Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander ? Whither from this pretty home, the home where mother dwells ? * Far and far away,’ said the dainty little maiden, ‘ All among the gardens, auriculas, anemones, Roses and lilies and Canterbury-bells.’ Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander ? Whither from this pretty house, this city-house of ours ? ‘ Far and far away,’ said the dainty little maiden, * All among the meadows, the clover and the clematis, Daisies and kingcups and honeysuckle- flowers.’ 11. MINNIE AND WINNIE. Minnie and Winnie Slept in a shell. Sleep, little ladies ! And they slept well. Pink was the shell within, Silver without; Sounds of the great sea Wander’d about. Sleep, little ladies ! Wake not soon ! Echo on echo Dies to the moon. Two bright stars Peep’d into the shell. ‘What are they dreaming of? Who can tell?’ Started a green linnet Out of the croft; Wake, little ladies, The sun is aloft ! THE SPITEFUL LETTER. Here, it is here, the close of the year, And with it a spiteful letter. My name in song has done him much wrong, For himself has done much better. O little bard, is your lot so hard, If men neglect your pages ? I think not much of yours or of mine, I hear the roll of the ages. Rhymes and rhymes in the range of the times ! Are mine for the moment stronger ? Yet hate me not, but abide your lot, I last but a moment longer. This faded leaf, our names are as brief; What room is left for a hater ? Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener leaf, For it hangs one moment later. Greater than I—is that your cry ? And men will live to see it. Well—if it be so—so it is, you know ; And if it be so, so be it. Brief, brief is a summer leaf, But this is the time of hollies. O hollies and ivies and evergreens, How I hate the spites and the follies ! LITERARY SQUABBLES. Ah God ! the petty fools of rhyme That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars Before the stony face of Time, And look’d at by the silent stars : Who hate each other for a song, And do their little best to bite And pinch their brethren in the throng, And scratch the very dead for spite : And strain to make an inch of room For their sweet selves, and cannot hear The sullen Lethe rolling doom On them and theirs and all things here: 238 THE VICTIM. When one small touch of Charity Could lift them nearer God-like state Than if the crowded Orb should cry Like those who cried Diana great: And I too, talk, and lose the touch I talk of. Surely, after all, The noblest answer unto such Is perfect stillness when they brawl. THE VICTIM. i. A plague upon the people fell, A famine after laid them low, Then thorpe and byre arose in fire, For on them brake the sudden foe ; So thick they died the people cried, ‘ The Gods are moved against the land.’ The Priest in horror about his altar To Thor and Odin lifted a hand : * Help us from famine And plague and strife ! What would you have of us ? Human life ? Were it our nearest, Were it our dearest, (Answer, O answer) We give you his life.’ II. But still the foeman spoil’d and burn’d, And cattle died, and deer in wood, And bird in air, and fishes turn’d And whiten’d all the rolling flood ; And dead men lay all over the way, Or down in a furrow scathed with flame : And ever and aye the Priesthood moan’d, Till at last it seem’d that an answer came. ‘ The King is happy In child and wife ; Take you his dearest, Give us a life.’ ill. The Priest went out by heath and hill ; The King was hunting in the wild ; They found the mother sitting still ; She cast her arms about the child. The child was only eight summers old, His beauty still with his years increased, His face was ruddy, his hair was gold, He seem’d a victim due to the priest. The Priest beheld him, And cried with joy, ‘ The Gods have answer’d : We give them the boy.’ IV. The King return’d from out the wild, He bore but little game in hand ; The mother said, ‘ They have taken the child To spill his blood and heal the land : The land is sick, the people diseased, And blight and famine on all the lea: The holy Gods, they must be appeased, So I pray you tell the truth to me. They have taken our son, They will have his life. Is he your dearest ? Or I, the wife?’ v. ! The King bent low, with hand on brow, He stay’d his arms upon his knee : ! ‘ O wife, what use to answer now ? For now the Priest has judged for me.’ The King was shaken with holy fear ; ‘ The Gods,’ he said, ‘ would have chosen well; Yet both are near, and both are dear, And which the dearest I cannot tell !’ But the Priest was happy, His victim won: ‘ We have his dearest, His only son ! ’ VI. The rites prepared, the victim bared, The knife uprising toward the blow To the altar-stone she sprang alone, ‘Me, not my darling, no !’ He caught her away with a sudden cry ; Suddenly from him brake his wife, And shrieking ‘ I am his dearest, I— I am his dearest !’ rush’d on the knife. WAGES—THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. 239 And the Priest was happy, ‘ O, Father Odin, We give you a life. Which was his nearest ? Who was his dearest ? The Gods have answer’d ; We give them the wife ! ’ WAGES. Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song, Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless sea— Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong— Nay, but she aim’d not at glory, no lover of glory she : Give her the glory of going on, and still to be. The wages of sin is death : if the wages of Virtue be dust, Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and the fly ? She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just, To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer sky : Give her the wages of going on, and not to die. THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains— Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns ? Is not the Vision He ? tho’ He be not that which He seems ? Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams ? Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb, Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him ? Dark is the world to thee : thyself art the reason why; For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel ‘ I am I ’ ? Glory about thee, without thee ; and thou fulfillest thy doom Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendour and gloom. Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet— Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. God is law, say the wise ; O Soul, and let us rejoice, For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. Law is God, say some : no God at all, says the fool ; For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool; And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see ; But if we could see and hear, this Vision--were it not He? 240 THE VOICE AND THE PEAK—A DEDICATION. THE VOICE AND THE PEAK. i. The voice and the Peak Far over summit and lawn, The lone glow and long roar Green-rushing from the rosy thrones of dawn ! II. All night have I heard the voice Rave over the rocky bar, But thou wert silent in heaven, Above thee glided the star. ill. Hast thou no voice, O Peak, That standest high above all ? ‘ I am the voice of the Peak, I roar and rave for I fall. iv. • A thousand voices go To North, South, East, and West; They leave the heights and are troubled, And moan and sink to their rest. V. * The fields are fair beside them. The chestnut towers in his bloom ; But they—they feel the desire of the deep— Fall, and follow their doom. VI. ‘ The deep has power on the height, And the height has power on the deep ; They are raised for ever and ever, And sink again into sleep.’ VII. Not raised for ever and ever, But when their cycle is o’er, The valley, the voice, the peak, the star Pass, and are found no more. VIII. The Peak is high and flush’d At his highest with sunrise fire ; The Peak is high, and the stars are high, And the thought of a man is higher. IX. A deep below the deep, And a height beyond the height ! Our hearing is not hearing, And our seeing is not sight. x. The voice and the Peak Far into heaven withdrawn, The lone glow and long roar Green-rushing from the rosy thrones of dawn ! Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower—but if l could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is. A DEDICATION. Dear, near and true — no truer Time himself Can prove you, tho’ he make you ever¬ more Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life Shoots to the fall—take this and pray that he Who wrote it, honouring your sweet faith in him, May trust himself; and after praise and scorn, As one who feels the immeasurable world, Attain the wise indifference of the wise ; And after Autumn past—if left to pass His autumn into seeming-leafless days— Draw toward the long frost and longest night, Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the fruit Which in our winter woodland looks i flower . 1 1 The fruit of the Spindle-tree (Euonymus Europents). BOADICEA. 241 EXPERIMENTS. BOADICEA. While about the shore of Mona those Neronian legionaries Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and Druidess, Far in the East Boadicea, standing loftily charioted, Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce volubility, Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony Camulodune, Yell’d and shriek’d between her daughters o’er a wild confederacy. ‘ They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain’s barbarous populaces, Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me supplicating ? Shall I heed them in their anguish ? shall I brook to be supplicated ? Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant! Must their ever-ravening eagle’s beak and talon annihilate us ? Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorily quivering? Bark an answer, Britain’s raven ! bark and blacken innumerable, Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the carcase a skeleton, Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolfkin, from the wilderness, wallow in it, Till the face of Bel be brighten’d, Taranis be propitiated. Lo their colony half-defended ! lo their colony, Camulodune ! There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous adversary. There the hive of Roman liars worship a gluttonous emperor-idiot. Such is Rome, and this her deity : hear it, Spirit of Cassivelaun ! ‘ Hear it, Gods ! the Gods have heard it, O Icenian, O Coritanian ! Doubt not ye the Gods have answer’d, Catieuchlanian, Trinobant. These have told us all their anger in miraculous utterances, Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard aerially, Phantom sound of blows descending, moan of an enemy massacred, Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous agonies. Bloodily flow’d the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies of horses and men ; Then a phantom colony smoulder’d on the refluent estuary; Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily tottering— There was one who watch’d and told me—down their statue of Victory fell. Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Camulodune, Shall we teach it a Roman lesson ? shall we care to be pitiful ? Shall we deal with it as an infant ? shall we dandle it amorously ? ‘ Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant! While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly meditating, There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical ceremony, Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophetesses, “ Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets ! Tho’ the Roman eagle shadow thee, tho’ the gathering enemy narrow thee, Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt be the mighty one yet! Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to be celebrated, R 242 BOADICEA. Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illimitable, Thine the lands of lasting summer, many-blossoming Paradises, Thine the North and thine the South and thine the battle-thunder of God,” So they chanted : how shall Britain light upon auguries happier ? So they chanted in the darkness, and there cometh a victory now. * Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! Me the wife of rich Prasutagus, me the lover of liberty, Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lash’d and humiliated, Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian violators ! See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in ignominy ! Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated. Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the colony Camulodune ! There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flourishing territory, Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted Britoness— Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inexorable. Shout Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Trinobant, Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry precipitously Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoke in a hurricane whirl’d. Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city of Cunobeline ! There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables of ebony lay, Rolling on their purple couches in their tender effeminacy. There they dwelt and there they rioted ; there—there—they dwell no more. Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of the statuary, Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold it abominable, Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lust and voluptuousness, Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash’d and humiliated, Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash the brains of the little one out, Up my Britons, on my chariot, on my chargers, trample them under us.’ So the Queen Boadicea, standing loftily charioted, Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness-like, Yell’d and shriek’d between her daughters in her fierce volubility. Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated, Madly dash’d the darts together, writhing barbarous lineaments, Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in January, Roar’d as when the roaring breakers boom and blanch on the precipices, Yell’d as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a promontory. So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid unanimous hand, Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice, Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremulously, Then her pulses at the clamouring of her enemy fainted away. Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds. Ran the land with Roman slaughter, multitudinous agonies. Perish’d many a maid and matron, many a valorous legionary, Fell the colony, city, and citadel, London, Verulam, Camulodune. IN QUANTITY—TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD. 243 IN QUANTITY. ON TRANSLATIONS OF HOMER. Hexameters and Pentameters. These lame hexameters the strong-wing’d music of Homer ! No—but a most burlesque barbarous experiment. When was a harsher sound ever heard, ye Muses, in England ? When did a frog coarser croak upon our Helicon ? Hexameters no worse than daring Germany gave us, Barbarous experiment, barbarous hexameters. MILTON. Alcaics. O MIGHTY-mouth’d inventor of har¬ monies, O skill’d to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages ; Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, Starr’d from Jehovah’s gorgeous armouries, Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean Rings to the roar of an angel onset— Me rather all that bowery loneliness, The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, And bloom profuse and cedar arches Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, Where some refulgent sunset of India Streams o’er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, And crimson -hued the stately palm- woods Whisper in odorous heights of even. Hendecasy liables. O you chorus of indolent reviewers, Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem All composed in a metre of Catullus, All in quantity, careful of my motion, Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him, Lest I fall unawares before the people, Waking laughter in indolent reviewers. Should I flounder awhile without a tumble Thro’ this metrification of Catullus, They should speak to me riot without a welcome, All that chorus of indolent reviewers. Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble, So fantastical is the dainty metre. Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers. O blatant Magazines, regard me rather— Since I blush to belaud myself a mo¬ ment— As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost Horticultural art, or half coquette-like Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly. SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLA¬ TION OF THE ILIAD IN BLANK VERSE. So Hector spake ; the Trojans roar’d applause ; Then loosed their sweating horses from the yoke, And each beside his chariot bound his own ; And oxen from the city, and goodly sheep In haste they drove, and honey-hearted wine And bread from out the houses brought, and heap’d Their firewood, and the winds from off the plain Roll’d the rich vapour far into the heaven. And these all night upon the bridge 1 of war Sat glorying ; many a fire before them blazed : 1 Or, ridge. 244 THE WINDOW. As when in heaven the stars about the moon Look beautiful, when all the winds are laid, And every height comes out, and jutting peak And valley, and the immeasurable heavens Break open to their highest, and all the stars Shine, and the Shepherd gladdens in his heart : So many a fire between the ships and stream Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy, A thousand on the plain ; and close by each Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire ; And eating hoary grain and pulse the steeds, Fixt by their cars, waited the golden dawn. Iliad v III. 542-561. THE WINDOW; OR, THE SONG OF THE WRENS. Four years ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little song-cycle, German fashion, for him to exercise his art upon. He had been very successful in setting such old songs as * Orpheus with his lute,’ and I drest up for him, partly in the old style, a puppet, whose almost only merit is, perhaps, that it can dance to Mr. Sullivan’s instrument. I am sorry that my four-year-old puppet should have to dance at all in the dark shadow of these days ; but the music is now completed, and I am bound by my promise. December, 1870. A. Tennyson. THE WINDOW. ON THE HILL. The lights and shadows fly ! Yonder it brightens and darkens down on the plain. A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover’s eye ! Oh is it the brook, or a pool, or her window pane, When the winds are up in the morning ? Clouds that are racing above, And winds and lights and shadows that cannot be still, All running on one way to the *home of my love, You are all running on, and I stand on the slope of the hill, And the winds are up in the morning ! Follow, follow the chase ! And my thoughts are as quick and as quick, ever on, on, on. O lights, are you flying over her sweet little face ? And my heart is there before you are come, and gone, When the winds are up in the morning! Follow them down the slope ! And I follow them down to the window- pane of my dear, And it brightens and darkens and brightens like my hope, And it darkens and brightens and darkens like my fear, And the winds are up in the morning. AT THE WINDOW. Vine, vine and eglantine, Clasp her window, trail and twine ! Rose, rose and clematis, Trail and twine and clasp and kiss, Kiss, kiss ; and make her a bower All of flowers, and drop me a flower, Drop me a flower. THE WINDOW. 245 Vine, vine and eglantine, Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine ? Rose, rose and clematis, Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss, Kiss, kiss—and out of her bower All of flowers, a flower, a flower, Dropt, a flower. GONE. Gone ! Gone, till the end of the year, Gone, and the light gone with her, and left me in shadow here ! Gone—flitted away, Taken the stars from the night and the sun from the day ! Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a storm in the air ! Flown to the east or the west, flitted I know not where ! Down in the south is a flash and a groan : she is there ! she is there ! WINTER. The frost is here, And fuel is dear, And woods are sear, And fires burn clear, And frost is here And has bitten the heel of the going year. Bite, frost, bite ! You roll up away from the light The blue wood-louse, and the plump dormouse, And the bees are Still’d, and the flies are kill’d, And you bite far into the heart of the house, But not into mine. Bite, frost, bite ! The woods are all the searer, The fuel is all the dearer, The fires are all the clearer, My spring is all the nearer, You have bitten into the heart of the earth, But not into mine. SPRING. Birds’ love and birds’ song Flying here and there, Birds’ song and birds’ love, And you with gold for hair ! Birds’ song and birds’ love, Passing with the weather, Men’s song and men’s love, To love once and for ever. Men’s love and birds’ love, And women’s love and men’s ! And you my wren with a crown of gold, You my queen of the wrens ! You the queen of the wrens— We’ll be birds of a feather, I’ll be King of the Queen of the wrens, And all in a nest together. THE LETTER. Where is another sweet as my sweet, Fine of the fine, and shy of the shy ? Fine little hands, fine little feet— Dewy blue eye. Shall I write to her ? shall I go ? Ask her to marry me by and by ? Somebody said that she’d say no ; Somebody knows that she’ll say ay ! Ay or no, if ask’d to her face ? Ay or no, from shy of the shy ? Go, little letter, apace, apace, Fly; Fly to the light in the valley below— Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye : Somebody said that she’d say no ; Somebody knows that she’ll say ay ! NO ANSWER. The mist and the rain, the mist and the rain! Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no ? And never a glimpse of her window pane! And I may die but the grass will grow, And the grass will grow when I am gone, And the wet west wind and the world will go on. Ay is the song o-f the wedded spheres, No is trouble and cloud and storm, THE WINDOW. 246 Ay is life for a hundred years, No will push me down to the worm, And when I am there and dead and gone, The wet west wind and the world will go on. The wind and the wet, the wind and the wet! Wet west wind how you blow, you blow ! And never a line from my lady yet ! Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no ? Blow then, blow, and when I am gone, The wet west wind and the world may go on. NO ANSWER. Winds are loud and you are dumb, Take my love, for love will come, Love will come but once a life. Winds are loud and winds will pass ! Spring is here with leaf and grass : Take my love and be my wife. After-loves of maids and men Are but dainties drest again : Love me now, you’ll love me then : Love can love but once a life. THE ANSWER. Two little hands that meet, Claspt on her seal, my sweet ! Must 1 take you and break you, Two little hands that meet? I must take you, and break you, And loving hands must part— Take, take—break, break-— Break—you may break my heart. Faint heart never won— Break, break, and all’s done. AY. Be merry, all birds, to-day, Be merry on earth as you never were merry before, Be merry in heaven, O larks, and far away, And merry for ever and ever, and one day more. Why? For it’s easy to find a rhyme. Look, look, how he flits, The fire-crown’d king of the wrens, from out of the pine ! Look how they tumble the blossom, the mad little tits ! ‘ Cuck-00! Cuck-00 ! ’ was ever a May so fine ? Why? For it’s easy to find a rhyme. O merry the linnet and dove, And swallow and sparrow and throstle, and have your desire ! O merry my heart, you have gotten the wings of love, And flit like the king of the wrens with a crown of fire. Why? For it’s ay ay, ay ay. WHEN. Sun comes, moon comes, Time slips away. Sun sets, moon sets, Love, fix a day. ‘ A year hence, a year hence. ’ ‘ We shall both be gray.’ ‘ A month hence, a month hence. ’ ‘ Far, far away.’ ‘ A week hence, a week hence. ’ ‘ Ah, the long delay. ’ ‘ Wait a little, wait a little, You shall fix a day.’ ‘To-morrow, love, to-morrow, And that’s an age away.’ Blaze upon her window, sun, And honour all the day. MARRIAGE MORNING. Light, so low upon earth, You send a flash to the sun. Here is the golden close of love, All my wooing is done. Oh, the woods and the meadows, Woods where we hid from the wet, Stiles where we stay’d to be kind, Meadows in which we met ! IN MEMORIAM. 247 Light, so low in the vale You flash and lighten afar, For this is the golden morning of love, And you are his morning star. Flash, I am coming, I come, By meadow and stile and wood, Oh, lighten into my eyes and my heart, Into my heart and my blood ! Heart, are you great enough For a love that never tires? O heart, are you great enough for love ? I have heard of thorns and briers. Over the thorns and briers, Over the meadows and stiles, Over the world to the end of it Flash for a million miles. IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIH. Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove ; Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou madest Life in man and brute; Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made. Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : Thou madest man, he knows not why, He thinks he was not made to die ; And thou hast made him : thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood, thou: Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine. Our little systems have their day ; They have their day and cease to be: They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they. We have but faith : we cannot know ; For knowledge is of things we see ; And yet we trust it comes from thee, A beam in darkness : let it grow. Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster. We are fools and slight; We mock thee when we do not fear : But help thy foolish ones to bear ; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. Forgive what seem’d my sin in me ; What seem’d my worth since I began ; For merit lives from man to man, And not from man, O Lord, to thee. Forgive my grief for one removed, Thy creature, whom I found so fair. I trust he lives in thee, and there I find him worthier to be loved. Forgive these wild and wandering cries, Confusions of a wasted youth ; Forgive them where they fail in truth, And in thy wisdom make me wise. 1849. 1. I held it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things. But who shall so forecast the years And find in loss a gain to match ? Or reach a hand thro’ time to catch The far-off interest of tears ? Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown’d, Let darkness keep her raven gloss : Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, To dance with death, to beat the ground, 248 IN MEMORTA M. Than that the victor Hours should scorn The long result of love, and boast, ‘ Behold the man that loved and lost, But all he was is overworn.’ 11. Old Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head, Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. The seasons bring the flower again, And bring the firstling to the flock ; And in the dusk of thee, the clock Beats out the little lives of men. O not for thee the glow, the bloom, Who changest not in any gale, Nor branding summer suns avail To touch thy thousand years of gloom : And gazing on thee, sullen tree, Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, I seem to fail from out my blood And grow incorporate into thee. ill. O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, O Priestess in the vaults of Death, O sweet and bitter in a breath, What whispers from thy lying lip ? ‘The stars,’ she whispers, ‘blindly run ; A web is wov’n across the sky ; From out waste places comes a cry, And murmurs from the dying sun: ‘ And all the phantom, Nature, stands— With all the music in her tone, A hollow echo of my own,— A hollow form with empty hands.’ And shall I take a thing so blind, Embrace her as my natural good ; Or crush her, like a vice of blood, Upon the threshold of the mind ? IV. To Sleep I give my powers away; My will is bondsman to the dark ; I sit within a helmless bark, And with my heart I muse and say : O heart, how fares it with thee now, That thou should’st fail from thy . desire, Who scarcely darest to inquire, ‘ What is it makes me beat so low ?’ Something it is which thou hast lost, Some pleasure from thine earlyyears. Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears, That grief hath shaken into frost ! Such clouds of nameless trouble cross All night below the darken’d eyes; With morning wakes the will, and cries, ‘ Thou shalt not be the fool of loss. ’ v. I sometimes hold it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel; For words, like Nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within. m But, for the unquiet heart and brain, A use in measured language lies ; The sad mechanic exercise, Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold : But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more. VI. One writes, that ‘Other friends remain,’ That ‘ Loss is common to the race ’— And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain. That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more : Too common ! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break. O father, wheresoe’er thou be, Who pledgest now thy gallant son ; A shot, ere half thy draught be done, Hath still’d the life that beat from thee. IN MEMORIAM. 249 O mother, praying God will save Thy sailor, — while thy head is bow’d, His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud Drops in his vast and wandering grave. Ye know no more than I who wrought At that last hour to please him well; Who mused on all I had to tell, And something written, something thought; Expecting still his advent home ; And ever met him on his way With wishes, thinking, ‘ here to-day,’ Or ‘here to-morrow will he come.’ O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove, That sittest ranging golden hair ; And glad to find thyself so fair, Poor child, that waitest for thy love ! For now her father’s chimney glows % In expectation of a guest; And thinking ‘this will please him best,’ She takes a riband or a rose ; For he will see them on to-night; And with the thought her colour burns; And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right; And, even when she turn’d, the curse Had fallen, and her future Lord Was drown’d in passing thro’ the ford, Or kill’d in falling from his horse. O what to her shall be the end ? And what to me remains of good ? To her, perpetual maidenhood, And unto me no second friend. VII. Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp’d no more— Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here ; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day. VIII. A happy lover who has come To look on her that loves him well, Who ’lights and rings the gateway bell, And learns her gone and far from home ; He saddens, all the magic light Dies off at once from bower and hall, And all the place is dark, and all The chambers emptied of delight : So find I every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber and the street. For all is dark where thou art not. Yet as that other, wandering there In those deserted walks, may find A flower beat with rain and wind, Which once she foster’d up with care ; So seems it in my deep regret, O my forsaken heart, with thee And this poor flower of poesy Which little cared for fades not yet. But since it pleased a vanish’d eye, I go to plant it on his tomb, That if it can it there may bloom. Or dying, there at least may die. IX. Fair ship, that from the Italian shore Sailest the placid ocean-plains With my lost Arthur’s loved remains. Spread thy full wings, and waft him o’er. So draw him home to those that mourn In vain ; a favourable speed Ruffle thy mirror’d mast, and lead Thro’ prosperous floods his holy urn. 2 50 IN MEMORIAM. All night no ruder air perplex Thyslidingkeel, till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, thro’ early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. Sphere all your lights around, above ; Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love ; My Arthur, whom I shall not see Till all my widow’d race be run ; Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me. x. I hear the noise about thy keel; I hear the bell struck in the night: I see the cabin-window bright; I see the sailor at the wheel. Thou bring’st the sailor to his wife, And travell’dmen from foreign lands; And letters unto trembling hands ; And, thy dark freight, a vanish’d life. So bring him : we have idle dreams : This look of quiet flatters thus Our home-bred fancies : O to us, The fools of habit, sweeter seems To rest beneath the clover sod, That takes the sunshine and the rains, Or where the kneeling hamlet drains The chalice of the grapes of God ; Than if with thee the roaring wells Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine; And hands so often clasp’d in mine, Should toss with tangle and with shells. XI. Calm is the morn without a sound, Calm as to suit a calmer grief, And only thro’ the faded leaf The chestnut pattering to the ground : Calm and deep peace on this high wold, And on these dews that drench the furze, And all the silvery gossamers That twinkle into green and gold : Calm and still light on yon great plain That sweeps with all its autumn . bowers, And crowded farms and lessening towers, To mingle with the bounding main : Calm and deep peace in this wide air, These leaves that redden to the fall; And in my heart, if calm at all, If any calm, a calm despair: Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, And waves that sway themselves in rest, And dead calm in that noble breast Which heaves but with the heaving deep. XII. Lo, as a dove when up she springs To bear thro’ Heaven a tale of woe, Some dolorous message knit below The wild pulsation of her wings ; Like her I go ; I cannot stay ; I leave this mortal ark behind, A weight of nerves without a mind, And leave the cliffs, and haste away O’er ocean-mirrors rounded large, And reach the glow of southern skies, And see the sails at distance rise, And linger weeping on the marge, And saying ; ‘ Comes he thus, my friend? Is this the end of all my care?’ And circle moaning in the air : ‘ Is this the end ? Is this the end ?’ And forward dart again, and play About the prow, and back return To where the body sits, and learn That I have been an hour away. XIII. Tears of the widower, when he sees A late-lost form that sleep reveals, And moves his doubtful arms, and feels Her place is empty, fall like these ; IN ME MOR I AM. 251 Which weep a loss for ever new, A void where heart on heart reposed; And, where warm hands have prest and closed, Silence, till I be silent too. Which weep the comrade of my choice, An awful thought, a life removed, The human-hearted man I loved, A Spirit, not a breathing voice. Come Time, and teach me, many years, I do not suffer in a dream ; For now so strange do these things seem, Mine eyes have leisure for their tears; My fancies time to rise on wing, And glance about the approaching sails, As tho’ they brought but merchants’ bales, And not the burthen that they bring. XIV. If one should bring me this report, That thou hadst touch’d the land to-day, And I went down unto the quay, And found thee lying in the port; And standing, muffled round with woe, Should see thy passengers in rank Come stepping lightly down the plank, And beckoning unto those they know ; And if along with these should come The man I held as half-divine ; Should strike a sudden hand in mine, And ask a thousand things of home ; And I should tell him all my pain, And how my life had droop’d of late, And he should sorrow o’er my state And marvel what possess’d my brain ; And I perceived no touch of change, No hint of death in all his frame, But found him all in all the same, I should not feel it to be strange. xv. To-night the winds begin to rise And roar from yonder dropping day : The last red leaf is whirl’d away, The rooks are blown about the skies; The forest crack’d, the waters curl’d, The cattle huddled on the lea; And wildly dash’d on tower and tree The sunbeam strikes along the world : And but for fancies, which aver That all thy motions gently pass Athwart a plane of molten glass, I scarce could brook the strain and stir That makes the barren branches loud ; And but for fear it is not so, The wild unrest that lives in woe Would dote and pore on yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a labouring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire. XVI. What words are these have fall’n from me? Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be ? Or doth she only seem to take The touch of change in calm or storm; But knows no more of transient form In her deep self, than some dead lake That holds the shadow of a lark Hung in the shadow of a heaven ? Or has the shock, so harshly given, Confused me like the unhappy bark That strikes by night a craggy shelf, And staggers blindly ere she sink ? And stunn’d me from my power to think And all my knowledge of myself; And made me that delirious man Whose fancy fuses old and new, And flashes into false and true, And mingles all without a plan ? 252 IN MEMORIA M. XVII. Thoucomest, much wept for: such abreeze CompelPd thy canvas, and my prayer Was as the whisper of an air To breathe thee over lonely seas. For I in spirit saw thee move Thro’ circles of the bounding sky, Week after week : the days go by : Come quick, thou bringest all I love. Henceforth, wherever thou may’st roam, My blessing, like a line of light, Is on the waters day and night, And like a beacon guards thee home. So may whatever tempest mars Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark ; And balmy drops in summer dark Slide from the bosom of the stars. So kind an office hath been done, Such precious relics brought by thee ; The dust of him I shall not see Till all my widow’d race be run. XVIII. ’Tis well; ’tis something ; we may stand Where he in English earth is laid, And from his ashes may be made The violet of his native land. ’Tis little ; but it looks in truth As if the quiet bones were blest Among familiar names to rest And in the places of his youth. Come then, pure hands, and bear the head That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep, And come, whatever loves to weep, And hear the ritual of the dead. Ah yet, ev’n yet, if this might be, I, falling on his faithful heart, Would breathing thro’his lips impart The life that almost dies in me ; That dies not, but endures with pain, And slowly forms the firmer mind, Treasuring the look it cannot find, The words that are not heard again. XIX. The Danube to the Severn gave The darken’d heart that beat no more ; They laid him by the pleasant shore, And in the hearing of the wave. There twice a day the Severn fills ; The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills. The Wye is hush’d nor moved along, And hush’d my deepest grief of all, When fill’d with tears that cannot fall, I brim with sorrow drowning song. The tide flows down, the wave again Is vocal in its wooded walls ; My deeper anguish also falls, And I can speak a little then. xx. The lesser griefs that may be said, That breathe a thousand tender vows, Are but as servants in a house Where lies the master newly dead ; Who speak their feeling as it is, And weep the fulness from the mind: ‘ It will be hard,’ they say, ‘ to find Another service such as this.’ My lighter moods are like to these, That out of words a comfort win ; But there are other griefs within, And tears that at their fountain freeze ; For by the hearth the children sit Cold in that atmosphere of Death, And scarce endure to draw the breath, Or like to noiseless phantoms flit: But open converse is there none, So much the vital spirits sink To see the vacant chair, and think, ‘ How good ! how kind ! and he is gone.’ IN MEMORIAM. 253 XXI. I sing to him that rests below, And, since the grasses round me wave, I take the grasses of the grave, And make them pipes whereon to blow. The traveller hears me now and then, And sometimes harshly will he speak: ‘ This fellow would make weakness weak, And melt the waxen hearts of men.’ Another answers, ‘ Let him be, He loves to make parade of pain, That with his piping he may gain The praise that comes to constancy.’ A third is wroth : ‘ Is this an hour For private sorrow’s barren song, When more and more the people throng The chairs and thrones of civil power ? ‘ A time to sicken and to swoon, When Science reaches forth her arms To feel from world to world, and charms Her secret from the latest moon?’ Behold, ye speak an idle thing: Ye never knew the sacred dust: I do but sing because I must, And pipe but as the linnets sing: And one is glad ; her note is gay, For now her little ones have ranged ; And one is sad; her note is changed, Because her brood is stol’n away. XXII. The path by which we twain did go, Which led by tracts that pleased us well, Thro’ four sweet years arose and fell, From flower to flower, from snow to snow: And we with singing cheer’d the way, And, crown’d with all the season lent, From April on to April went, And glad at heart from May to May: But where the path we walk’d began To slant the fifth autumnal slope, As we descended following Hope, There sat the Shadow fear’d of man ; Who broke our fair companionship, And spread his mantle dark and' cold, And wrapt thee formless in the fold. And dull’d the murmur on thy lip, And bore thee where I could not see Nor follow, tho’ I walk in haste, And think, that somewhere in the waste The Shadow sits and waits for me. XXIII. Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, Or breaking into song by fits, Alone, alone, to where he sits, The Shadow cloak’d from head to foot. Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, I wander, often falling lame, And looking back to whence I came. Or on to where the pathway leads ; And crying, How changed from where it ran Thro’ lands where not a leaf was- dumb; But all the lavish hills would hum The murmur of a happy Pan : When each by turns was guide to each, And Fancy light from Fancy caught,. And Thought leapt out to wed withi Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech;; And all we met was fair and good, And all was good that Time could bring, And all the secret of the Spring Moved in the chambers of the blood; And many an old philosophy On Argive heights divinely sang, And round us all the thicket rang To many a flute of Arcady. 254 IN MEMORIAM. XXIV. And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say ? The very source and fount of Day Is dash’d with wandering isles of night. If all was good and fair we met, This earth had been the Paradise It never look’d to human eyes Since our first Sun arose and set. And is it that the haze of grief Makes former gladness loom so great ? The lowness of the present state, That sets the past in this relief? Or that the past will always win A glory from its being far ; And orb into the perfect star We saw not, when we moved therein ? xxv. I know that this was Life,—the track Whereon with equal feet we fared ; And then, as now, the day prepared The daily burden for the back. But this it was that made me move As light as carrier-birds in air ; I loved the weight I had to bear, Because it needed help of Love : Nor could I weary, heart or limb, When mighty Love would cleave in twain The lading of a single pain. And part it, giving half to him. XXVI. Still onward winds the dreary way; I with it ; for I long to prove No lapse of moons can canker Love, Whatever fickle tongues may say. And if that eye which watches guilt And goodness, and hath power to see Within the green the moulder’d tree, And towers fall’n as soon as built— Oh, if indeed that eye foresee Or see (in Him is no before) In more of life true life no more And Love the indifference to be, Then might I find, ere yet the morn Breaks hither over Indian seas, That Shadow waiting with the keys, To shroud me from my proper scorn. XXVII. I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods : I envy not the beast that takes His license in the field of time, Unfetter’d by the sense of crime, To whom a conscience never wakes ; Nor, what may count itself as blest, The heart that never plighted troth But stagnates in the weeds of sloth ; Nor any want-begotten rest. I hold it true, whate’er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; ’Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all. XXVIII. The time draws near the birth of Christ : The moon is hid ; the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist. Four voices of four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell out and fail, as if a door Were shut between me and the sound : Each voice four changes on the wind, That now dilate, and now decrease, Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace, Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. IN MEMORIAM. 255 This year I slept and woke with pain, I almost wish’d no more to wake, And that my hold on life would break Before I heard those bells again : But they my troubled spirit rule, For they controll’d me when a boy ; They bring me sorrow touch’d with joy, The merry merry bells of Yule. XXIX. With such compelling cause to grieve As daily vexes household peace, And chains regret to his decease, How dare we keep our Christmas-eve ; Which brings no more a welcome guest To enrich the threshold of the night With shower’d largess of delight In dance and song and game and jest ? Yet go, and while the holly boughs Entwine the cold baptismal font, Make one wreath more for Use and Wont, That guard the portals of the house ; Old sisters of a day gone by, Gray nurses, loving nothing new ; Why should they miss their yearly due Before their time ? They too will die. xxx. With trembling fingers did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth ; A rainy cloud possess’d the earth, And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. At our old pastimes in the hall We gambol’d, making vain pretence Of gladness, with an awful sense Of one mute Shadow watching all. We paused: the winds were in the beech: We heard them sweep the winter land; And in a circle hand-in-hand Sat silent, looking each at each. Then echo-like our voices rang ; We sung, tho’ eveiy eye was dim, A merry song we sang with him Last year : impetuously we sang : We ceased : a gentler feeling crept Upon us : surely rest is meet: ‘ They rest,’ we said, ‘ their sleep is sweet,’ And silence follow’d, and we wept. Our voices took a higher range ; Once more we sang : ‘ They do not die Nor lose their mortal sympathy, Nor change to us, although they change ; ‘ Rapt from the fickle and the frail With gather’d power, yet the same, Pierces the keen seraphic flame From orb to orb, from veil to veil.’ Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, Draw forth the cheerful day from night: O Father, touch the east, and light The light that shone when Hope was born. XXXI. When Lazarus left his charnel-cave. And home to Mary’s house return’d, Was this demanded—if he yearn’d To hear her weeping by his grave ? ‘Where wert thou, brother, those four days ?’ There lives no record of reply, Which telling what it is to die Had surely added praise to praise. From every house the neighbours met, The streets were fill’d with joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crown’d The purple brows of Olivet. Behold a man raised up by Christ ! The rest remaineth unreveal’d ; He told it not; or something seal’d The lips of that Evangelist. 256 IN MEMORIA M. XXXII. Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits, And he that brought him back is there. Then one deep love doth supersede All other, wh.en her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother’s face, And rests upon the Life indeed. All subtle thought, all curious fears, Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour’s feet With costly spikenard and with tears. Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure ; What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs ? XXXIII. O thou that after toil and storm Mayst seem to have reach’d a purer air, Whose faith has centre everywhere, Nor cares to fix itself to form, Leave thou thy sister when she prays, Her early Heaven, her happy views; Nor thou with shadow’d hint confuse A life that leads melodious days. Her faith thro’ form is pure as thine, Her hands are quicker unto good : Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood To which she links a truth divine ! See thou, that countest reason ripe In holding by the law within, Thou fail not in a world of sin, And ev’n for want of such a type. xxxiv. My own dim life should teach me this, That life shall live for evermore, Else earth is darkness at the core, And dust and ashes all that is ; This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty ; such as lurks In some wild Poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim. What then were God to such as I ? ’Twere hardly worth my while to choose Of things all mortal, or to use A little patience ere I die ; ’Twere best at once to sink to peace, Like birds the charming serpent draws, To drop head-foremost in the jaws Of vacant darkness and to cease. xxxv. Yet if some voice that man could trust Should murmur from the narrow house, ‘ The cheeks drop in; the body bows; Man dies : nor is there hope in dust: ’ Might I not say? ‘Yet even here, But for one hour, O Love, I strive To keep so sweet a thing alive But I should turn mine ears and hear The moanings of the homeless sea, The sound of streams that swift or slow Draw down Ionian hills, and sow The dust of continents to be ; And Love would answer with a sigh, ‘ The sound of that forgetful shore Will change my sweetness more and more, Half-dead to know that I shall die.’ O me, what profits it to put An idle case ? If Death were seen At first as Death, Love had not been, Or been in narrowest working shut, Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape Had bruised the herb and crush’d the grape, And bask’d and batten’d in the woods. IN ME MORI A M. 25 7 XXXVI. Tho’ truths in manhood darkly join, Deep-seated in our mystic frame, We yield all blessing to the name Of Him that made them current coin ; For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, Where truth in closest words shall fail, When truth embodied in a tale Shall enter in at lowly doors. And so the Word had breath, and wrought With human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thought; Which he may read that binds the sheaf, Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the wave In roarings round the coral reef. XXXVII. Urania speaks with darken’d brow : ‘ Thou pratest here where thou art least; This faith has many a purer priest, And many an abler voice than thou. ‘ Go down beside thy native rill, On thy Parnassus set thy feet, And hear thy laurel whisper sweet About the ledges of the hill.’ And my Melpomene replies, A touch of shame upon her cheek : ‘ I am not worthy ev’n to speak Of thy prevailing mysteries ; ‘ For I am but an earthly Muse, And owning but a little art To lull with song an aching heart, And render human love his dues ; ‘ But brooding on the dear one dead, And all he said of things divine, (And dear to me as sacred wine To dying lips is all he said), ‘ I murmur’d, as I came along, Of comfort clasp’d in truth reveal’d ; And loiter’d in the master’s field, And darken’d sanctities with song.’ XXXVIII. With weary steps I loiter on, Tho’ always under alter’d skies The purple from the distance dies, My prospect and horizon gone. No joy the blowing season gives, The herald melodies of spring, But in the songs I love to sing A doubtful gleam of solace lives. If any care for what is here Survive in spirits render’d free, Then are these songs I sing of thee Not all ungrateful to thine ear. XXXIX. Old warder of these buried bones, And answering now my random stroke With fruitful cloud and living smoke, Dark yew, that graspest at the stones And dippest toward the dreamless head, To thee too comes the golden hour When flower is feeling after flower ; But Sorrow—fixt upon the dead, And darkening the dark graves of men,— What whisper’d from her lying lips ? Thy gloom is kindled at the tips, And passes into gloom again. XL. Could we forget the widow’d hour And look on Spirits breathed away, As on a maiden in the day When first she wears her orange-flower ! When crown’d with blessing she doth rise To take her latest leave of home, And hopes and light regrets that come Make April of her tender eyes ; s 2 5 8 IN MEMORIAM. And doubtful joys the father move, And tears are on the mother’s face, As parting with a long embrace She enters other realms of love ; Her office there to rear, to teach, Becoming as is meet and fit A link among the days, to knit The generations each with each; And, doubtless, unto thee is given A life that bears immortal fruit In those great offices that suit The full-grown energies of heaven. Ay me, the difference I discern ! How often shall her old fireside Be cheer’d with tidings of the bride, How often she herself return, And tell them all they would have told, And bring her babe, and make her boast, Till even those that miss’d her most Shall count new things as dear as old : But thou and I have shaken hands, Till growing winters lay me low ; My paths are in the fields I know, And thine in undiscover’d lands. XLI. Thy spirit ere our fatal loss Did ever rise from high to higher ; As mounts the heavenward altar-fire, As flies the lighter thro’ the gross. But thou art turn’d to something strange, And I have lost the links that bound Thy changes; here upon the ground, No more partaker of thy change. Deep folly ! yet that this could be— That I could wing my will with might To leap the grades of life and light, And flash at once, my friend, to thee. For tho’ my nature rarely yields To that vague fear implied in death; Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath, The bowlings from forgotten fields; Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor An inner trouble I behold, A spectral doubt which makes me cold, That I shall be thy mate no more, Tho’ following with an upward mind The wonders that have come to thee, Thro’ all the secular to-be, But evermore a life behind. XLII. I vex my heart with fancies dim : He still outstript me in the race ; It was but unity of place That made me dream I rank’d with him. And so may Place retain us still, And he the much-beloved again, A lord of large experience, train To riper growth the mind and will : And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit’s inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows ? XLIII. If Sleep and Death be truly one, And every spirit’s folded bloom Thro’ all its intervital gloom In some long trance should slumber on ; Unconscious of the sliding hour, Bare of the body, might it last, And silent traces of the past Be all the colour of the flower : So then were nothing lost to man ; So that still garden of the souls In many a figured leaf enrolls The total world since life began ; And love will last as pure and whole As when he loved me here in Time, And at the spiritual prime' Rewaken with the dawning souL IN MEMORIAM. 259 XLIV. How fares it with the happy dead ? For here the man is more and more; But he forgets the days before God shut the doorways of his head. The days have vanish’d, tone and tint, And yet perhaps the hoarding sense Gives out at times (he knows not whence) A little flash, a mystic hint ; And in the long harmonious years (If Death so taste Lethean springs), May some dim touch of earthly things Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. If such a dreamy touch should fall, O turn thee round, resolve the doubt; My guardian angel will speak out In that high place, and tell thee all. XLV. The baby new to earth and sky, What time his tender palm is prest Against the circle of the breast, Has never thought that ‘ this is I : ’ But as he grows he gathers much, And learns the use of ‘I,’ and * me,’ And finds ‘ I am not what I see, And other than the things I touch.’ So rounds he to a separate mind From whence clear memory may begin, As thro’ the frame that binds him in His isolation grows defined. This use may lie in blood and breath, Which else were fruitless of their due, Had man to learn himself anew Beyond the second birth of Death. XLVI. We ranging down this lower track, The path we came by, thorn and flower, Is shadow’d by the growing hour, Lest life should fail in looking back. So be it : there no shade can last In that deep dawn behind the tomb, But clear from marge to marge shall bloom The eternal landscape of the past ; A lifelong tract of time reveal’d ; The fruitful hours of still increase ; Days order’d in a wealthy peace, And those five years its richest field. O Love, thy province were not large, A bounded field, nor stretching far ; Look also, Love, a brooding star, A rosy warmth from marge to marge. XLVII. That each, who seems a separate whole, Should move his rounds, and fusing all The skirts of self again, should fall Remerging in the general Soul, Is faith as vague as all unsweet : Eternal form shall still divide The eternal soul from all beside; And I shall know him when we meet: And we shall sit at endless feast, Enjoying each the other’s good : What vaster dream can hit the mood Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least Upon the last and sharpest height. Before the spirits fade away. Some landing-place, to clasp and say, ‘ Farewell ! We lose ourselves in light.’ XLVIII. If these brief lays, of Sorrow born, Were taken to be such as closed Grave doubts and answers here pro¬ posed, Then these were such as men might scorn: Her care is not to part and prove; She takes, when harsher moods remit, What slender shade of doubt may flit, And makes it vassal unto love : 26 o IN MEMORIAM. And hence, indeed, she sports with words, But better serves a wholesome law, And holds it sin and shame to draw The deepest measure from the chords : Nor dare she trust a larger lay, But rather loosens from the lip Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away. XLIX. From art, from nature, from the schools, Let random influences glance, Like light in many a shiver’d lance That breaks about the dappled pools : The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, The fancy’s tenderest eddy wreathe, The slightest air of song shall breathe To make the sullen surface crisp. And look thy look, and go thy way, But blame not thou the winds that make The seeming-wanton ripple break, The tender-pencil’d shadow play. Beneath all fancied hopes and fears Ay me, the sorrow deepens down, Whose muffled motions blindly drown The bases of my life in tears. L. Be near me when my light is low, When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick And tingle ; and the heart is sick, And all the wheels of Being slow. Be near me when the sensuous frame Is rack’d with pangs that conquer trust; And Time, a maniac scattering dust, And Life, a Fury slinging flame. Be near me when my faith is dry, And men the flies of latter spring, That lay their eggs, and sting and sing And weave their petty cells and die. Be near me when I fade away, To point the term of human strife, And on the low dark verge of life The twilight of eternal day. LI. Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side ? Is there no baseness we would hide ? No inner vileness that we dread ? Shall he for whose applause I strove, I had such reverence for his blame, See with clear eye some hidden shame And I be lessen’d in his love ? I wrong the grave with fears untrue : Shall love be blamed for want of faith ? There must be wisdom with great Death : The dead shall look me thro’ and thro’. Be near us when we climb or fall: Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours With larger other eyes than ours, To make allowance for us all. LII. I cannot love thee as I ought, For love reflects the thing beloved; My words are only words, and moved Upon the topmost froth of thought. ‘ Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song,’ The Spirit of true love replied ; ‘ Thou canst not move me from thy side, Nor human frailty do me wrong. ‘ What keeps a spirit wholly true To that ideal which he bears? What record ? not the sinless years That breathed beneath the Syrian blue : ‘ So fret not, like an idle girl, That life is dash’d with flecks of sin. Abide : thy wealth is gather’d in, When Time hath sunder’d shell from pearl.’ IN ME MORI AM. 261 LIII. How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise, Who wears his manhood hale and green: And dare we to this fancy give, That had the wild oat not been sown, The soil, left barren, scarce had grown The grain by which a man may live ? Or, if we held the doctrine sound For life outliving heats of youth, Yet who would preach it as a truth To those that eddy round and round ? Hold thou the good : define it well: For fear divine Philosophy Should push beyond her mark, and be Procuress to the Lords of Hell. LIV. Oh yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroy’d, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete ; That not a worm is cloven in vain ; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivell’d in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another’s gain. Behold, we know not anything ; I can but trust that good shall fall At last—far off—at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream : but what am I ? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light : And with no language but a cry. LV. The wish, that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul ? Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life ; That I, considering everywhere Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear, I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world’s altar-stairs That slope thro’ darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope. LVI. ‘ So careful of the type ?’ but no. From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, ‘A thousand types are gone: I care for nothing, all shall go. ‘ Thou makest thine appeal to me : I bring to life, I bring to death : The spirit does but mean the breath : I know no more.’ And he, shall he, Man, her last work, who seem’d so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes, Who roll’d the psalm to wintry skies, Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer. Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation’s final law— Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shriek’d against his creed— Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills, Who battled for the True, the Just, Be blown about the desert dust, Or seal’d within the iron hills ? 262 IN ME MORI AM. No more? A monster then, a dream, A discord. . Dragons of the prime, That tare each other in their slime, Were mellow music match’d with him. O life as futile, then, as frail ! O for thy voice to soothe and bless ! What hope of answer, or redress? Behind the veil, behind the veil. LVII. Peace ; come away : the song of woe Is after all an earthly song : Peace ; come away: we do him wrong To sing so wildly : let us go. Come ; let us go : your cheeks are pale ; But half my life I leave behind : Methinks my friend is richly shrined; But I shall pass ; my work will fail.. Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, One set slow bell will seem to toll The passing of the sweetest soul That ever look’d with human eyes. I hear it now, and o’er and o’er, Eternal greetings to the dead ; And ‘Ave, Ave, Ave,’ said, ‘ Adieu, adieu ’ for evermore. LVIII. In those sad words I took farewell: Like echoes in sepulchral halls, As drop by drop the water falls In vaults and catacombs, they fell ; And, falling, idly broke the peace Of hearts that beat from day to day, Half-conscious of their dying clay, And those cold crypts where they shall cease. The high Muse answer’d : ‘ Wherefore grieve Thy brethren with a fruitless tear ? Abide a little longer here, And thou shalt take a nobler leave.’ LIX. O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me No casual mistress, but a wife, My bosom-friend and half of life ; As I confess it needs must be ; O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood, Be sometimes lovely like a bride, And put thy harsher moods aside, If thou wilt have me wise and good. My centred passion cannot move. Nor will it lessen from to-day ; But I’ll have leave at times to play As with the creature of my love; And set thee forth, for thou art mine, With so much hope for years to come, That, howsoe’er I know thee, some Could hardly tell what name were thine. LX. He past; a soul of nobler tone : My spirit loved and loves him yet, Like some poor girl whose heart is set On one whose rank exceeds her own. He mixing with his proper sphere, She finds the baseness of her lot, Half jealous of she knows not what, And envying all that meet him there. The little village looks forlorn; She sighs amid her narrow days, Moving about the household ways, In that dark house where she was born. The foolish neighbours come and go, And tease her till the day draws by : At night she weeps, ‘ How vain am I ! How should he love a thing so low?’ LXI. If, in thy second state sublime, Thy ransom’d reason change replies With all the circle of the wise, The perfect flower of human time ; IN MEMORIAM. 263 And if thou cast thine eyes below, How dimly character’d and slight, How dwarf’d a growth of cold and night, How blanch’d with darkness must I grow! Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore, Where thy first form was made a man; I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can The soul of Shakspeare love thee more. LXII. Tho’ if an eye that’s downward cast Could make thee somewhat blench or fail, Then be my love an idle tale, And fading legend of the past ; And thou, as one that once declined, When he was little more than boy, On some unworthy heart with joy. But lives to wed an equal mind; And breathes a novel world, the while His other passion wholly dies, Or in the light of deeper eyes Is matter for a flying smile. LXIII. Yet pity for a horse o’er-driven, And love in which my hound has part, Can hang no weight upon my heart In its assumptions up to heaven ; And I am so much more than these, As thou, perchance, art more than I, And yet I spare them sympathy, And I would set their pains at ease. So mayst thou watch me where I weep, As, unto vaster motions bound, The circuits of thine orbit round A higher height, a deeper deep. LXTV. Dost thou look back on what hath been, As some divinely gifted man, Whose life in low estate began And on a simple village green ; Who breaks his birth’s invidious bar, And grasps the skirts of happy chance, And breasts the blows of circum¬ stance, And grapples with his evil star; Who makes by force his merit known And lives to clutch the golden keys, To mould a mighty state’s decrees, And shape the whisper of the throne ; And moving up from high to higher, Becomes on Fortune’s crowning slope The pillar of a people’s hope. The centre of a world’s desire ; Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, When all his active powers are still, A distant dearness in the hill, A secret sweetness in the stream, The limit of his narrower fate, While yet beside its vocal springs He play’d at counsellors and kings, With one that was his earliest mate ; Who ploughs with pain his native lea And reaps the labour of his hands, Or in the furrow musing stands ; ‘ Does my old friend remember me ?’ LXV. Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt; I lull a fancy trouble-tost With ‘ Love’s too precious to be lost, A little grain shall not be spilt.’ And in that solace can I sing, Till out of painful phases wrought There flutters up a happy thought, Self-balanced on a lightsome wing : Since we deserved the name of friends, And thine effect so lives in me, A part of mine may live in thee And move thee on to noble ends. LXV 1. You thought my heart too far diseased ; You wonder when my fancies play To find me gay among the gay, Like one with any trifle pleased. 264 IN MEMORIA M. The shade by which my life was crost, Which makes a desert in the mind, Has made me kindly with my kind, And like to him whose sight is lost ; Whose feet are guided thro’ the land, Whose jest among his friends is free, Who takes the children on his knee, And winds their curls about his hand : He plays with threads, he beats his chair For pastime, dreaming of the sky ; His inner day can never die, His night of loss is always there. LXVII. When on my bed the moonlight falls, I know that in thy place of rest By that broad water of the west, There comes a glory on the walls: Thy marble bright in dark appears, As slowly steals a silver flame Along the letters of thy name, And o’er the number of thy years. The mystic glory swims away ; From off my bed the moonlight dies ; And closing eaves of wearied eyes I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray : And then I know the mist is drawn A lucid veil from coast to coast, And in the dark church like a ghost Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. LXVIII. When in the down I sink my head, Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, times my breath ; Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, knows not Death, Nor can I dream of thee as dead : I walk as ere I walk’d forlorn, When all our path was fresh with dew, And all the bugle breezes blew Reveillee to the breaking morn. But what is this ? I turn about, I find a trouble in thine eye, Which makes me sad I know not why, Nor can my dream resolve the doubt : But ere the lark hath left the lea I wake, and I discern the truth ; It is the trouble of my youth That foolish sleep transfers to thee. LXIX. I dream’d there would be Spring no more, That Nature’s ancient power was lost: The streets were black with smoke and frost, They chatter’d trifles at the door: I wander’d from the noisy town, I found a wood with thorny boughs : I took the thorns to bind my brows, I wore them like a civic crown : I met with scoffs, I met with scorns From youth and babe and hoary hairs : They call’d me in the public squares The fool that wears a crown of thorns : They call’d me fool, they call’d me child: I found an angel of the night; The voice was low, the look was bright; He look’d upon my crown and smiled : He reach’d the glory of a hand, That seem’d to touch it into leaf: The voice was not the voice of grief, The words were hard to understand. LXX. I cannot see the features right, When on the gloom I strive to paint The face I know ; the hues are faint And mix with hollow masks of night; Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, A hand that points, and palled shapes In shadowy thoroughfares of thought; IN ME MORI A M. 265 And crowds that stream from yawning doors, And shoals of pucker’d faces drive ; Dark bulks that tumble half alive, And lazy lengths on boundless shores ; Till all at once beyond the will I hear a wizard music roll, And thro’ a lattice on the soul Looks thy fair face and makes it still. LXXI. Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance And madness, thou hast forged at last A night-long Present of the Past In which we went thro’ summer France. Hadst thou such credit with the soul ? Then bring an opiate trebly strong, Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong That so my pleasure may be whole ; While now we talk as once we talk’d Of men and minds, the dust of change, The days that grow to something strange, In walking as of old we walk’d Beside the river’s wooded reach, The fortress, and the mountain ridge, The cataract flashing from the bridge, The breaker breaking on the beach. LXXII. Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, And howlest, issuing out of night, With blasts that blow the poplar white, And lash with storm the streaming pane ? Day, when my crown’d estate begun To pine in that reverse of doom, Which sicken’d every living bloom, And blurr’d the splendour of the sun ; Who usherest in the dolorous hour With thy quick tears that make the rose Pull sideways, and the daisy close Her crimson fringes to the shower ; Whomight’st have heaved a windless flume Up the deep East, or, whispering, play’d A chequer-work of beam and shade Along the hills, yet look’d the same. As wan, as chill, as wild as now ; Day, mark’d as with some hideous crime, When the dark hand struck down thro’ time, And cancell’d nature’s best: but thou, Lift as thou may’st thy burthen’d brows Thro’ clouds that drench the morning star, And whirl the ungarner’d sheaf afar, And sow the sky with flying boughs, And up thy vault with roaring sound Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day ; Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray, And hide thy shame beneath the ground. LXXIII. So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be, How know I what had need of thee, For thou wert strong as thou wert true? The fame is quench’d that I foresaw, The head hath miss’d an earthly wreath: I curse not nature, no, nor death; For nothing is that errs from law. We pass ; the path that each man trod Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds : What fame is left for human deeds In endless age ? It rests with God. O hollow wraith of dying fame, Fade wholly, while the soul exults, And self-infolds the large results Of force that would have forged a name. LXXIV. As sometimes in a dead man’s face, To those that watch it more and more, A likeness, hardly seen before, Comes out—to some one of his race : 266 IN MEMORIAM. So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, I see thee what thou art, and know Thy likeness to the wise below, Thy kindred with the great of old. But there is more than I can see, And what I see I leave unsaid, Nor speak it, knowing Death has made His darkness beautiful with thee. LXXV. I leave thy praises unexpress’d In verse that brings myself relief, And by the measure of my grief I leave thy greatness to be guess’d ; What practice howsoe’er expert In fitting aptest words to things, Or voice the richest-toned that sings, Hath power to give thee as thou wert ? I care not in these fading days To raise a cry that lasts not long, And round thee with the breeze of song To stir a little dust of praise. Thy leaf has perish’d in the green, And, while we breathe beneath the sun, The world which credits what is done Is cold to all that might have been. So here shall silence guard thy fame; But somewhere, out of human view, Whate’er thy hands are set to do Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. LXXVI. Take wings of fancy, and ascend, And in a moment set thy face Where all the starry heavens of space Are sharpen’d to a needle’s end ; Take wings of foresight; lighten thro’ The secular abyss to come, And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb Before the mouldering of a yew ; And if the jnatin songs, that woke The darkness of our planet, last, Thine own shall wither in the vast, Ere half the lifetime of an oak. Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain; And what are they when these remain The ruin’d shells of hollow towers ? LXXVII. What hope is here for modern rhyme To him, who turns a musing eye On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie Foreshorten’d in the tract of time ? These mortal lullabies of pain May bind a book, may line a box, May serve to curl a maiden’s locks; Or when a thousand moons shall wane A man upon a stall may find, And, passing, turn the page that tells A grief, then changed to something else, Sung by a long-forgotten mind. But what of that ? My darken’d ways Shall ring with music all the same ; To breathe my loss is more than fame, To utter love more sweet than praise. LXXVIII. Again at Christmas did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth ; The silent snow possess’d the earth, And calmly fell our Christmas-eve : The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost. As in the winters left behind, Again our ancient games had place, The mimic picture’s breathing grace, And dance and song and hoodman-blind. IN ME MORI AM. 267 Who show’d a token of distress ? No single tear, no mark of pain : O sorrow, then can sorrow wane ? O grief, can grief be ehanged to less ? O last regret, regret can die ! No—mixt with all this mystic frame, Her deep relations are the same, But with long use her tears are dry. LXXIX. ‘ More than my brothers are to me,’— Let this not vex thee, noble heart ! I know thee of what force thou art To hold the costliest love in fee. But thou and I are one in kind, As moulded like in Nature’s mint; And hill and wood and field did print The same sweet forms in either mind. For us the same cold streamlet curl’d Thro’ all his eddying coves; the same All winds that roam the twilight came In whispers of the beauteous world. At one dear knee we proffer’d vows, One lesson from one book we learn’d, Ere childhood’s flaxen ringlet turn’d To black and brown on kindred brows. And so my wealth resembles thine, But he was rich where I was poor, And he supplied my want the more As his unlikeness fitted mine. LXXX. If any vague desire should rise, That holy Death ere Arthur died Had moved me kindly from his side, And dropt the dust on tearless eyes ; Then fancy shapes, as fancy can, The grief my loss in him had wrought, A grief as deep as life or thought, But stay’d in.peace with God and man. I make a picture in the brain ; I hear the sentence that he speaks; He bears the burthen of the weeks But turns his burthen into gain. His credit thus shall set me free; And, influence - rich to soothe and save, Unused example from the grave Reach out dead hands to comfort me. LXXXI. Could I have said while he was here, ‘ My love shall now no further range; There cannot come a mellower change, For now is love mature in ear.’ Love, then, had hope of richer store : What end is here to my complaint ? This haunting whisper makes me faint, ‘ More years had made me love thee more. ’ But Death returns an answer sweet: ‘ My sudden frost was sudden gain, And gave all ripeness to the grain, It might have drawn from after-heat.’ LXXXII. I wage not any feud with Death For changes wrought on form and face; No lower life that earth’s embrace May breed with him, can fright my faith. Eternal process moving on, From state to state the spirit walks ; And these are but the shatter’d stalks, Or ruin’d chrysalis of one. Nor blame I Death, because he bare The use of virtue out of earth : I know transplanted human worth Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart; He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak. LXXXIII. Dip down upon the northern shore, O sweet new-year delaying long ; Thou doest expectant nature wrong ; Delaying long, delay no moie. 268 IN MEMORIAM. What stays thee from the clouded noons, Thy sweetness from its proper place? Can trouble live with April days, Or sadness in the summer moons ? Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, The little speedwell’s darling blue, Deep tulips dash’d with fiery dew, Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. O thou, new-year, delaying long, Delayest the sorrow in my blood, That longs to burst a frozen bud And flood a fresher throat with song. LXXXIV. When I contemplate all alone The life that had been thine below, And fix my thoughts on all the glow To which thy crescent would have grown; I see thee sitting crown’d with good, A central warmth diffusing bliss In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss, On all the branches of thy blood ; Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine; For now the day was drawing on, When thou should’st link thy life with one Of mine own house, and boys of thine Had babbled ‘ Uncle ’ on my knee ; But that remorseless iron hour Made cypress of her orange flower, Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. I seem to meet their least desire, To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. I see their unborn faces shine Beside the never-lighted fire. I see myself an honour’d guest, Thy partner in the flowery walk Of letters, genial table-talk, Or deep dispute, and graceful jest; While now thy prosperous labour fills The lips of men with honest praise, And sun by sun the happy days Descend below the golden hills With promise of a morn as fair ; And all the train of bounteous hours Conduct by paths of growing powers, To reverence and the silver hair; Till slowly worn her earthly robe, Her lavish mission richly wrought, Leaving great legacies of thought, Thy spirit should fail from off the globe ; What time mine own might also flee, As link’d with thine in love and fate, And, hovering o’er the dolorous strait To the other shore, involved in thee, Arrive at last the blessed goal, And He that died in Holy Land Would reach us out the shining hand, And take us as a single soul. What reed was that on which I leant ? Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake The old bitterness again, and break The low beginnings of content. LXXXV. This truth came borne with bier and pall, I felt it, when I sorrow’d most, ’Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all- O true in word, and tried in deed, Demanding, so to bring relief To this which is our common grief, What kind of life is that I lead ; And whether trust in things above Be dimm’d of sorrow, or sustain’d ; And whether love for him have drain’d My capabilities of love ; Your words have virtue such as draws A faithful answer from the breast, Thro’ light reproaches, half exprest. And loyal unto kindly laws. My blood an even tenor kept, Till on mine ear this message falls, That in Vienna’s fatal walls God’s finger touch’d him, and he slept. IN MEMORIAM. 269 The great Intelligences fair That range above our mortal state, In circle round the blessed gate, Received and gave him welcome there ; And led him thro’ the blissful climes, And show’d him in the fountain fresh All knowledge that the sons of flesh Shall gather in the cycled times. But I remain’d, whose hopes were dim, Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth, To wander on a darken’d earth, Where all things round me breathed of him. 0 friendship, equal-poised control, O heart, with kindliest motion warm, O sacred essence, other form, O solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! Yet none could better know than I, How much of act at human hands The sense of human will demands By which we dare to live or die. Whatever way my days decline, I felt and feel, tho’ left alone, His being working in mine own, The footsteps of his life in mine ; A life that all the Muses deck’d With gifts of grace, that might ex¬ press All-comprehensive tenderness, All-subtilising intellect : And so my passion hath not swerved To works of weakness, but I find An image comforting the mind, And in my grief a strength reserved. Likewise the imaginative woe, That loved to handle spiritual strife, Diffused the shock thro’ all my life, But in the present broke the blow. My pulses therefore beat again For other friends that once I met; Nor can it suit me to forget The mighty hopes that make us men. I woo your love : I count it crime To mourn for any overmuch ; I, the divided half of such A friendship as had master’d Time ; Which masters Time indeed, and is Eternal, separate from fears : The all-assuming months and years Can take no part away from this : But Summer on the steaming floods, And Spring that swells the narrow brooks, And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, That gather in the waning woods, And every pulse of wind and wave Recalls, in change of light or gloom, My old affection of the tomb, And my prime passion in the grave : My old affection of the tomb, A part of stillness, yearns to speak : ‘ Arise, and get thee forth and seek A friendship for the years to come. ‘ I watch thee from the quiet shore ; Thy spirit up to mine can reach ; But in dear words of human speech We two communicate no more.’ And I, ‘ Can clouds of nature stain The starry clearness of the free? How is it ? Canst thou feel for me Some painless sympathy with pain ? ’ And lightly does the whisper fall; ‘ ’Tis hard for thee to fathom this ; I triumph in conclusive bliss, And that serene result of all.’ So hold I commerce with the dead ; Or so methinks the dead would say ; Or so shall grief with symbols play And pining life be fancy-fed. Now looking to some settled end, That these things pass, and I shall prove A meeting somewhere, love with love, I crave your pardon, O my friend ; 270 IN MEMORIAM. If not so fresh, with love as true, I, clasping brother-hands, aver I could not, if I would, transfer The whole I felt for him to you. For which be they that hold apart The promise of the golden hours ? First love, first friendship, equal powers, That marry with the virgin heart. Still mine, that cannot but deplore, That beats within a lonely place, That yet remembers his embrace, But at his footstep leaps no more, My heart, tho’ widow’d, may not rest Quite in the love of what is gone, But seeks to beat in time with one That warms another living breast. Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, Knowing the primrose yet is dear, The primrose of the later year. As not unlike to that of Spring. LXXXVI. Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, That rollest from the gorgeous gloom Of evening over brake and bloom And meadow, slowly breathing bare The round of space, and rapt below Thro’ all the dewy-tassell’d wood, And shadowing down the horned flood In ripples, fan my brows and blow The fever from my cheek, and sigh The full new life that feeds thy breath Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, Ill brethren, let the fancy fly From belt to belt of crimson seas On leagues of odour streaming far, To where in yonder orient star A hundred spirits whisper ‘ Peace. ’ LXXXVII. I past beside the reverend walls In which of old I wore the gown ; I roved at random thro’ the town, And saw the tumult of the halls ; And heard once more in college fanes The storm their high-built organs make, And thunder-music, rolling, shake The prophet blazon’d on the panes; And caught once more the distant shout, The measured pulse of racing oars Among the willows; paced the shores And many a bridge, and all about The same gray flats again, and felt The same, but not the same; and last Up that long walk of limes I past To see the rooms in which he dwelt. Another name was on the door: I linger’d ; all within was noise Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys That crash’d the glass and beat the floor; Where once we held debate, a band Of youthful friends, on mind and art, And labour, and the changing mart, And all the framework of the land ; When one would aim an arrow fair, But send it slackly from the string ; And one would pierce an outer ring, And one an inner, here and there; And last the master-bowman, he, Would cleave the mark. A willing ear We lent him. Who, but hung to hear The rapt oration flowing free From point to point, with power and grace And music in the bounds of law, To those conclusions when we saw The God within him light his face, IN MEMORIAM. 271 And seem to lift the form, and glow In azure orbits heavenly-wise ; And over those ethereal eyes The bar of Michael Angelo. LXXXVIII. Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, Rings Eden thro’ the budded quicks, O tell me where the senses mix, O tell me where the passions meet, Whence radiate : fierce extremes employ Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, And in the midmost heart of grief Thy passion clasps a secret joy : And I—my harp would prelude woe— I cannot all command the strings; The glory of the sum of things Will flash along the chords and go. LXXXIX. Witch-elms that counterchange the floor Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright; And thou, with all thy breadth and height Of foliage, towering sycamore ; How often, hither wandering down, My Arthur found your shadows fair, And shook to all the liberal air The dust and din and steam of town : He brought an eye for all he saw; He mixt in all our simple sports ; They pleased him, fresh from brawl¬ ing courts And dusty purlieus of the law. O joy to him in this retreat, Immantled in ambrosial dark, To drink the cooler air, and mark The landscape winking thro’ the heat: O sound to rout the brood of cares, The sweep of scythe in morning dew, The gust that round the garden flew, And tumbled half the mellowing pears ! O bliss, when all in circle drawn About him, heart and ear were fed To hear him, as he lay and read The Tuscan poets on the lawn : Or in the all-golden afternoon A guest, or happy sister, sung, Or here she brought the harp and flung A ballad to the brightening moon : Nor less it pleased in livelier moods, Beyond the bounding hill to stray, And break the livelong summer day With banquet in the distant woods; Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, Discuss’d the books to love or hate, Or touch’d the changes of the state, Or threaded some Socratic dream ; But if I praised the busy town, He loved to rail against it still, For ‘ground in yonder social mill We rub each other’s angles down, ‘ And merge ’ he said ‘ in form and gloss The picturesque of man and man.’ We talk’d : the stream beneath us ran, The wine-flask lying couch’d in moss, Or cool’d within the glooming wave ; And last, returning from afar, Before the crimson-circled star Had fall’n into her father’s grave, And brushing ankle-deep in flowers, We heard behind the woodbine veil The milk that bubbled in the pail, And buzzings of the honied hours. xc. He tasted love with half his mind, Nor ever drank the inviolate spring Where nighest heaven, who first could fling This bitter seed among mankind ; 272 IN MEMORIAM. That could the dead, whose dying eyes Were closed with wail, resume their life, They would but find in child and wife An iron welcome when they rise : 5 Twas well, indeed, when warm with wine, To pledge them with a kindly tear, To talk them o’er, to wish them here, To count their memories half divine; But if they came who past away, Behold their brides in other hands ; The hard heir strides about their lands, And will not yield them for a day. Yea, tho’ their sons were none of these, Not less the yet-loved sire would make Confusion worse than death, and shake The pillars of domestic peace. Ah dear, but come thou back to me: Whatever change the years have wrought, I find not yet one lonely thought That cries against my wish for thee. xci. When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, And rarely pipes the mounted thrush; Or underneath the barren bush Flits by the sea-blue bird of March ; Come, wear the form by which I know Thy spirit in time among thy peers; The hope of unaccomplish’d years Be large and lucid round thy brow. When summer’s hourly-mellowing change May breathe, with many roses sweet, Upon the thousand waves of wheat, That ripple round the lonely grange ; Come : not in watches of the night, But where the sunbeam broodeth warm, Come, beauteous in thine after form, And like a finer light in light. xcn. If any vision should reveal Thy likeness, I might count it vain As but the canker of the brain ; Yea, tho’ it spake and made appeal To chances where our lots were cast Together in the days behind, I might but say, I hear a wind Of memory murmuring the past. Yea, tho’ it spake and bared to view A fact within the coming year; And tho’ the months, revolving near, Should prove the phantom-warning true, They might not seem thy prophecies, But spiritual presentiments, And such refraction of events As often rises ere they rise. xcm. I shall not see thee. Dare I say No spirit ever brake the band That stays him from the native land Where first he walk’d when claspt in clay? No visual shade of some one lost, But he, the Spirit himself, may come Where all the nerve of sense is numb; Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost O, therefore from thy sightless range With gods in unconjectured bliss, O, from the distance of the abyss Of tenfold-complicated change, Descend, and touch, and enter ; hear The wish too strong for words to name; That in this blindness of the frame My Ghost may feel that thine is near. xciv. How pure at heart and sound in head, With what divine affections bold Should be the man whose thought would hold An hour’s communion with the dead. IN MEMORIAM. 2 73 In vain shalt thou, or any, call The spirits from their golden day, Except, like them, thou too canst say, My spirit is at peace with all. They haunt the silence of the breast, Imaginations calm and fair, The memory like a cloudless air, The conscience as a sea at rest: But when the heart is full of din, And doubt beside the portal waits, They can but listen at the gates, And hear the household jar within. xcv. By night we linger’d on the lawn, For underfoot the herb was dry; And genial warmth; and o’er the sky The silvery haze of summer drawn; And calm that let the tapers burn Unwavering : not a cricket chirr’d : The brook alone far-off was heard, And on the board the fluttering urn : And bats went round in fragrant skies, And wheel’d or lit the filmy shapes That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes And woolly breasts and beaded eyes ; While now we sang old songs that peal’d From knoll to knoll, where, couch’d at ease, The white kine glimmer’d, and the trees Laid their dark arms about the field. But when those others, one by one, Withdrew themselves from me and night, And in the house light after light Went out, and I was all alone, A hunger seized my heart; I read Of that glad year which once had been, In those fall’n leaves which kept their green, The noble letters of the dead : And strangely on the silence broke The silent - speaking words, and strange Was love’s dumb cry defying change Ta test his worth ; and strangely spoke The faith, the vigour, bold to dwell On doubts that drive the coward back, And keen thro’ wordy snares to track Suggestion to her inmost cell. So word by word, and line by line, The dead man touch’d me from the past, And all at once it seem’d at last The living soul was flash’d on mine, And mine in this was wound, and whirl’d About empyreal heights of thought, And came on that which is, and caught The deep pulsations of the world, vEonian music measuring out The steps of Time—the shocks of Chance— The blows of Death. At length my trance Was cancell’d, stricken thro’ with doubt. Vague words ! but ah, how hard to frame In matter-moulded forms of speech, Or ev’n for intellect to reach Thro’ memory that which I became : Till now the doubtful dusk reveal’d The knolls once more where, couch’d at ease, The white kine glimmer’d, and the trees Laid their dark arms about the field : And suck’d from out the distant gloom A breeze began to tremble o’er The large leaves of the sycamore, And fluctuate all the still perfume, And gathering freshlier overhead, Rock’d the full-foliaged elms, and swung The heavy-folded rose, and flung The lilies to and fro, and said T 274 IN MEMORIAM. ‘ The dawn, the dawn,’ and died away ; And East and West, without a breath, Mixt their dim lights, like life and death, To broaden into boundless day. xcvi. You say, but with no touch of scorn, Sweet-hearted, you, whose light- blue eyes Are tender over drowning flies, You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. I know not: one indeed I knew In many a subtle question versed, Who touch’d a jarring lyre at first, But ever strove to make it true : Ferplext in faith, but pure in deeds, At last he beat his music out. There lives more faith in honest doubt, Believe me, than in half the creeds. He fought his doubts and gather’d strength, He would not make his judgment blind, He faced the spectres of the mind And laid them: thus he came at length To find a stronger faith his own; And Power was with him in the night, Which makes the darkness and the light, And dwells not in the light alone, But in the darkness and the cloud, As over Sinai’s peaks of old, While Israel made their gods of gold, Altho’ the trumpet blew so loud, xcvn. My love has talk’d with rocks and trees; He finds on misty mountain-ground His own vast shadow glory-crown’d ; He sees himself in all he sees. Two partners of a married life— I look’d on these and thought of thee In vastness and in mystery, And of my spirit as of a wife. These two—they dwelt with eye on eye, Their hearts of old have beat in tune, Their meetings made December June Their every parting was to die. Their love has never past away ; The days she never can forget Are earnest that he loves her yet, Whate’er the faithless people say. Her life is lone, he sits apart, He loves her yet, she will not weep, Tho’ rapt in matters dark and deep He seems to slight her simple heart. He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, He reads the secret of the star, He seems so near and yet so far, He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. She keeps the gift of years before, A wither’d violet is her bliss: She knows not what his greatness is, For that, for all, she loves him more. For him she plays, to him she sings Of early faith and plighted vows ; She knows but matters of the house, And he, he knows a thousand things. Her faith is fixt and cannot move, She darkly feels him great and wise, She dwells on him with faithful eyes, ‘ I cannot understand : I love. ’ XCVIII. You leave us : you will see the Rhine, And those fair hills I sail’d below, When I was there with him ; and go By summer belts of wheat and vine To where he breathed his latest breath, That City. All her splendour seems No livelier than the wisp that gleams On Lethe in the eyes of Death. IN MEMORIAM. 275 Let her great Danube rolling fair Enwind her isles, unmark’d of me : I have not seen, I will not see Vienna ; rather dream that there, A treble darkness, Evil haunts The birth, the bridal; friend from friend Is oftener parted, fathers bend Above more graves, a thousand wants Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey By each cold hearth, and sadness flings Her shadow on the blaze of kings : And yet myself have heard him say, That not in any mother town With statelier progress to and fro The double tides of chariots flow By park and suburb under brown Of lustier leaves ; nor more content, He told me, lives in any crowd, When all is gay with lamps, and loud With sport and song, in booth and tent, Imperial halls, or open plain ; And wheels the circled dance, and breaks The rocket molten into flakes Of crimson or in emerald rain. XCIX. Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, So loud with voices of the birds, So thick with lowings of the herds, Day, when I lost the flower of men; Who tremblest thro’ thy darkling red On yon swoll’n brook that bubbles fast By meadows breathing of the past, And woodlands holy to the dead ; Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves A song that slights the coming care, And Autumn laying here and there A fiery finger on the leaves ; Who wakenest with thy balmy breath To myriads on the genial earth, Memories of bridal, or of birth, And unto myriads more, of death. O wheresoever those may be, Betwixt the slumber of the poles, To-day they count as kindred souls; They know me not, but mourn with me. c. I climb the hill : from end to end Of all the landscape underneath, I find no place that does not breathe Some gracious memory of my friend ; No gray old grange, or lonely fold, Or low morass and whispering reed, Or simple stile from mead to mead, Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ; Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw That hears the latest linnet trill, Nor quarry trench’d along the hill And haunted by the wranglihg daw; Nor runlet tinkling from the rock ; Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves To left and right thro’ meadowy curves, That feed the mothers of the flock ; But each has pleased a kindred eye, And each reflects a kindlier day ; And, leaving these, to pass away, I think once more he seems to die. ci. Unwatch’d, the garden bough shall sway, The tender blossom flutter down, Unloved, that beech will gather brown, This maple burn itself away ; Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, Ray round with flames her disk of seed, And many a rose-carnation feed With summer spice the humming air; 276 IN MEMORIAM. Unloved, by many a sandy bar, The brook shall babble down the plain, At noon or when the lesser wain Is twisting round the polar star; Uncared for, gird the windy grove, And flood the haunts of hern and crake ; Or into silver arrows break The sailing moon in creek and cove ; Till from the garden and the wild A fresh association blow, And year by year the landscape grow Familiar to the stranger’s child ; As year by year the labourer tills His wonted glebe, or lops the glades; And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills. CII. We leave the well-beloved place Where first we gazed upon the sky ; The roofs, that heard our earliest cry, Will shelter one of stranger race. We go, but ere we go from home, As down the garden-walks I move, Two spirits of a diverse love Contend for loving masterdom. One whispers, ‘ Here thy boyhood sung Long since its matin song, and heard The low love-language of the bird In native hazels tassel-hung.’ The other answers, ‘Yea, but here Thy feet have stray’d in after hours With thy lost friend among the bowers, And this hath made them trebly dear.’ These two have striven half the day, And each prefers his separate claim, Poor rivals in a losing game, That will not yield each other way. I turn to go : my feet are set To leave the pleasant fields and farms ; They mix in one another’s arms To one pure image of regret. cm. On that last night before we went From out the doors where I was bred, I dream’d a vision of the dead, Which left my after-morn content. Methought I dwelt within a hall, And maidens with me : distant hills From hidden summits fed with rills A river sliding by the wall. The hall with harp and carol rang. They sang of what is wise and good And graceful. In the centre stood A statue veil’d, to which they sang; And which, tho’ veil’d, was known to me, The shape of him I loved, and love For ever : then flew in a dove And brought a summons from the sea: And when they learnt that I must go They wept and wail’d, but led the way To where a little shallop lay At anchor in the flood below ; And on by many a level mead, And shadowing bluff that made the banks, We glided winding under ranks Of iris, and the golden reed ; And still as vaster grew the shore And roll’d the floods in grander space, The maidens gather’d strength and grace And presence, lordlier than before ; And I myself, who sat apart And watch’d them, wax’d in every limb; I felt the thews of Anakim, The pulses of a Titan’s heart ; IN MEMORIAM. 2 77 As one would sing the death of war, And one would chant the history Of that great race, which is to be, And one the shaping of a star ; Until the forward-creeping tides Began to foam, and we to draw From deep to deep, to where we saw A great ship lift her shining sides. The man we loved was there on deck, But thrice as large as man he bent To greet us. Up the side I went, And fell in silence on his neck : Whereat those maidens with one mind Bewail’d their lot; I did them wrong: ‘We served thee here,’ they said, ‘ so long, And wilt thou leave us now behind?’ So rapt I was, they could not win An answer from my lips, but he Replying, ‘ Enter likewise ye And go with us : ’ they enter’d in. And while the wind began to sweep A music out of sheet and shroud, We steer’d her toward a crimson cloud That landlike slept along the deep. civ. The time draws near the birth of Christ; The moon is hid, the night is still; A single church below the hill Is pealing, folded in the mist. A single peal of bells below, That wakens at this hour of rest A single murmur in the breast, That these are not the bells I know. Like strangers’ voices here they sound, In lands where not a memory strays, Nor landmark breathes of other days, But all is new unhallow’d ground. cv. To-night ungather’d let us leave This laurel, let this holly stand : We live within the stranger’s land, And strangely falls our Christmas-eve. Our father’s dust is left alone And silent under other snows : There in due time the woodbine blows, The violet comes, but we are gone. No more shall wayward grief abuse The genial hour with mask and mime; For change of place, like growth of time, Has broke the bond of dying use. Let cares that petty shadows cast, By which our lives are chiefly proved, A little spare the night I loved, And hold it solemn to the past. But let no footstep beat the floor, Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm ; For who would keep an ancient form Thro’ which the spirit breathes no more? Be neither song, nor game, nor feast; Nor harp be touch’d, nor flute be blown; No dance, no motion, save alone What lightens in the lucid east Of rising worlds by yonder wood. Long sleeps the summer in the seed; Run out your measured arcs, and lead The closing cycle rich in good. cvi. Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go ; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. 278 IN MEMORIAM. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife ; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite ; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. evil. It is the day when he was born, A bitter day that early sank Behind a purple-frosty bank Of vapour, leaving night forlorn. The time admits not flowers or leaves To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies The blast of North and East, and ice Makes daggers at the sharpen’d eaves, And bristles all the brakes and thorns To yon hard crescent, as she hangs Above the wood which grides and clangs Its leafless ribs and iron horns Together, in the drifts that pass To darken on the rolling brine That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, Arrange the board and brim the glass; Bring in great logs and let them lie, To make a solid core of heat; Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat Of all things ev’n as he were by; We keep the day. With festal cheer, With books and music, surely we Will drink to him, whate’er he be, And sing the songs he loved to hear. CVIII. I will not shut me from my kind, And, lest I stiffen into stone, I will not eat my heart alone, Nor feed with sighs a passing wind : What profit lies in barren faith, And vacant yearning, tho’ with might To scale the heaven’s highest height, Or dive below the wells of Death ? What find I in the highest place, But mine own phantom chanting hymns ? And on the depths of death there swims The reflex of a human face. I’ll rather take what fruit may be Of sorrow under human skies : ’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise, Whatever wisdom sleep with thee, cix. Heart-affluence in discursive talk From household fountains never dry ; The critic clearness of an eye, That §aw thro’ all the Muses’ walk ; Seraphic intellect and force To seize and throw the doubts of man ; Impassion’d logic, which outran The hearer in its fiery course ; High nature amorous of the good, But touch’d with no ascetic gloom ; And passion pure in snowy bloom Thro’ all the years of April blood; A love of freedom rarely felt, Of freedom in her regal seat Of England; not the schoolboy heat, The blind hysterics of the Celt; IN MEMORIAM 279 And manhood fused with female grace In such a sort, the child would twine A trustful hand, unask’d, in thine, And find his comfort in thy face; All these have been, and thee mine eyes Have look’d on: if they look’d in vain, My shame is greater who remain, Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. cx. Thy converse drew us with delight, The men of rathe and riper years : The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, Forgot his weakness in thy sight. On thee the loyal-hearted hung, The proud was half disarm’d of pride, Nor cared the serpent at thy side To flicker with his double tongue. The stern were mild when thou wert by, The flippant put himself to school And heard thee, and the brazen fool Was soften’d, and he knew not why; While I, thy nearest, sat apart, And felt thy triumph was as mine ; And loved them more, that they were thine, The graceful tact, the Christian art; Nor mine the sweetness or the skill, But mine the love that will not tire, And, born of love, the vague desire That spurs an imitative will. CXI. The churl in spirit, up or down Along the scale of ranks, thro’ all, To him who grasps a golden ball, By blood a king, at heart a clown ; The churl in spirit, howe’er he veil His want in forms for fashion’s sake, Will let his coltish nature break At seasons thro’ the gilded pale : For who can always act? but he, To whom a thousand memories call, Not being less but more than all The gentleness he seem’d to be, Best seem’d the thing he was, and join’d Each office of the social hour To noble manners, as the flower And native growth of noble mind ; Nor ever narrowness or spite, Or villain fancy fleeting by, Drew in the expression of an eye, Where God and Nature met in light; And thus he bore without abuse The grand old name of gentleman, Defamed by every charlatan, And soil’d with all ignoble use. CXII. High wisdom holds my wisdom less, That I, who gaze with temperate eyes On glorious insufficiencies, Set light by narrower perfectness. But thou, that fillest all the room Of all my love, art reason why I seem to cast a careless eye On souls, the lesser lords of doom. For what wert thou? some novel power Sprang up for ever at a touch, And hope could never hope too much, In watching thee from hour to hour, Large elements in order brought, And tracts of calm from tempest- made, And world-wide fluctuation sway’d In vassal tides that follow’d thought. CXIII. ’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise ; Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee Which not alone had guided me, But served the seasons that may rise ; 28 o IN MEMORIAM. For can I doubt, who knew thee keen In intellect, with force and skill To strive, to fashion, to fulfil— I doubt not what thou wouldst have been : A life in civic action warm, A soul on highest mission sent, A potent voice of Parliament, A pillar steadfast in the storm, Should licensed boldness gather force, Becoming, when the time has birth, A lever to uplift the earth And roll it in another course, With thousand shocks that come and go, With agonies, with energies, With overthrowings, and with cries, And undulations to and fro. cxiv. Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail Against her beauty? May she mix With men and prosper! Who shall fix Her pillars ? Let her work prevail. But on her forehead sits a fire : She sets her forward countenance And leaps into the future chance, Submitting all things to desire. Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain— She cannot fight the fear of death. What is she, cut from love and faith, But some wild Pallas from the brain Of Demons ? fiery-hot to burst All barriers in her onward race For power. Let her know her place; She is the second, not the first. A higher hand must make her mild, If all be not in vain ; and guide Her footsteps, moving side by side With wisdom, like the younger child : For she is earthly of the mind, But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. O, friend, who earnest to thy goal So early, leaving me behind, I would the great world grew like thee, Who grewest not alone in power And knowledge, but by year and hour In reverence and in charity. cxv. Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow. Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drown’d in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song. Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea; Where now the seamew pipes, or dives In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood ; that live their lives From land to land ; and in my breast Spring wakens too ; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest. CXVI. Is it, then, regret for buried time That keenlier in sweet April wakes, And meets the year, and gives and takes The colours of the crescent prime ? Not all: the songs, the stirring air, The life re-orient out of dust, Cry thro’ the sense to hearten trust In that which made the world so fail*. Not all regret: the face will shine Upon me, while I muse alone ; And that dear voice, I once have known, Still speak to me of me and mine : IN MEMORTAM. 281 Yet less of sorrow lives in me For days of happy commune dead ; Less yearning for the friendship fled, Than some strong bond which is to be. CXVII. O days and hours, your work is this To hold me from my proper place, A little while from his embrace, For fuller gain of after bliss : That out of distance might ensue Desire of nearness doubly sweet; And unto meeting when we meet, Delight a hundredfold accrue, For every grain of sand that runs, And every span of shade that steals, And every kiss of toothed wheels, And all the courses of the suns. CXVIII. Contemplate all this work of Time, The giant labouring in his youth ; Nor dream of human love and truth, As dying Nature’s earth and lime; But trust that those we call the dead Are breathers of an ampler day For ever nobler ends. They say, The solid earth whereon we tread In tracts of fluent heat began, And grew to seeming-random forms, The seeming prey of cyclic storms, Till at the last arose the man ; Who throve and branch’d from clime to clime, The herald of a higher race, And of himself in higher place, If so he type this work of time Within himself, from more to more ; Or, crown’d with attributes of woe Like glories, move his course, and show That life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And batter’d with the shocks of doom To shape and use. Arise and fly The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; Move upward, working out the beast, And let the ape and tiger die. cxix. Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, not as one that weeps I come once more ; the city sleeps ; I smell the meadow in the street; I hear a chirp of birds ; I see Betwixt the black fronts long-with- drawn A light-blue lane of early dawn, And think of early days and thee, And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, And bright the friendship of thine eye; And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh I take the pressure of thine hand. cxx. I trust I have not wasted breath : I think we are not wholly brain, Magnetic mockeries ; not in vain, Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death; Not only cunning casts in clay : Let Science prove we are, and then What matters Science unto men, At least to me ? I would not stay. Let him, the wiser man who springs Hereafter, up from childhood shape His action like the greater ape, But I was born to other things. cxxi. Sad Hesper o’er the buried sun And ready, thou, to die with him, Thou watchest all things ever dim And dimmer, and a glory done : 282 IN MEMORIAM. The team is loosen’d from the wain, The boat is drawn upon the shore ; Thou listenest to the closing door, And life is darken’d in the brain. Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, By thee the world’s great work is heard Beginning, and the wakeful bird; Behind thee comes the greater light: The market boat is on the stream, And voices hail it from the brink ; Thou hear’st the village hammer clink, And see’st the moving of the team. Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name For what is one, the first, the last, Thou, like my present and my past, Thy place is changed; thou art the same. CXXII. Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then, While I rose up against my doom, And yearn’d to burst the folded gloom, To bare the eternal Heavens again, To feel once more, in placid awe, The strong imagination roll A sphere of stars about my soul, In all her motion one with law; If thou wert with me, and the grave Divide us not, be with me now, And enter in at breast and brow, Till all my blood, a fuller wave, Be quicken’d with a livelier breath, And like an inconsiderate boy, As in the former flash of joy,- I slip the thoughts of life and death ; And all the breeze of Fancy blows, And every dew-drop paints a bow, The wizard lightnings deeply glow, And every thought breaks out a rose. CXXIII. There rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen ! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands ; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go. But in my spirit will I dwell, And dream my dream, and hold it true ; For tho’ my lips may breathe adieu, I cannot think the thing farewell. CXXIV. That which we dare invoke to bless ; Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt; He, They, One, All; within, with¬ out ; The Power in darkness whom we guess ; I found Him not in world or sun, Or eagle’s wing, or insect’s eye ; Nor thro’ the questions men may try, The petty cobwebs we have spun : If e’er when faith had fall’n asleep, I heard a voice * believe no more ’ And heard an ever-breaking shore That tumbled in the Godless deep ; A warmth within the breast would melt The freezing reason’s colder part, And like a man in wrath the heart Stood up and answer’d £ I have felt.’ No, like a child in doubt and fear : But that blind clamour made me wise; Then was I as a child that cries, But, crying, knows his father near ; IN MEMORIAM. 283 And what I am beheld again What is, and no man understands ; And out of darkness came the hands That reach thro’ nature, moulding men. cxxv. Whatever I have said or sung, Some bitter notes my harp would give, Yea, tho’ there often seem’d to live A contradiction on the tongue, Yet Hope had never lost her youth ; She did but look through dimmer eyes; Or Love but play’d with gracious lies, Because he felt so fix’d in truth : And if the song were full of care, He breathed the spirit of the song ; And if the words were sweet and strong He set his royal signet there; Abiding with me till I sail To seek thee on the mystic deeps, And this electric force, that keeps A thousand pulses dancing, fail. cxxvi. Love is and was my Lord and King, And in his presence I attend To hear the tidings of my friend, Which every hour his couriers bring. Love is and was my King and Lord, And will be, tho’ as yet I keep Within his court on earth, and sleep Encompass’d by his faithful guard, And hear at times a sentinel Who moves about from place to place, And whispers to the worlds of space, In the deep night, that all is well. CXXVII. And all is well, tho’ faith and form Be sunder’d in the night of fear ; Well roars the storm to those that hear A deeper voice across the storm, Proclaiming social truth shall spread, And justice, ev’n tho’ thrice again The red fool-fury of the Seine Should pile her barricades with dead. But ill for him that wears a crown, And him, the lazar, in his rags : They tremble, the sustaining crags ; The spires of ice are toppled down, And molten up, and roar in flood ; The fortress crashes from on high, The brute earth lightens to the sky, And the great ^Eon sinks in blood, And compass’d by the fires of Hell; While thou, dear spirit, happy star, O’erlook’st the tumult from afar, And smilest, knowing all is well. CXXVIII. The love that rose on stronger wings, Unpalsied when he met with Death, Is comrade of the lesser faith That sees the course of human things. No doubt vast eddies in the flood Of onward time shall yet be made, And throned races may degrade ; Yet O ye mysteries of good, Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear, If all your office had to do With old results that look like new; If this were all your mission here, To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, To fool the crowd with glorious lies, To cleave a creed in sects and cries, To change the bearing of a word, To shift an arbitrary power, To cramp the student at his desk, To make old bareness picturesque And tuft with grass a feudal tower; Why then my scorn might well descend On you and yours. I see in part That all, as in some piece of art, Is toil cooperant to an end. 284 IN ME MORI AM. cxxix. Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, So far, so near in woe and weal; O loved the most, when most I feel There is a lower and a higher; Known and unknown ; human, divine ; Sweet human hand and lips and eye; Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine ; Strange friend, past, present, and to be; Loved deeplier, darklier understood; Behold, I dream a dream of good, And mingle all the world with thee. cxxx. Thy voice is on the rolling air ; I hear thee where the waters run ; Thou standest in the rising sun, And in the setting thou art fair. What art thou then ? I cannot guess ; But tho’ I seem in star and flower To feel thee some diffusive power, I do not therefore love thee less : My love involves the love before ; My love is vaster passion now ; Tho’ mix’d with God and Nature thou, I seem to love thee more and more. Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; I have thee still, and I rejoice; I prosper, circled with thy voice ; I shall not lose thee tho’ I die. cxxxi. O living will that shalt endure When all that seems shall suffer shock, Rise in the spiritual rock, Flow thro’ our deeds and make them pure, That we may lift from out of dust A voice as unto him that hears, A cry above the conquer’d years To one that with us works, and trust, With faith that comes of self-control, The truths that never can be proved Until we close with all we loved, And all we flow from, soul in soul. O true and tried, so well and long, Demand not thou a marriage lay ; In that it is thy marriage day Is music more than any song. Nor have I felt so much of bliss Since first he told me that he loved A daughter of our house; nor proved Since that dark day a day like this; . Tho’ I since then have number’d o’er Some thrice three years : they went and came, Remade the blood and changed the frame, 1 And yet is love not less, but more ; No longer caring to embalm In dying songs a dead regret, But like a statue solid-set, And moulded in colossal calm. Regret is dead, but love is more Than in the summers that are flown. For I myself with these have grown To something greater than before ; Which makes appear the songs I made As echoes out of weaker times, As half but idle brawling rhymes, The sport of random sun and shade. But where is she, the bridal flower, That must be made a wife ere noon ? She enters, glowing like the moon Of Eden on its bridal bower : On me she bends her blissful eyes And then on thee; they meet thy look And brighten like the star that shook Betwixt the palms of paradise. O when her life was yet in bud, He too foretold the perfect rose. For thee she grew, for thee she grows For ever, and as fair as good. IN ME MORI AM. 285 And thou art worthy; full of power; As gentle ; liberal-minded, great, Consistent; wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower. But now set out: the noon is near, And I must give away the bride; She fears not, or with thee beside And me behind her, will not fear. For I that danced her on my knee, That watch’d her on her nurse’s arm, That shielded all her life from harm At last must part with her to thee; Now waiting to be made a wife, Her feet, my darling, on the dead; Their pensive tablets round her head, And the most living words of life Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, The ‘ wilt thou ’ answer’d, and again The ‘wilt thou’ ask’d, till out of twain Her sweet ‘ I will ’ has made you one. Now sign your names, which shall be read, Mute symbols of a joyful morn, By village eyes as yet unborn; The names are sign’d, and overhead Begins the clash and clang that tells The joy to every wandering breeze; The blind wall rocks, and on the trees The dead leaf trembles to the bells. O happy hour, and happier hours Await them. Many a merry face Salutes them—maidens of the place, That pelt us in the porch with flowers. O happy hour, behold the bride With him to whom her hand I gave. They leave the porch, they pass the grave That has to-day its sunny side. To-day the grave is bright for me, For them the light of life increased, Who stay to share the morning feast, Who rest to-night beside the sea. Let all my genial spirits advance To meet and greet a whiter sun ; My drooping memory will not shun The foaming grape of eastern France. It circles round, and fancy plays, And hearts are warm’d and faces bloom, As drinking health to bride and groom We wish them Store of happy days. Nor count me all to blame if I Conjecture of a stiller guest, Perchance, perchance, among the rest, And, tho’ in silence, wishing joy. But they must go, the time draws on, And those white-favour’d horses wait ; They rise, but linger ; it is late ; Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. A shade falls on us like the dark From little cloudlets on the grass, But sweeps away as out we pass To range the woods, to roam the park, Discussing how their courtship grew, And talk of others that are wed, And how she look’d, and what he said, And back we come at fall of dew. Again the feast, the speech, the glee. The shade of passing thought, the wealth Of words and wit, the double health, The crowning cup, the three-times-three, And last the dance ;—till I retire: Dumb is that tower which spake so loud, And high in heaven the streaming cloud, And on the downs a rising fire : And rise, O moon, from yonder down, Till over down and over dale All night the shining vapour sail And pass the silent-lighted town, 286 MAUD. The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, And catch at eveiy mountain head, And o’er the friths that branch and spread Their sleeping silver thro’ the hills; And touch with shade the bridal doors, With tender gloom the roof, the wall; And breaking let the splendour fall To spangle all the happy shores By which they rest, and ocean sounds, And, star and system rolling past, A soul shall draw from out the vast And strike his being into bounds, And, moved thro’ life of lower phase, Result in man, be born and think, And act and love, a closer link Betwixt us and the crowning race Of those that, eye to eye, shall look On knowledge ; under whose com¬ mand Is Earth and Earth’s, and in their hand Is Nature like an open book ; No longer half-akin to brute, For all we thought and loved and did, And hoped, and suffer’d, is but seed Of what in them is flower and fruit; Whereof the man, that with me trod This planet, was a noble type Appearing ere the times were ripe,* That friend of mine who lives in God, - That God, which ever lives and loves, One God, one law, one element, And one far-off divine event, To which the whole creation moves. MAUD; A MONODRAMA. PART I. I. I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath, The red-ribb’d ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, And Echo there, whatever is ask’d her, answers ‘Death.’ II. For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, His who had given me life—O father ! O God ! was it well ?— Mangled, and flatten’d, and crush’d, and dinted into the ground : There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell. ill. Did he fling himself down ? who knows ? for a vast speculation had fail’d, And ever he mutter’d and madden’d, and ever wann’d with despair, And out he walk’d when the wind like a broken worldling wail’d. And the flying gold of the ruin’d woodlands drove thro’ the air. IV. I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirr’d By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail’d, by a whisper’d fright, And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heard The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night. MAUD. 287 v. Villainy somewhere ! whose ? One says, we are villains all. Not he : his honest fame should at least by me be maintained : But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall, Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drain’d. Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? we have made them a curse, Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own ; And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone ? VII. But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mind, When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman’s ware or his word? Is it peace or war ? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. VIII. Sooner or later I too may passively take the print Of the golden age—why not ? I have neither hope nor trust ; May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint, Cheat and be cheated, and die : who knows ? we are ashes and dust. Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by, When the poor are hovell’d and hustled together, each sex, like swine. When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie; Peace in her vineyard—yes !—but a company forges the wine. x. And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian’s head, Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife, And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread, And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life, XI. And Sleep must lie down arm’d, for the villainous centre-bits Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights, While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he sits To pestle a poison’d poison behind his crimson lights. XII. When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee, And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children’s bones, Is it peace or war ? better, war ! loud war by land and by sea. War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones. 288 MAUD. XIII. For I trust if an enemy’s fleet came yonder round by the hill, And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam, That the smooth-faced snubnosed rogue would leap from his counter and till, And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yard wand, home.- XIV. What ! am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood ? Must I too creep to the hollow and dash myself down and die Rather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to brood On a horror of shatter’d limbs and a wretched swindler’s lie ? xv. Would there be sorrow for me? there was love in the passionate shriek, Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the grave— Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought he would rise and speak And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he used to rave. XVI. I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor and the main. Why should I stay ? can a sweeter chance ever come to me here ? O, having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves of pain, Were it not wise if I fled from the. place and the pit and the fear ? XVII. Workmen up at the Hall!—they are coming back from abroad ; The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a millionaire : I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular beauty of Maud ; I play’d with the girl when a child ; she promised then to be fair. XVIII. Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and childish escapes, Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the Hall, Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father dangled the grapes, Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced darling of all,— XIX. What is she now ? My dreams are bad. She may bring me a curse. No, there is fatter game on the moor ; she will let me alone. Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be the worse. I will bury myself in myself, and the Devil may pipe to his own. II. Long have I sigh’d for a calm : God grant I may find it at last ! It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither savour nor salt, But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her carriage past, Perfectly beautiful : let it be granted her : where is the fault ? MAUD. 289 All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen) Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, Dead perfection, no more ; nothing more, if it had not been For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour’s defect of the rose, Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too full, Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose, From which I escaped heart-free, with the least little touch of spleen. III. Cold and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly meek, Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was drown’d, Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on the cheek, Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom profound ; Womanlike, taking revenge too deep for a transient wrong Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale as before Growing and fading and growing upon me without a sound, Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, half the night long Growing and fading and growing, till I could bear it no more, But arose, and all by myself in my own dark garden ground, Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung shipwrecking roar, Now to the scream of a madden’d beach dragg’d down by the wave, Walk’d in a wintry wind by a ghastly glimmer, and found The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grave. IV. A million emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime In the little grove where I sit—ah, wherefore cannot I be Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful season bland, When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze of a softer clime, Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of sea, The silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring of the land ? II. Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet and small ! And yet bubbles o’er like a city, with gossip, scandal, and spite ; And Jack on his ale-house bench has as many lies as a Czar ; And here on the landward side, by a red rock, glimmers the Hail ; And up in the high Hall-garden I see her pass like a light; But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading star ! ill. When have I bow’d to her father, the wrinkled head of the race ? I met her to-day with her brother, but not to her brother I bow’d : I bow’d to his lady-sister as she rode by on the moor; But the fire of a foolish pride flash’d over her beautiful face. O child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being so proud ; Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am nameless and poor. u 290 MAUD . IV. I keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander and steal; I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or like A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its way : For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal ; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow spear’d by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey. v. We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower ; Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at a game That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed ? Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour ; We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother’s shame; However we brave it out, we men are a little breed. VI. A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth, For him did his high sun flame, and his river billowing ran, And he felt himself in his force to be Nature’s crowning race. As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for his birth, So many a million of ages have gone to the making of man : He now is first, but is he the last ? is he not too base ? VII. The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain, An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor ; The passionate heart of the poet is whirl’d into folly and vice. I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain ; For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were more Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden of spice. VIII. For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil. Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them about ? Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide. Shall I weep if a Poland fall ? shall I shriek if a Hungary fail ? Or an infant civilisation be ruled with rod or with knout ? /have not made the world, and He that made it will guide. IX. Be mine a philosopher’s life in the quiet woodland ways, Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot, Far-off from the clamour of liars belied in the hubbub of lies ; From the long-neck’d geese of the world that are ever hissing dispraise Because their natures are little, and, whether he heed it or not, Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies. MAUD. 291 x. And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love, The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill. Ah Maud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife. Your mother is mute in her grave as her image in marble above ; Your father is ever in London, you wander about at your will; You have but fed on the roses and lain in the lilies of life. V. I. A voice by the cedar tree In the meadow under the Hall ! She is singing an air that is known to me, A passionate ballad gallant and gay, A martial song like a trumpet’s call ! Singing alone in the morning of life, In the happy morning of life and of May, Singing of men that in battle array, Ready in heart and ready in hand, March with banner and bugle and fife To the death, for their native land. II. Maud with her exquisite face, And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, And feet like sunny gems on an English green, Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, Singing of Death, and of Honour that cannot die. Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean, And myself so languid and base. hi. Silence, beautiful voice ! Be still, for you only trouble the mind With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, A glory I shall not find. Still ! I will hear you no more, For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice But to move to the meadow and fall before Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore, Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind, Not her, not her, but a voice. VI. Morning arises stormy and pale, No sun, but a wannish glare In fold upon fold of hueless cloud, And the budded peaks of the wood are bow’d Caught and cuff’d by the gale : I had fancied it would be fair. 11. Whom but Maud should I meet Last night, when the sunset burn’d On the blossom’d gable-ends At the head of the village street, Whom but Maud should I meet ? And she touch’d my hand with a smile so sweet, She made me divine amends For a courtesy not return’d. ill. And thus a delicate spark Of glowing and growing light Thro’ the livelong hours of the dark Kept itself warm in the heart of my dreams, Ready to burst in a colour’d flame ; Till at last when the morning came In a cloud, it faded, and seems But an ashen-gray delight. IV. What if with her sunny hair, And smile as sunny as cold, She meant to weave me a snare Of some coquettish deceit, Cleopatra-like as of old To entangle me when we met, To have her lion roll in a silken net And fawn at a victor’s feet. 292 MAUD. v. Ah, what shall I be at fifty Should Nature keep me alive, If I find the world so bitter When I am but twenty-five? Yet, if she were not a cheat, If Maud were all that she seem’d, And her smile were all that I dream’d, Then the world were not so bitter But a smile could make it sweet. VI What if tho’ her eye seem’d full Of a kind intent to me, What if that dandy-despot, he, That jewell’d mass of millinery, That oil’d and curl’d Assyrian Bull Smelling of musk and of insolence, Her brother, from whom I keep aloof, Who wants the finer politic sense To mask, tho’ but in his own behoof, With a glassy smile his brutal scorn— What if he had told her yestermorn How prettily for his own sweet sake A face of tenderness might be feign’d, And a moist mirage in desert eyes, That so, when the rotten hustings shake In another month to his brazen lies, A wretched vote may be gain’d. VII. For a raven ever croaks, at my side, Keep watch and ward, keep watch and ward, Or thou wilt prove their tool. Yea, too, myself from myself I guard, For often a man’s own angry pride Is cap and bells for a fool. VIII. Perhaps the smile and tender tone Came out of her pitying womanhood, For am I not, am I not, here alone So many a summer since she died, My mother, who was so gentle and good ? Living alone in an empty house, Here half-hid in the gleaming wood, Where I hear the dead at midday moan, And the shrieking rush of the wainscot mouse, And my own sad name in corners cried, When the shiver of dancing leaves is thrown About its echoing chambers wide, Till a morbid hate and horror have grown Of a world in which I have hardly mixt, And a morbid eating lichen fixt On a heart half-turn’d to stone. IX. O heart of stone, are you flesh, and caught By that you swore to withstand ? For what was it else within me wrought But, I fear, the new strong wine of love, That made my tongue so stammer and trip When I saw the treasured splendour, her hand, Come sliding out of her sacred glove, And the sunlight broke from her lip ? x. I have play’d with her when a child ; She remembers it now we meet. Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled By some coquettish deceit. Yet, if she were not a cheat, If Maud were all that she seem’d, And her smile had all that I dream’d, Then the world were not so bitter But a smile could make it sweet. VII. i. Did I hear it half in a doze Long since, I know not where ? Did I dream it an hour ago, When asleep in this arm-chair ? II. Men were drinking together, Drinking and talking cl me ; ‘ Well, if it prove a girl, the boy Will have plenty: so let it be.’ MAUD. 293 hi. Is it an echo of something Read with a boy’s delight, Viziers nodding together In some Arabian night ? IV. Strange, that I hear two men, Somewhere, talking of me ; ‘ Well, if it prove a girl, my boy Will have plenty : so let it be.’ vm. She came to the village church, And sat by a pillar alone ; An angel watching an urn Wept over her, carved in stone ; And once, but once, she lifted her eyes, And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blush’d To find they were met by my own ; A.nd suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat stronger And thicker, until I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone ; And thought, is it pride, and mused and sigh’d ‘ No surely, now it cannot be pride.’ IX. I was walking a mile, More than a mile from the shore, The sun look’d out with a smile Betwixt the cloud and the moor And riding at set of day Over the dark moor land, Rapidly riding far away, She waved to me with her hand. There were two at her side, Something flash’d in the sun, Down by the hill I saw them ride, In a moment they were gone : Like a sudden spark Struck vainly in the night, Then returns the dark With no more hope of light. X. I. Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread ? Was not one of the two at her side This new-made lord, whose splendour plucks The slavish hat from the villager’s head ? Whose old grandfather has lately died, Gone to a blacker pit, for whom Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks And laying his trams in a poison’d gloom Wrought, till he crept from a gutted mine Master of half a servile shire, And left his coal all turn’d into gold To a grandson, first of his noble line, Rich in the grace all women desire, Strong in the power that all men adore, And simper and set their voices lower, And soften as if to a girl, and hold Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine, Seeing his gewgaw castle shine, New as his title, built last year, There amid perky larches and pine, And over the sullen-purple moor (Look at it) pricking a cockney ear. II. What, has he found my jewel out ? For one of the two that rode at her side Bound for the Hall, I am sure was he : Bound for the Hall, and I think for a bride. Blithe would her brother’s acceptance be. Ma.ud could be gracious too, no doubt To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, A bought commission, a waxen face, A rabbit mouth that is ever agape— Bought ? what is it he cannot buy ? And therefore splenetic, personal, base, A wounded thing with a rancorous cry, At war with myself and a wretched race, Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. ill. Last week came one to the county town, To preach our poor little army down, And play the game of the despot kings, 294 MAUD. Tho’ the state has done it and thrice as well: This broad - brimm’d hawker of holy things, Whose ear is cramm’d with his cotton, and rings Even in dreams to the chink of his pence, This huckster put down war ! can he tell Whether war be a cause or a consequence? Put down the passions that make earth Hell ! Down with ambition, avarice, pride, Jealousy, down ! cut off from the mind The bitter springs of anger and fear ; Down too, down at your own fireside, With the evil tongue and the evil ear, For each is at war with mankind. IV. I wish I could hear again The chivalrous battle-song That she warbled alone in her joy ! I might persuade myself then She would not do herself this great wrong, To take a wanton dissolute boy For a man and leader of men. v. Ah God, for a man with heart, head, hand, Like some of the simple great ones gone For ever and ever by, One still strong man in a blatant land, Whatever they call him, what care I, Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat—one Who can rule and dare not lie. vi. And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be ! XI. i. O let the solid ground Not fail beneath my feet Before my life has found What some have found so sweet; Then let come what come may, What matter if I go mad, I shall have had my day. II. Let the sweet heavens endure, Not close and darken above me Before I am quite quite sure That there is one to love me ; Then let come what come may To a life that has been so sad, I shall have had my day. XII. i. Birds in the high Hall-garden When twilight was falling, Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, They were crying and calling. II. Where was Maud ? in our wood ; And I, who else, was with her, Gathering woodland lilies, Myriads blow together. III. Birds in our wood sang Ringing thro’ the valleys, Maud is here, here, here In among the lilies. IV. I kiss’d her slender hand, She took the kiss sedately ; Maud is not seventeen, But she is tall and stately. v. I to cry out on pride Who have won her favour ! O Maud were sure of Heaven If lowliness could save her. VI. I know the way she went Home with her maiden posy, For her feet have touch’d the meadows And left the daisies rosy. VII. Birds in the high Hall-garden Were crying and calling to her, Where is Maud, Maud, Maud ? One is come to woo her. MAUD. 295 VIII. Look, a horse at the door, And little King Charley snarling, Go back, my lord, across the moor. You are not her darling. XIII. Scorn’d, to be scorn’d by one that I scorn, Is that a matter to make me fret ? That a calamity hard to be borne ? Well, he may live to hate me yet. Fool that I am to be vext with his pride ! I past him, I was crossing his lands ; He stood on the path a little aside ; His face, as I grant, in spite of spite, Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and white, And six feet two, as I think, he stands ; But his essences turn’d the live air sick, And barbarous opulence jewel-thick Sunn’d itself on his breast and his hands. 11. Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, I long’d so heartily then and there To give him the grasp of fellowship ; But while I past he was humming an air, Stopt, and then with a riding whip Leisurely tapping a glossy boot, And curving a contumelious lip, Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare. ill. Why sits he here in his father’s chair ? That old man never comes to his place : Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen ? For only once, in the village street, Last year, I caught a glimpse of his face, A gray old wolf and a lean. Scarcely, now, would I call him a cheat; For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit, She might by a true descent be untrue; And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet : Tho’ I fancy her sweetness only due To the sweeter blood by the other side ; Her mother has been a thing complete, However she came to be so allied. And fair without, faithful within, Maud to him is nothing akin : Some peculiar mystic grace Made her only the child of her mother, And heap’d the whole inherited sin On that huge scapegoat of the race, All, all upon the brother. IV. Peace, angry spirit, and let him be ! Has not his sister smiled on me ? XIV. I. Maud has a garden of roses And lilies fair on a lawn ; There she walks in her state And tends upon bed and bower, And thither I climb’d at dawn And stood by her garden-gate ; A lion ramps at the top, He is claspt by a passion-flower. II. Maud’s own little oak-room (Which Maud, like a precious stone Set in the heart of the carven gloom, Lights with herself, when alone She sits by her music and books And her brother lingers late With a roystering company) looks Upon Maud’s own garden-gate : And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as white As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid On the hasp of the window, and my Delight Had a sudden desire, like a glorious ghost, to glide, Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, down to my side, There were but a step to be made, ill. The fancy flatter’d my mind, And again seem’d overbold ; Now I thought that she cared for me, Now I thought she was kind Only because she was cold. 296 MAUD. IV. I heard no sound where I stood But the rivulet on from the lawn Running down to my own dark wood ; Or the voice of the long sea-wave as it swell’d Now and then in the dim-gray dawn ; But I look’d, and round, all round the house I beheld The death-white curtain drawn ; Felt a horror over me creep, Prickle my skin and catch my breath, Knew that the death-white curtain meant but sleep, Yet I shudder’d and thought like a fool of the sleep of death. XV. So dark a mind within me dwells, And I make myself such evil cheer, That if I be dear to some one else, Then some one else may have much to fear; But if I be dear to some one else, Then I should be to myself more dear. Shall I not take care of all that I think, Yea ev’n of wretched meat and drink, If I be dear, If I be dear to some one else. XVI. 1. This lump of earth has left his estate The lighter by the loss of his weight ; And so that he find what he went to seek, And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and drown Plis heart in the gross mud-honey of town, He may stay for a year who has gone for a week : But this is the day when I must speak, And I see my Oread coming down, O this is the day ! O beautiful creature, what am I That I dare to look her way ; Think I may hold dominion sweet, Lord of the pulse that is lord of her breast, And dream of her beauty with tender dread, From the delicate Arab arch of her feet To the grace that, bright and light as the crest Of a peacock, sits on her shining head, And she knows it not: O, if she knew it, To know her beauty might half undo it. I know it the one bright thing to save My yet young life in the wilds of Time, Perhaps from madness, perhaps from crime, Perhaps from a selfish grave. II. What, if she be fasten’d to this fool lord, Dare I bid her abide by her word ? Should I love her so well if she Had given her word to a thing so low ? Shall I love her as well if she Can break her word were it even for me ? I trust that it is not so. III. Catch not my breath, O clamorous heart, Let not my tongue be a thrall to my eye, For I must tell her before we part, I must tell her, or die. XVII. Go not, happy day, From the shining fields, Go not, happy day, Till the maiden yields. Rosy is the West, Rosy is the South, Roses are her cheeks, And a rose her mouth When the happy Yes Falters from her lips, Pass and blush the news Over glowing ships; Over blowing seas, Over seas at rest, Pass the happy news, Blush it thro’ the West; Till the red man dance By his red cedar-tree, And the red man’s babe Leap, beyond the sea. MAUD . 297 Blush from West to East, Blush from East to West, Till the West is East, Blush it thro’ the West. Rosy is the West, Rosy is the South, Roses are her cheeks, And a rose her mouth. XVIII. I. I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none. And never yet so warmly ran my blood And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wish’d-for end, Full to the banks, close on the promised good. II. None like her, none. Just now the dry-tongued laurels’ patter¬ ing talk Seem’d her light foot along the garden walk, And shook my heart to think she comes once more ; But even then I heard her close the door, The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone. hi. There is none like her, none. Nor will be when our summers have de¬ ceased. O, art thou sighing for Lebanon In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious East, Sighing for Lebanon, Dark cedar, tho’ thy limbs have here in¬ creased, Upon a pastoral slope as fair, And looking to the South, and fed With honey’d rain and delicate air, And haunted by the starry head Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate, And made my life a perfumed altar-flame; And over whom thy darkness must have spread With such delight as theirs of old, thy great Forefathers of the thornless garden, there Shadowing the snow-limb’d Eve from whom she came. IV. Here will I lie, while these long branches sway, And you fair stars that crown a happy day Go in and out as if at merry play, Who am no more so all forlorn, As when it seem’d far better to be born To labour and the mattock-harden’d hand, Than nursed at ease and brought to un¬ derstand A sad astrology, the boundless plan That makes you tyrants in your iron skies, Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes, Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand His nothingness into man. v. But now shine on, and what care I, Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl The counter charm of space and hollow sky, And do accept my madness, and would die To save from some slight shame one simple girl. VI. Would die; for sullen - seeming Death may give More life to Love than is or ever was In our low world, where yet ’tis sweet to live. Let no one ask me how it came to pass ; It seems that I am happy, that to me A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 298 MAUD. VII. Not die; but live a life of truest breath, And teach true life to fight with mortal wrongs. O, why should Love, like men in drink¬ ing-songs, Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death ? Make answer, Maud my bliss, Maud made my Maud by that long loving kiss, Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this ? ‘ The dusky strand of Death inwoven here With dear Love’s tie, makes Love himself more dear.’ VIII. Is that enchanted moan only the swell Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay? And hark the clock within, the silver knell Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal white, And died to live, long as my pulses play; But now by this my love has closed her sight And given false death her hand, and stol’n away To dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwell Among the fragments of the golden day. May nothing there her maiden grace affright ! Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell. My bride to be, my evermore delight, My own heart’s heart, my ownest own, farewell; It is but for a little space I go : And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell Beat to the noiseless music of the night! Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow Of your soft splendours that you look so bright ? / have climb’d nearer out of lonely Hell. Beat, happy stars, timing with things below, Beat with my heart more blest than heart can tell, Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe That seems to draw—but it shall not be so: Let all be well, be well. XIX. I. Her brother is coming back to-night, Breaking up my dream of delight. ii. My dream ? do I dream of bliss ? I have walk’d awake with Truth. O when did a morning shine So rich in atonement as this For my dark-dawning youth, Darken’d watching a mother decline And that dead man at her heart and mine : For who was left to watch her but I ? Yet so did I let my freshness die. ill. I trust that I did not talk To gentle Maud in our walk (For often in lonely wanderings I have cursed him even to lifeless things) But I trust that I did not talk, Not touch on her father’s sin : I am sure I did but speak Of my mother’s faded cheek When it slowly grew so thin, That I felt she was slowly dying Vext with lawyers and harass’d with debt: For how often I caught her with eyes all wet, Shaking her head at her son and sighing A \vorld of trouble within ! IV. And Maud too, Maud was moved To speak of the mother she loved As one scarce less forlorn, Dying abroad and it seems apart MA UD. 299 From him who had ceased to share her heart, And ever mourning over the feud, The household Fury sprinkled with blood By which our houses are torn : How strange was what she said, When only Maud and the brother Hung over her dying bed— That Maud’s dark father and mine Had bound us one to the other, Betrothed us over their wine, On the day when Maud was born ; Seal’d her mine from her first sweet breath. Mine, mine by a right, from birth till death. Mine, mine—our fathers have sworn, v. But the true blood spilt had in it a heat To dissolve the precious seal on a bond, That, if left uncancell’d, had been so sweet: And none of us thought of a something beyond, A desire that awoke in the heart of the child, As it were a duty done to the tomb, To be friends for her sake, to be recon¬ ciled ; And I was cursing them and my doom, And letting a dangerous thought run wild While often abroad in the fragrant gloom Of foreign churches—I see her there, Bright English lily, breathing a prayer To be friends, to be reconciled ! VI. But then what a flint is he ! Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, I find whenever she touch’d on me This brother had laugh’d her down, And at last, when each came home, He had darken’d into a frown, Chid her, and forbid her to speak To me, her friend of the years before ; And this was what had redden’d her cheek When I bow’d to her on the moor. VII. Yet Maud, altho’ not blind To the faults of his heart and mind, I see she cannot but love him, And says he is rough but kind, And wishes me to approve him, And tells me, when she lay Sick once, with a fear of worse, That he left his wine and horses and play, Sat with her, read to her, night and day, And tended her like a nurse. VIII. Kind ? but the deathbed desire Spurn’d by this heir of the liar— Rough but kind ? yet I know He has plotted against me in this, That he plots against me still. Kind to Maud? that were not amiss. Well, rough but kind ; why let it be so: For shall not Maud have her will ? IX. For, Maud, so tender and true, As long as my life endures I feel I shall owe you a debt, That I never can hope to pay ; And if ever I should forget That I owe this debt to you And for your sweet sake to yours ; O then, what then shall I say?— If ever I should forget, May God make me more wretched Than ever I have been yet! x. So now I have sworn to bury All this dead body of hate, I feel so free and so clear By the loss of that dead weight, That I should grow light-headed, I fear, Fantastically merry; But that her brother comes, like a blight On my fresh hope, to the Hall to-night. XX. Strange, that I felt so gay, Strange, that / tried to-day 300 MAUD. To beguile her melancholy ; The Sultan, as we name him,— She did not wish to blame him— But he vext her and perplext her With his worldly talk and folly : Was it gentle to reprove her For stealing out of view From a little lazy lover Who but claims her as his due ? Or for chilling his caresses By the coldness of her manners, Nay, the plainness of her dresses? Now I know her but in two, Nor can pronounce upon it If one should ask me whether The habit, hat, and feather, Or the frock and gipsy bonnet Be the neater and completer; For nothing can be sweeter Than maiden Maud in either. II. But to-morrow, if we live, Our ponderous squire will give A grand political dinner To half the squirelings near ; And Maud will wear her jewels, And the bird of prey will hover, And the titmouse hope to win her With his chirrup at her ear. HI. A grand political dinner To the men of many acres, A gathering of the Tory, A dinner and then a dance For the maids and marriage-makers, And every eye but mine will glance At Maud in all her glory. IV. For I am not invited, But, with the Sultan’s pardon, I am all as well delighted, For I know her own rose-garden, And mean to linger in it Till the dancing will be over; And then, oh then, come out to me For a minute, but for a minute, Come out to your own true lover, That your true lover may see Your glory also, and render All homage to his own darling, Queen Maud in all her splendour. XXI. Rivulet crossing my ground, And bringing me down from the Hall This garden-rose that I found, Forgetful of Maud and me, And lost in trouble and moving round Here at the head of a tinkling fall, And trying to pass to the sea ; O Rivulet, born at the Hall, My Maud has sent it by thee (If I read her sweet will right) On a blushing mission to me, Saying in odour and colour, ‘ Ah, be Among the roses to-night.’ XXII. i. Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown. II. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky, To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die. in. All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon ; All night has the casement jessamine stirr’d To the dancers dancing in tune ; Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon. MAUD. 301 IV. I said to the lily, ‘ There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay. When will the dancers leave her alone ? She is weary of dance and play.’ Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day ; Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away. v. I said to the rose, • ‘ The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine. O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, For one that will never be thine ? But mine, but mine,’ so I sware to the rose, ‘ For ever and ever, mine.’ VI. And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clash’d in the hall; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all; VII. From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet And the valleys of Paradise. VIII. The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree ; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me ; The lilies and roses were all awake, They sigh’d for the dawn and thee. IX. Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither, the dances are done, In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, To the flowers, and be their sun. x. There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate ; The red rose cries, ‘ She is near, she is near; ’ And the white rose weeps, ‘ She is late ; ’ The larkspur listens, ‘ I hear, I hear ; ’ And the lily whispers, ‘ I wait. ’ XI. She is coming, my. own, my sweet ; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed ; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead ; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red. PART II. I. 1. The fault was mine, the fault was mine ’— Why am I sitting here so stunn’d and still, Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the hill ?— It is this guilty hand !— And there rises ever a passionate cry From underneath in the darkening land— What is it, that has been done ? O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky, The fires of Hell brake out of thy rising sun, The fires of Hell and of Hate ; 302 MAUD. For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a word, When her brother ran in his rage to the gate. He came with the babe-faced lord; Heap’d on her terms of disgrace, And while she wept, and I strove to be cool, He fiercely gave me the lie, Till I with as fierce an anger spoke, And he struck me, madman, over the face, Struck me before the languid fool, Who was gaping and grinning by : Struck for himself an evil stroke ; Wrought for his house an irredeemable woe; For front to front in an hour we stood, And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke From the red-ribb’d hollow behind the wood, And thunder’d up into Heaven the Christ- less code, That must have life for a blow. Ever and ever afresh they seem’d to grow. Was it he lay there with a fading eye ? ‘The fault was mine,’ he whisper’d, ‘fly!’ Then glided out of the joyous wood The ghastly Wraith of one that I know ; And there rang on a sudden a passionate cry, A cry for a brother’s blood : It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die, till I die. II. Is it gone ? my pulses beat— What was it ? a lying trick of the brain ? Yet I thought I saw her stand, A shadow there at my feet, High over the shadowy land. It is gone ; and the heavens fall in a gentle rain, When they should burst and drown with deluging storms The feeble vassals of wine and anger and lust, The little hearts that know not how to forgive : Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold Thee just, Strike dead the whole weak race of veno¬ mous worms, That sting each other here in the dust; We are not worthy to live. II. i. See what a lovely shell, Small and pure as a pearl, Lying close to my foot* Frail, but a work divine, Made so fairily well With delicate spire and whorl, How exquisitely minute, A miracle of design ! II. What is it ? a learned man Could give it a clumsy name. Let him name it who can, The beauty would be the same. III. The tiny cell is forlorn, Void of the little living will That made it stir on the shore. Did he stand at the diamond door Of his house in a rainbow frill ? Did he push, when he was uncurl’d, A golden foot or a fairy horn Thro’ his dim water-world ? IV. Slight, to be crush’d with a tap Of my finger-nail on the sand, Small, but a work divine, Frail, but of force to withstand, Year upon year, the shock Of cataract seas that snap The three decker’s oaken spine Athwart the ledges of rock, Here on the Breton strand ! v. Breton, not Briton ; here Like a shipwreck’d man on a coast Of ancient fable and fear— MAUD. 303 Plagued with a flitting to and fro, A disease, a hard mechanic ghost That never came from on high Nor ever arose from below, But only moves with the moving eye, Flying along the land and the main— Why should it look like Maud ? Am I to be overawed By what I cannot but know Is a juggle born of the brain ? VI. Back from the Breton coast, Sick of a nameless fear, Back to the dark sea-line Looking, thinking of all I have lost; An old song vexes my ear ; But that of Lamech is mine. VII. For years, a measureless ill, For years, for ever, to part— But she, she would love me still; And as long, O God, as she Have a grain of love for me, So long, no doubt, no doubt, Shall I nurse in my dark heart, However weary, a spark of will Not to be trampled out. VIII. Strange, that the mind, when fraught With a passion so intense One would think that it well Might drown all life in the eye,— That it should, by being so overwrought, Suddenly strike on a sharper sense For a shell, or a flower, little things Which else would have been past by ! And now I remember, I, When he lay dying there, I noticed one of his many rings (For he had many, poor worm) and thought It is his mother’s hair. IX. Who knows if he be dead ? . Whether I need have fled ? Am I guilty of blood ? However this may be, Comfort her, comfort her, all things good, While I am over the sea ! Let me and my passionate love go by, But speak to her all things holy and high, Whatever happen to me ! Me and my harmful love go by ; But come to her waking, find her asleep, Powers of the height, Powers of the deep, And comfort her tho’ I die. III. Courage, poor heart of stone ! I will not ask thee why Thou canst not understand That thou art left for ever alone : Courage, poor stupid heart of stone.— Or if I ask thee why, Care not thou to reply : She is but dead, and the time is at hand When thou shalt more than die. IV. I. O that ’twere possible After long grief and pain To find the arms of my true love Round me once again ! II. When I was wont to meet her In the silent woody places By the home that gave me birth, We stood tranced in long embraces Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter Than anything on earth. III. A shadow flits before me, Not thou, but like to thee : Ah Christ, that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be. 304 MAUD. IV. It leads me forth at evening, It lightly winds and steals In a cold white robe before me, When all my spirit reels At the shouts, the leagues of lights, And the roaring of the wheels. v. Half the night I waste in sighs, Half in dreams I sorrow after The delight of early skies ; In a wakeful doze I sorrow For the hand, the lips, the eyes, For the meeting of the morrow, The delight of happy laughter, The delight of low replies. VI. ’Tis a morning pure and sweet, And a dewy splendour falls On the little flower that clings To the turrets and the walls ; ’Tis a morning pure and sweet, And the light and shadow fleet; She is walking in the meadow, And the woodland echo rings ; In a moment we shall meet; She is singing in the meadow And the rivulet at her feet Ripples on in light and shadow To the ballad that she sings. VII. Do I hear her sing as of old, My bird with the shining head, My own dove with the tender eye? But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry, There is some one dying or dead, And a sullen thunder is roll’d ; For a tumult shakes the city, And I wake, my dream is fled ; In the shuddering dawn, behold, Without knowledge, without pity, By the curtains of my bed That abiding phantom cold. VIII. Get thee hence, nor come again, Mix not memory with doubt, Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, Pass and cease to move about ! ’Tis the blot upon the brain That will show itself without. IX. Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, And the yellow vapours choke The great city sounding wide ; The day comes, a dull red ball Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke On the misty river-tide. x. Thro’ the hubbub of the market I steal, a wasted frame, It crosses here, it crosses there, Thro’ all that crowd confused and loud, The shadow still the same ; And on my heavy eyelids My anguish hangs like shame. XI. Alas for her that met me, That heard me softly call, Came glimmering thro’ the laurels At the quiet evenfall, In the garden by the turrets Of the old manorial hall. XII. Would the happy spirit descend, From the realms of light and song, In the chamber or the street, As she looks among the blest, Should I fear to greet my friend Or to say ‘ Forgive the wrong,’ Or to ask her, ‘ Take me, sweet, To the regions of thy rest ’ ? XIII. But the broad light glares and beats, And the shadow flits and fleets And will not let me be; And I loathe the squares and streets, And the faces that one meets, Hearts with' no love for me : MAUD. 305 Always I long to creep Into some still cavern deep, There to weep, and weep, and weep My whole soul out to thee. V. Dead, long dead, Long dead ! And my heart is a handful of dust, And the wheels go over my head, And my bones are shaken with pain, For into a shallow grave they are thrust, Only a yard beneath the street, And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat, The hoofs of the horses beat, Beat into my scalp and my brain, With never an end to the stream of passing feet, Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying, Clamour and rumble, and ringing and clatter, And here beneath it is all as bad, For I thought the dead had peace, but it is not so ; To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad ? But up and down and to and fro, Ever about me the dead men go ; And then to hear a dead man chatter Is enough to drive one mad. 11. Wretchedest age, since Time began, They cannot even bury a man; And tho’ we paid pur tithes in the days that are gone, Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read; It is that which makes us loud in the world of the dead ; There is none that does his work, not one ; A touch of their office might have sufficed, But the churchmen fain would kill their church, As the churches have kill’d their Christ. in. See, there is one of us sobbing, No limit to his distress ; And another, a lord of all things, praying To his own great self, as I guess ; And another, a statesman there, betraying His party-secret, fool, to the press ; And yonder a vile physician, blabbing The case of his patient—all for what ? To tickle the maggot born in an empty head, And wheedle a world that loves him not, For it is but a world of the dead. IV. Nothing but idiot gabble ! For the prophecy given of old And then not understood, Has come to pass as foretold ; Not let any man think for the public good, But babble, merely for babble. For I never whisper’d a private affair Within the hearing of cat or mouse, No, not to myself in the closet alone, But I heard it shouted at once from the top of the house; Everything came to be known. Who told him we were there ? v. Not that gray old wolf, for he came not back From the wilderness, full of wolves, where he used to lie ; He has gather’d the bones for his o’er- grown whelp to crack ; Crack them now for yourself, and howl, and die. VI. Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip, And curse me the British vermin, the rat; I know not whether he came in the Hanover ship, But I know that he lies and listens mute In an ancient mansion’s crannies and holes : X 3°6 MAUD. Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it, Except that now we poison our babes, poor souls ! It is all used up for that. VII. Tell him now : she is standing here at my head ; Not beautiful now, not even kind ; He may take her now ; for she never speaks her mind, But is ever the one thing silent here. She is not of us, as I divine ; She comes from another stiller world of the dead, Stiller, not fairer than mine. VIIL But I know where a garden grows, Fairer than aught in the world beside, All made up of the lily and rose That blow by night, when the season is good, To the sound of dancing music and flutes: It is only flowers, they had no fruits, And I almost fear they are not roses, but blood ; For the keeper was one, so full of pride, He linkt a dead man there to a spectral bride ; For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes, Would he have that hole in his side? IX. But what will the old man say ? He laid a cruel snare in a pit To catch a friend of mine one stormy day ; Yet now I could even weep to think of it; For what will the old man say When he comes to the second corpse in the pit ? x. Friend, to be struck by the public foe, Then to strike him and lay him low, That were a public merit, far, Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin; But the red life spilt for a private blow— I swear to you, lawful and lawless war Are scarcely even akin. XI. O me, why have they not buried me deep enough? Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough, Me, that was never a quiet sleeper ? Maybe still I am but half-dead ; Then I cannot be wholly dumb; I will cry to the steps above my head And somebody, surely, some kind heart will come To bury me, bury me Deeper, ever so little deeper. PART III. VI. I. My life has crept so long on a broken wing Thro’ cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing : My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of year When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs, And the shining daffodil dies, and the Charioteer And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns Over Orion’s grave low down in the west, That like a silent lightning under the stars She seem’d to divide in a dream from a band of the blest, MAUD. 307 And spoke of a hope for the world in the coming wars— ‘ And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest, Knowing I tarry for thee,’ and pointed to Mars As he glow’d like a ruddy shield on the Lion’s breast. 11. And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a dear delight To have look’d, tho’ but in a dream, upon eyes so fair, That had been in a weary world my one thing bright; And it was but a dream, yet it lighten’d my despair When I thought that a war would arise in defence of the right, That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease, The glory of manhood stand on his ancient height, Nor Britain’s one sole God be the millionaire : No more shall commerce be all in all, and Peace Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note, And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase, Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful shore, And the cobweb woven across the cannon’s throat Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more. hi. And as months ran on and rumour of battle grew, ‘ It is time, it is time, O passionate heart,’ said I (For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure and true), ‘ It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye, That old hysterical mock-disease should die.’ And I stood on a giant deck and mix’d my breath With a loyal people shouting a battle cry, Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death. IV. Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aims Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold. And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and shames, Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told ; And hail once more to the banner of battle unroll’d ! Tho’ many a light shall darken, and many shall weep For those that are crush’d in the clash of jarring claims, Yet God’s just wrath shall be wreak’d on a giant liar; And many a darkness into the light shall leap, And shine in the sudden making of splendid names, And noble thought be freer under the sun. And the heart of a people beat with one desire ; For the peace, that I deem’d no peace, is over and done, And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic deep, And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress, flames The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire. 3°8 IDYLLS OF THE KING. v. Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a wind, We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are noble still, And myself have aw r aked, as it seems, to the better mind; It is better to fight for the good than to rail at the ill; I have felt with my native land, I am one with my kind, I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom assign’d. IDYLLS OF THE KING. ‘Flos Regum Art kurus.' Joseph of Exeter. DEDICATION. These to His Memory—since he held them dear, Perchance as finding there unconsciously Some image of himself—I dedicate, I dedicate, I consecrate with tears— These Idylls. And indeed He seems to me Scarce other than my king’s ideal knight, ‘ Who reverenced his conscience as his king; Whose glory was, redressing human wrong; Who spake no slander, no, nor listen’d to it; Who loved one only and who clave to her—’ Her—over all whose realms to their last isle, Commingled with the gloom of imminent war. The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse, Darkening the world. We have lost him : he is gone : We know him now : all narrow jealousies Are silent; and we see him as he moved, How modest, kindly, all - accomplish’d, wise, With what sublime repression of himself, And in what limits, and how tenderly ; Not swaying to this faction or to that; Not making his high place the lawless perch Of wing’d ambitions, nor a vantage-ground For pleasure ; but thro’ all this tract of years Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne. And blackens every blot: for where is he, Who dares foreshadow for an only son A lovelier life, a more unstain’d, than his? Or how should England dreaming of his sons Hope more for these than some inheritance Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, Laborious for her people and her poor— Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day— Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace— Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed, Beyond all titles, and a household name, Hereafter, thro’all times, Albert the Good. Break not, O woman’s-heart, but still endure ; Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure, Remembering all the beauty of that star Which shone so close beside Thee that ye made One light together, but has past and leaves The Crown a lonely splendour. May all love, His love, unseen but felt, o’ershadowThee, The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee, The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee, The love of all Thy people comfort Thee, Till God’s love set Thee at his side again! THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 309 THE COMING Leodogran, the King of Cameliard, Had one fair daughter, and none other child ; And she was fairest of all flesh on earth, Guinevere, and in her his one delight. For many a petty king ere Arthur came Ruled in this isle, and ever waging war Each upon other, wasted all the land ; And still from time to time the heathen host Swarm’d overseas, and harried what was left. And so there grew great tracts of wilder¬ ness, Wherein the beast was ever more and more, But man was less and less, till Arthur came. For first Aurelius lived and fought and died, And after him King Uther fought and died, But either fail’d to make the kingdom one. And after these King Arthur for a space, And thro’ the puissance of his Table Round, Drew all their petty princedoms under him, Their king and head, and made a realm, and reign’d. And thus the land of Cameliard was waste, Thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein, And none or few to scare or chase the beast; So that wild dog, and wolf and boar and bear Came night and day, and rooted in the fields, And wallow’d in the gardens of the King. And ever and anon the wolf would steal The children and devour, but now and then, Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce teat OF ARTHUR. To human sucklings; and the children, housed In her foul den, there at their meat would growl, And mock their foster-mother on four feet, Till, straighten’d, they grew up to wolf- lilce men, Worse than the wolves. And King Leodogran Groan’d for the Roman legions here again, And Caesar’s eagle: then his brother king, Urien, assail’d him: last a heathen horde, Reddening the sun with smoke and earth with blood, And on the spike that split the mother’s heart Spitting the child, brake on him, till, amazed, He knew not whither he should turn for aid. But—for he heard of Arthur newly crown’d, Tho’ not without an uproar made by those Who cried, ‘ He is not Uther’s son ’—the King Sent to him, saying, ‘ Arise, and help us thou ! For here between the man and beast we die.’ And Arthur yet had done no deed of arms, But heard the call, and came: and Guinevere Stood by the castle walls to watch him . pass; But since he neither wore on helm or shield The golden symbol of his kinglihood, But rode a simple knight among his knights, And many of these in richer arms than he, She saw him not, or mark’d not, if she saw, One among many, tho’ his face was bare. But Arthur, looking downward as he past, Felt the light of her eyes into his life 3 ro THE COMING OF ARTHUR. Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and pitch’d His tents beside the forest. Then he drave The heathen; after, slew the beast, and fell’d The forest, letting in the sun, and made Broad pathways for the hunter and the knight And so return’d. For while he linger’d there, A doubt that ever smoulder’d in the hearts Of those great Lords and Barons of his realm Flash’d forth and into war : for most of these, Colleaguing with a score of petty kings, Made head against him, crying, ‘ Who is he That he should rule us ? who hath proven him King Uther’s son? for lo! we look at him, And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor voice, Are like to those of Uther whom we knew. This is the son of Gorloi's, not the King; This is the son of Anton, not the King.’ And Arthur, passing thence to battle, felt Travail, and throes and agonies of the life, Desiring to be join’d with Guinevere ; And thinking as he rode, ‘ Her father said That there between the man and beast they die. Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts Up to my throne, and side by side with me ? What happiness to reign a lonely king, Vext—O ye stars that shudder over me, O earth that soundest hollow under me, Vext with waste dreams ? for saving I be join’d To her that is the fairest under heaven, I seem as nothing in the mighty world, And cannot will my will, nor work my work Wholly, nor make myself in mine own realm Victor and lord. But were I join’d with her, Then might we live together as one life, And reigning with one will in everything Have power on this dark land to lighten it. And power on this dead world to make it live.’ Thereafter—as he speaks who tells the tale— When Arthur reach’d a field-of-battle bright With pitch’d pavilions of his foe, the world Was all so clear about him, that he saw The smallest rock far on the faintest hill, And even in high day the morning star. So when the King had set his banner broad, At once from either side, with trumpet- blast, And shouts, and clarions shrilling unto blood, The long-lanced battle let their horses run. And now the Barons and the kings pre¬ vail’d, And now the King, as here and there that war Went swaying ; but the Powers who walk the world Made lightnings and great thunders over him, And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by main might, And mightier of his hands with every blow, And leading all his knighthood threw the kings Carados, Urien, Cradlemont of Wales, Claudias, and Clariance of Northumber¬ land, The King Brandagoras of Latangor, With Anguisant of Erin, Morganore, And Lot of Orkney. Then, before a voice As dreadful as the shout of one who sees To one who sins, and deems himself alone And all the world asleep, they swerved and brake THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 3i Flying, and Arthur call’d to stay the brands That hack’d among the flyers, ‘ Ho ! they yield !’ So like a painted battle the war stood Silenced, the living quiet as the dead, And in the heart of Arthur joy was lord. He laugh’d upon his warrior whom he loved And honour’d most. ‘ Thou dost not doubt me King, So well thine arm hath wrought for me to-day. ’ ‘ Sir and my liege,’ he cried, ‘ the fire of God Descends upon thee in the battle-field : I know thee for my King! ’ Whereat the two, For each had warded either in the fight, Sware on the field of death a deathless love. And Arthur said, ‘ Man’s word is God in man : Let chance what will, I trust thee to the death. ’ Then quickly from the foughten field he sent Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, His new-made knights, to King Leodo- gran, Saying, ‘ If I in aught have served thee well, Give me thy daughter Guinevere to wfife. ’ Whom when he heard, Leodogran in heart Debating—‘ How should I that am a king, However much he holp me at my need, Give my one daughter saving to a king, And a king’s son?’—lifted his voice, and call’d A hoary man, his chamberlain, to whom He trusted all things, and of him required His counsel: ‘ Knowest thou aught of Arthur’s birth ?’ Then spake the hoary chamberlain and said, ‘ Sir King, there be but two old men that know : And each is twice as old as I; and one Is Merlin, the wise man that ever served King Uther thro’ his magic art; and one Is Merlin’s master (so they call him) Bleys, Who taught him magic ; but the scholar ran Before the master, and so far, that Bleys Laid magic by, and sat him down, and wrote All things and whatsoever Merlin did In one great annal-book, where after-years Will learn the secret of our Arthur’s birth. ’ To whom the King Leodogran replied, 1 O friend, had I been holpen half as well By this King Arthur as by thee to-day, Then beast and man had had their share of me : But summon here before us yet once more Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere.’ Then, when they came before him, the King said, £ I have seen the cuckoo chased by lesser fowl, And reason in the chase : but wherefore now Do these your lords stir up the heat of war. Some calling Arthur born of Gorlo'is, Others of Anton? Tell me, ye your¬ selves, Hold ye this Arthur for King Uther’s son?’ And Ulfius and Brastias answer’d, ‘Ay.’ Then Bedivere, the first of all his knights Knighted by Arthur at his crowning, spake— For bold in heart and act and word was he, Whenever slander breathed against the King— ‘ Sir, there be many rumours on this head : For there be those who hate him in their hearts, Call him baseborn, and since his ways are sweet, And theirs are bestial, hold him less than man : 312 THE COMING OF ARTHUR. And there be those who deem him more than man, And dream he dropt from heaven : but my belief In all this matter—so ye care to learn— Sir, for ye know that in King Uther’s time The prince and warrior Gorlois, he that held Tintagil castle by the Cornish sea, Was wedded with a winsome wife, Ygerne: And daughters had she borne him,—one whereof, Lot’s wife, the Queen of Orkney, Belli- cent, Hath ever like a loyal sister cleaved To Arthur,—but a son she had not borne. And Uther cast upon her eyes of love : But she, a stainless wife to Gorlois, So loathed the bright dishonour of his love, That Gorlois and King Uther went to war: And overthrown was Gorlois and slain. Then Uther in his wrath and heat besieged Ygerne within Tintagil, where her men, Seeing the mighty swarm about their walls, Left her and fled, and Uther enter’d in, And there was none to call to but himself. So, compass’d by the power of the King, Enforced she was to wed him in her tears, And with a shameful swiftness : after¬ ward, Not many moons, King Uther died him¬ self, Moaning and wailing for an heir to rule After him, lest the realm should go to wrack. And that same night, the night of the new year, By reason of the bitterness and grief That vext his mother, all before his time Was Arthur born, and all as soon as born Deliver’d at a secret postern-gate To Merlin, to be holden far apart Until his hour should come ; because the lords Of that fierce day were as the lords of this, Wild beasts, and surely would have tom the child Piecemeal among them, had they known; for each But sought to rule for his own self and hand, And many hated Uther for the sake Of Gorlois. Wherefore Merlin took the child, And gave him to Sir Anton, an old knight And ancient friend of Uther; and his wife Nursed the young prince, and rear’d him with her own; And no man knew. And ever since the lords Have foughten like wild beasts among themselves, So that the realm has gone to wrack : but now, This year, when Merlin (for his hour had come) Brought Arthur forth, and set him in the hall, Proclaiming, “ Here is Uther’s heir, your king,’’ A hundred voices cried, “Away with him ! No king of ours ! a son of Gorlois he, Or else the child of Anton, and no king, Or else baseborn.” Yet Merlin thro’ his craft, And while the people clamour’d fora king, Had Arthur crown’d; but after, the great lords Banded, and so brake out in open war.’ Then while the King debated with himself If Arthur were the child of shamefulness, Or born the son of Gorlois, after death, Or Uther’s son, and born before his time, Or whether there were truth in anything Said by these three, there came to Came- liard, With Gawain and young Modred, her two sons, Lot’s wife, the Queen of Orkney, Belli- cent; Whom as he could, not as he would, the King I Made feast for, saying, as they sat at | meat, THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 3 i 3 ‘ A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas. Ye come from Arthur’s court. Victor his men Report him ! Yea, but ye—think ye this king— So many those that hate him, and so strong, So few his knights, however brave they be— Hath body enow to hold his foemen down ?’ ‘ O King,’ she cried, ‘ and I will tell thee: few, Few, but all brave, all of one mind with him; For I was near him when the savage yells Of Uther’s peerage died, and Arthur sat Crown’d on the dais, and his warriors cried, “ Be thou the king, and we will work thy will Who love thee.” Then the King in low deep tones, And simple words of great authority, Bound them by so strait vows to his own self, That when they rose, knighted from kneeling, some Were pale as at the passing of a ghost, Some flush’d, and others dazed, as one who wakes Half-blinded at the coming of a light. ‘ But when he spake and cheer’d his Table Round With large, divine, and comfortable words, Beyond my tongue to tell thee—I beheld From eye to eye thro’ all their Order flash A momentary likeness of the King : And ere it left their faces, thro’ the cross And those .around it and the Crucified, Down from the casement over Arthur, smote Flame-colour, vert and azure, in three rays, One falling upon each of three fair queens, Who stood in silence near his throne, the friends Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with bright Sweet faces, who will help him at his need. ‘ And there I saw mage Merlin, whose vast wit And hundred winters are but as the hands Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege. * And near him stood the Lady of the Lake, Who knows a subtler magic than his own— Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonder¬ ful. She gave the King his huge cross-hilted sword, Whereby to drive the heathen out: a mist Of incense curl’d about her, and her face Wellnigh was hidden in the minster gloom ; But there was heard among the holy hymns A voice as of the waters, for she dwells Down in a deep; calm, whatsoever storms May shake the world, and when the surface rolls, Hath power to walk the waters like our Lord. ‘ There likewise I beheld Excalibur Before him at his crowning borne, the sword That rose from out the bosom of the lake, And Arthur row’d across and took it—rich With jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt, Bewildering heart and eye—the blade so bright That men are blinded by it—on one side, Graven in the oldest tongue of all this world, “Take me,” but turn the blade and ye shall see, And written in the speech ye speak your¬ self, “ Cast me away ! ” And sad was Arthur’s face Taking it, but old Merlin counsell’d him, “ Take thou and strike ! the time to cast away 314 THE COMING OF ARTHUR. Is yet far-off.” So this great brand the king Took, and by this will beat his foemen down. ’ Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but thought To sift his doubtings to the last, and ask’d, Fixing full eyes of question on her face, ‘ The swallow and the swift are near akin, But thou art closer to this noble prince, Being his own dear sister and she said, ‘ Daughter of Gorloi's and Ygerne am I ; ’ ‘And therefore Arthur’s sister?’ ask’d the King. She answer’d, ‘ These be secret things, ’ and sign’d To those two sons to pass, and let them be. And Gawain went, and breaking into song Sprang out, and follow’d by his flying hair Ran like a colt, and leapt at all he saw: But Modred laid his ear beside the doors, And there half-heard ; the same that afterward Struck for the throne, and striking found his doom. And then the Queen made answer, ‘ What know I ? For dark my mother was in eyes and hair, And dark in hair and eyes am I; and dark Was Gorlois, yea and dark was Uther too, Wellnigh to blackness ; but this King is fair Beyond the race of Britons and of men. Moreover, always in my mind I hear A cry from out the dawning of my life, A mother weeping, and I hear her say, ‘ ‘ O that ye had some brother, pretty one, To guard thee on the rough ways of the world.” ’ ‘Ay,’ said the King, ‘and hear ye such a cry ? But when did Arthur chance upon thee first ?’ ‘O King !’ she cried, ‘and I will tell thee true : lie found me first when yet a little maid : Beaten I had been for a little fault Whereof I was not guilty ; and out I ran And flung myself down on a bank of heath, And hated this fair world and all therein, And wept, and wish’d that I were dead ; and he— I know not whether of himself he came, Or brought by Merlin, who, they say, can walk Unseen at pleasure—he was at my side, And spake sweet words, and comforted my heart, And dried my tears, being a child with me. And many a time he came, and evermore As I grew greater grew with me; and sad At times he seem’d, and sad with him was I, Stern too at times, and then I loved him not, But sweet again, and then I loved him well. And now of late I see him less and less, But those first days had golden hours for me, For then I surely thought he would be king. ‘ But let me tell thee now another tale : For Bleys, our Merlin’s master, as they say, Died but of late, and sent his cry to me, To hear him speak before he left his life. Shrunk like a fairy changeling lay the mage; And when I enter’d told me that himself And Merlin ever served about the King, Uther, before he died ; and on the night When Uther in Tintagil past away Moaning and wailing for an heir, the two Left the still King, and passing forth to breathe, Then from the castle gateway by the chasm Descending thro’ the dismaf night—a night In which the bounds of heaven and earth were lost— Beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps It seem’d in heaven, a ship, the shape thereof THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 315 A dragon wing’d, and all from stem to stern Bright with a shining people on the decks, And gone as soon as seen. And then the two Dropt to the cove, and watch’d the great sea fall, Wave after wave, each mightier than the last, Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame: And down the wave and in the flame was borne A naked babe, and rode to Merlin’s feet, Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried “ The King ! Here is an heir for Utlier!” And the fringe Of that great breaker, sweeping up the strand. Lash’d at the wizard as he spake the word, And all at once all round him rose in fire, So that the child and he were clothed in fire. And presently thereafter follow’d calm, Free sky and stars: “And this same child,” he said, “Is he who reigns ; nor could I part in peace Till this were told.” And saying this the seer Went thro’ the strait and dreadful pass of death, Not ever to be question’d any more Save on the further side ; but when I met Merlin, and ask’d him if these things were truth— The shining dragon and the naked child Descending in the glory of the seas— He laugh’d as is his wont, and answer’d me In riddling triplets of old time, and said: ‘ “ Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow in the sky ! A young man will be wiser by and by ; An old man’s wit may wander ere he die. Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow on the lea ! And truth is this to me, and that to thee; And truth or clothed or naked let it be. Rain, sun, and rain ! and the free blossom blows : Sun, rain, and sun ! and where is he who knows ? From the great deep to the great deep he goes.” ‘ So Merlin riddling anger’d me ; but thou Fear not to give this King thine only child, Guinevere: so great bards of him will sing Hereafter ; and dark sayings from of old Ranging and ringing thro’ the minds of men, And echo’d by old folk beside their fires For comfort after their wage-work is done, Speak of the King; and Merlin in our time Hath spoken also, not in jest, and sworn Tho’ men may wound him that he will not die, But pass, again to come; and then or now Utterly smite the heathen underfoot, Till these and all men hail him for their king.’ She spake and King Leodogran rejoiced, But musing ‘Shall I answer yea or nay?’ Doubted, and drowsed, nodded and slept, and saw, Dreaming, a slope of land that ever grew, Field after field, up to a height, the peak Haze - hidden, and thereon a phantom king, Now looming, and now lost; and on the slope The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was driven, Fire glimpsed ; and all the land from roof and rick, In drifts of smoke before a rolling wind, Stream’d to the peak, and mingled with the haze And made it thicker ; while the phantom king Sent out at times a voice; and here or there Stood one who pointed toward the voice, the rest Slew on and burnt, crying, ‘ No king of ours, 316 THE COMING OF ARTHUR. No son of Uther, and no king of ours ; 5 Till with a wink his dream was changed, the haze Descended, and the solid earth became As nothing, but the King stood out in heaven, Crown’d. And Leodogran awoke, and sent Ulfius, and Brastias and Bedivere, Back to the court of Arthur answering yea. Then Arthur charged his warrior whom he loved And honour’d most, Sir Lancelot, to ride forth And bring the Queen ;—and watch’d him from the gates : And Lancelot past away among the flowers, (For then was latter April) and return’d Among the flowers, in May, with Guine¬ vere. To whom arrived, by Dubric the high saint, Chief of the church in Britain, and before The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the King That morn was married, while in stainless white, The fair beginners of a nobler time, And glorying in their vows and him, his knights Stood round him, and rejoicing in his joy. Far shone the fields of May thro’ open door, The sacred altar blossom’d white with May, The Sun of May descended on their King, They gazed on all earth’s beauty in their Queen, Roll’d incense, and there past along the hymns A voice as of the waters, while the two Sware at the shrine of Christ a deathless love : And Arthur said, ‘ Behold, thy doom is mine. Let chance what will, I love thee to the death ! ’ To whom the Queen replied with drooping eyes, ‘ King and my lord, I love thee to the death ! ’ And holy Dubric spread his hands and spake, * Reign ye, and live and love, and make the world Other, and may thy Queen be one with thee, And all this Order of thy Table Round Fulfil the boundless purpose of their King! ’ So Dubric said ; but when they left the shrine Great Lords from Rome before the portal stood, In scornful stillness gazing as they past; Then while they paced a city all on fire With sun and cloth of gold, the trumpets blew, And Arthur’s knighthood sang before the King ‘ Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May ; Blow trumpet, the long night hath roll’d away ! Blow thro’ the living world—* * Let the King reign.” * Shall Rome or Heathen rule in Arthur’s realm ? Flash brand and lance, fall battleaxe upon helm, Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let the King reign. ‘ Strike for the King and live ! his knights have heard That God hath told the King a secret word. Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let the King reign. * Blow trumpet! he will lift us from the dust. Blow trumpet! live the strength and die the lust! Clang battleaxe, and clash brand ! Let the King reign. GARETH AND LYNETTE. 317 ‘ Strike for the King and die ! and if thou diest, The King is King, and ever ’wills the highest. Clang battleaxe, and clash brand ! Let the King reign. ‘ Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May ! Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by day ! Clang battleaxe, and clash brand ! Let the King reign. ‘ The King will follow Christ, and we the King In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing. Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let the King reign.’ So sang the knighthood, moving to their hall. There at the banquet those great Lords from Rome, The slowly-fading mistress of the world, Strode in, and claim’d their tribute as of yore. But Arthur spake, ‘ Behold, for these have sworn To wage my wars, and worship me their King ; The old order changeth, yielding place to new; And we that fight for our fair father Christ, Seeing that ye be grown too weak and old To drive the heathen from your Roman wall, No tribute will we pay : ’ so those great lords Drew back in wrath, and Arthur strove with Rome. And Arthur and his knighthood for a space Were all one will, and thro’ that strength the King Drew in the petty princedoms under him. Fought, and in twelve great battles over¬ came The heathen hordes, and made a realm and reign’d. THE ROUND TABLE. GARETH AND LYNETTE. GERAINT AND ENID. MERLIN AND VIVIEN. LANCELOT AND ELAINE. GARETH AND LYNETTE. The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine Lost footing, fell, and so was whirl’d away. ‘ How he went down,’ said Gareth, ‘ as a false knight Or evil king before my lance if lance Were mine to use—O senseless cataract, Bearing all down in thy precipitancy— And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows And mine is living blood : thou dost His will, THE HOLY GRAIL. PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. THE LAST TOURNAMENT. GUINEVERE. The Maker’s, and not knowest, and I that know, Have strength and wit, in my good mother’s hall Linger with vacillating obedience, Prison’d, and kept and coax’d and whistled to— Since the good mother holds me still a child ! Good mother is bad mother unto me ! A worse were better ; yet no worse would I. Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force To weary her ears with one continuous prayer, GARETH AND LYNETTE. 3i8 Until she let me fly discaged to sweep In ever-highering eagle-circles up To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop Down upon all things base, and dash them dead, A knight of Arthur, working out his will, To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came With Modred hither in the summertime, Ask’d me to tilt with him, the proven knight. Modred for want of worthier was the judge. Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said, “Thou hast half prevail’d against me,” said so—he— Tho’ Modred biting his thin lips was mute, For he is alway sullen : what care I ?’ And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair Ask’d, ‘ Mother, tho’ ye count me still the child, Sweet mother, do ye love the child?’ She laugh’d, ‘Thou art but a wild-goose to question it.’ ‘ Then, mother, an ye love the child,’ he said, ‘ Being a goose and rather tame than wild, Hear the child’s story.’ ‘ Yea, my well- beloved, An ’twere but of the goose and golden eggs.’ And Gareth answer’d her with kindling eyes, ‘ Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine Was finer gold than any goose can lay ; For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours. And there was ever haunting round the palm A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw The splendour sparkling from aloft, and thought “ An I could climb and lay my hand upon it, Then wefe I wealthier than a leash of kings. ” But ever when he reach’d a hand to climb, One, that had loved him from his child¬ hood, caught And stay’d him, “ Climb not lest thou break thy neck, I charge thee by my love,” and so the boy, Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his neck, But brake his very heart in pining for it, And past away.’ To whom the mother said, ‘ True love, sweet son, had risk’d himself and climb’d, And handed down the golden treasure to him.’ And Gareth answer’d her with kindling eyes, ‘ Gold ? said I gold ?—ay then, why he, or she, Or whosoe’er it was, or half the world Had ventured —had the thing I spake of been Mere gold—but this was all of that true steel, Whereof they forged the brand Excalibur, And lightnings play’d about it in the storm, And all the little fowl were flurried at it. And there were cries and clashings in the nest, That sent him from his senses : let me go.’ Then Bellicent bemoan’d herself and said, ‘ Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness ? Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearth Lies like a log, and all but smoulder’d out! For ever since when traitor to the King He fought against him in the Barons’ war, And Arthur gave him back his territory, His age hath slowly droopt, and now lies there A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable. GARETH AND LYNETTE. 319 No more ; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, nor knows. And both thy brethren are in Arthur’s hall, Albeit neither loved with that full love I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love : Stay therefore thou ; red berries charm the bird, And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars, Who never knewest finger-ache, nor pang Of wrench’d or broken limb—an often chance In those brain - stunning shocks, and tourney-falls, Frights to my heart; but stay: follow the deer By these tall firs and our fast-falling burns; So make thy manhood mightier day by day; Sweet is the chase: and I will seek thee out Some comfortable bride and fair, to grace Thy climbing life, and cherish my prone year, Till falling into Lot’s forgetfulness I know not thee, myself, nor anything. Stay, my best son ! ye are yet more boy than man.’ Then Gareth, ‘ An ye hold me yet for child, Hear yet once more the story of the child. For, mother, there was once a King, like ours. The prince his heir, when tall and marriageable, Ask’d for a bride ; and thereupon the King Set two before him. One was fair, strong, arm’d— But to be won by force—and many men Desired her; one, good lack, no man desired. And these were the conditions of the King : That save he won the first by force, he needs Must wed that other, whom no man desired, A red-faced bride who knew herself so vile, That evermore she long’d to hide herself, Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye— Yea—some she cleaved to, but they died of her. And one—they call’d her Fame; and one,—O Mother, How can ye keep me tether’d to you— Shame. Man am I grown, a man’s work must I do. Follow the deer? follow the Christ, the King, Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King— Else, wherefore born ?’ To whom the mother said, ‘ Sweet son, for there be many who deem him not, Or will not deem him, wholly proven King— Albeit in mine own heart I knew him King, When I was frequent with him in my youth. And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted him No more than he, himself; but felt him mine, Of closest kin to me: yet—wilt thou leave Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine all, Life, limbs, for one that is not proven King? Stay, till the cloud that settles round his birth Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son. ’ And Gareth answer’d quickly, ‘ Not an hour, So that ye yield me—I will walk thro’ fire, Mother, to gain it—your full leave to g°. Not proven, who swept the dust of ruin’d Rome From off the threshold of the realm, and crush’d The Idolaters, and made the people free ? Who should be King save him who makes us free ? ’ 320 GARETH AND LYNETTE. So when the Queen, who long had sought in vain To break him from the intent to which he grew, Found her son’s will unwaveringly one, She answer’d craftily, ‘ Will ye walk thro’ fire? Who walks thro’ fire will hardly heed the smoke. Ay, go then, an ye must : only one proof, Before thou ask the King to make thee knight, Of thine obedience and thy love to me, Thy mother,—I demand.’ And Gareth cried, * A hard one, or a hundred, so I go. Nay—quick! the proof to prove me to the quick !’ But slowly spake the mother looking at him, ‘ Prince, thou shalt go disguised to Arthur’s hall, And hire thyself to serve for meats and drinks Among the scullions and the kitchen- knaves, And those that hand the dish across the bar. Nor shalt thou tell thy name to anyone. And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and a day.’ For so the Queen believed that when her son Beheld his only way to glory lead Low down thro’ villain kitchen-vassalage, Her own true Gareth was too princely- proud To pass thereby ; so should he rest with her, Closed in her castle from the sound of arms. Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied, ‘ The thrall in person may be free in soul, And I shall see the jousts. Thy son am I, And since thou art my mother, must obey. I therefore yield me freely to thy will; For hence will I, disguised, and hire my¬ self To serve with scullions and with kitchen- knaves ; Nor tell my name to any—no, not the King.’ Gareth awhile linger’d. The mother’s eye Full of the wistful fear that he would go, And turning toward him wheresoe’er he turn’d, Perplext his outward purpose, till an hour, When waken’d by the wind which with full voice Swept bellowing thro’ the darkness on to dawn, He rose, and out of slumber calling two That still had tended on him from his birth, Before the wakeful mother heard him, went. The three were clad like tillers of the soil. Southward they set their faces. The birds made Melody on branch, and melody in mid air. The damp hill-slopes were quicken’d into green, And the live green had kindled into flowers, For it was past the time of Easterday. So, when their feet were planted on the plain That broaden’d toward the base of Came- lot, Far off they saw the silver-misty morn Rolling her smoke about the Royal mount, That rose between the forest and the field. At times the summit of the high city flash’d; At times the spires and turrets half-way down Prick’d thro’ the mist; at times the great gate shone Only, that open’d on the field below : Anon, the whole fair city had disappear’d. GARETH AND LYNETTE . 321 Then those who went with Gareth were amazed, One crying, ‘ Let us go no further, lord. Here is a city of Enchanters, built By fairy Kings.’ The second echo’d him, ‘ Lord, we have heard from our wise man at home To Northward, that this King is not the King, But only changeling out of Fairyland, Who drave the heathen hence by sorcery And Merlin’s glamour.’ Then the first again, ‘ Lord, there is no such city anywhere, But all a vision.’ Gareth answer’d them With laughter, swearing he had glamour enow In his own blood, his princedom, youth and hopes, To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian sea; So push’d, them all unwilling toward the gate. And there was no gate like it under heaven. For barefoot on the keystone, which was lined And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave, The Lady of the Lake stood : all her dress Wept from her sides as water flowing away; But like the cross her great and goodly arms Stretch’d under all the cornice and upheld : And drops of water fell from either hand; And down from one a sword was hung, from one A censer, either worn with wind and storm ; And o’er her breast floated the sacred fish; And in the space to left of her, and right, Were Arthur’s wars in weird devices done, New things and old co-twisted, as if Time Were nothing, so inveterately, that men Were giddy gazing there; and over all High on the top were those three Queens, the friends Of Arthur, who should help him at his need. Then those with Gareth for so long a space Stared at the figures, that at last it seem’d The dragon-boughts and elvish emblem - ings Began to move, seethe, twine and curl : they call’d To Gareth, ‘Lord, the gateway is alive.’ And Gareth likewise on them fixt his eyes So long, that ev’n to him they seem’d to move. Out of the city a blast of music peal’d. Back from the gate started the three, to whom From out thereunder came an ancient man, Long-bearded, saying, ‘ Who be ye, my sons ?’ Then Gareth, ‘We be tillers of the soil, Who leaving share in furrow come to see The glories of our King : but these, my men, (Your city moved so weirdly in the mist) Doubt if the King be King at all, or come From Fairyland; and whether this be built By magic, and by fairy Kings and Queens; Or whether there be any city at all, Or all a vision : and this music now Hath scared them both, but tell thou these the truth.’ Then that old Seer made answer play¬ ing on him And saying, ‘ Son, I have seen the good ship sail Keel upward, and mast downward, in the heavens, And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air : And here is truth ; but an it please thee not, Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me. For truly as thou sayest, a Fairy King And Fairy Queens have built the city, son; They came from out a sacred mountain- cleft Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand, Y 3 22 GARETH AND LYNETTE. And built it to the music of their harps. And, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, son, For there is nothing in it as it seems Saving the King; tho’ some there be that hold The King a shadow, and the city real: Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou pass Beneath this archway, then wilt thou become A thrall to his enchantments, for the King Will bind thee by such vows, as is a shame A man should not be bound by, yet the which No man can keep ; but, so thou dread to swear, Pass not beneath this gateway, but abide Without, among the cattle of the field. For an ye heard a music, like enow They are building still, seeing the city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built for ever.’ Gareth spake Anger’d, ‘ Old Master, reverence thine own beard That looks as white as utter truth, and seems Wellnigh as long as thou art statured tall! Why mockest thou the stranger that hath been To thee'fair-spoken ?’ But the Seer replied, ‘ Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards ? “ Confusion, and illusion, and relation, Elusion, and occasion, and evasion ” ? I mock thee not but as thou mockest me, And all that see thee, for thou art not who Thou seemest, but I know thee who thou art. And now thou goest up to mock the King, Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie. ’ Unmockingly the mocker ending her^ Turn’d to the right, and past along the plain; Whom Gareth looking after said, ‘ My men, Our one white lie sits like a little ghost Here on the threshold of our enterprise. Let love be blamed for it, not she, nor I: Well, we will make amends.’ With all good cheer He spake and laugh’d, then enter’d with his twain Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces And stately, rich in emblem and the work Of ancient kings who did their days in stone ; Which Merlin’s hand, the Mage at Arthur’s court, Knowing all arts, had touch’d, and every¬ where At Arthur’s ordinance, tipt with lessening peak And pinnacle, and had made it spire to heaven. And ever and anon a knight would pass Outward, or inward to the hall: his arms Clash’d; and the sound was good to Gareth’s ear. And out of bower and casement shyly glanced Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of love; And all about a healthful people stept As in the presence of a gracious king. Then into hall Gareth ascending heard A voice, the voice of Arthur, and beheld Far over heads in that long-vaulted hall The splendour of the presence of the King Throned, and delivering doom — and look’d no more— But felt his young heart hammering in his ears, And thought, ‘ For this half-shadow of a lie The truthful King will doom me when I speak.’ Yet pressing on, tho’ all in fear to find Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one Nor other, but in all the listening eyes Of those tall knights, that ranged about the throne, Clear honour shining like the dewy star GARETH AND LYNETTE. 323 Of dawn, and faith in their great King, with pure Affection, and the light of victory, And glory gain’d, and evermore to gain. Then came a widow crying to the King, ‘ A boon, Sir King ! Thy father, Uther, reft From my dead lord a field with violence : For howsoe’er at first he proffer’d gold, Yet, for the field was pleasant in our eyes, We yielded not; and then he reft us of it Perforce, and left us neither gold nor field. ’ Said Arthur, ‘Whether would ye? gold or field ?’ To whom the woman weeping, ‘ Nay, my lord, The field was pleasant in my husband’s eye.’ And Arthur, ‘ Have thy pleasant field again, And thrice the gold for Uther’s use thereof, According to the years. No boon is here, But justice, so thy say be proven true. Accursed, who from the wrongs his father did Would shape himself a right !’ And while she p'ast, Came yet another widow crying to him, ‘ A boon, Sir King ! Thine enemy, King, am I. With thine own hand thou slewest my dear lord, A knight of Uther in the Barons’ war, When Lot and many another rose and fought Against thee, saying thou wert basely born. I held with these, and loathe to ask thee aught. Yet lo ! my husband’s brother had my son Thrall’d in his castle, and hath starved him dead ; And standeth seized of that inheritance Which thou that slewest the sire hast left the son. So tho’ I scarce can ask it thee for hate, Grant me some knight to do the battle for me, Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my son.’ Then strode a good knight forward, crying to him, ‘ A boon, Sir King ! I am her kinsman, I. Give me to right her wrong, and slay the man.’ Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and cried, ‘ A boon, Sir King ! ev’n that thou grant her none, This railer, that hath mock’d thee in full hall— None; or the wholesome boon of gyve and gag.’ But Arthur, ‘ We sit King, to help the wrong’d Thro’ all our realm. The woman loves her lord. Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and hates ! The kings of old had doom’d thee to the flames, Aurelius Emrys would have scourged thee dead, And Uther slit thy tongue : but get thee hence— Lest that rough humour of the kings of old Return upon me ! Thou that art her kin, Go likewise ; lay him low and slay him not, But bring him here, that I may judge the right, According to the justice of the King : Then, be he guilty, by that deathless King Who lived and died for men, the man shall die.’ Then came in hall the messenger of Mark, A name of evil savour in the land, The Cornish king. In either hand he bore What dazzled all, and shone far-off as shines 324 GARETH AND L YNETTE. A field of charlock in the sudden sun Between two showers, a cloth of palest gold, Which down he laid before the throne, and knelt, Delivering, that his lord, the vassal king, Was ev’n upon his way to Camelot; For having heard that Arthur of his grace Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, knight, And, for himself was of the greater state, Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord Would yield him this large honour all the more ; So pray’d him well to accept this cloth of gold, In token of true heart and fealty. Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rend In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth. An oak-tree smoulder’d there. ‘ The goodly knight ! What ! shall the shield of Mark stand among these?’ For, midway down the side of that long hall A stately pile,—whereof along the front, Some blazon’d, some but carven, and some blank, There ran a treble range of stony shields,— Rose, and high-arching over brow’d the hearth. And under every shield a knight was named : For this was Arthur’s custom in his hall; When some good knight had done one noble deed, His arms were carven only ; but if twain His arms were blazon’d also ; but if none, The shield was blank and bare without a sign Saving the name beneath; and Gareth saw The shield of Gawain blazon’d rich and bright, And Modred’s blank as death; and Arthur cried To rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth. ‘ More like are we to reave him of his crown Than make him knight because men call him king. The kings we found, ye know we stay’d their hands From war among themselves, but left them kings; Of whom were any bounteous, merciful, Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we enroll’d Among us, and they sit within our hall. But Mark hath tarnish’d the great name of king, As Mark would sully the low state of churl: And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold, Return, and meet, and hold him from our eyes, Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead, Silenced for ever—craven—a man of plots, Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside am- bushings— No fault of thine : let Kay the seneschal Look to thy wants, and send thee satis¬ fied— Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be seen !’ And many another suppliant crying came With noise of ravage wrought by beast and man, And evermore a knight would ride away. Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavily Down on the shoulders of the twain, his men, Approach’d between them toward the King, and ask’d, ‘ A boon, Sir King (his voice was all ashamed), For see ye not how weak and hungerworn I seem—leaning on these? grant me to serve For meat and drink among thy kitchen- knaves A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name. Hereafter I will fight.’ GARETH AND LYNETTE. 325 To him the King, ‘ A goodly youth and worth a goodlier boon ! But so thou wilt no goodlier, then must Kay, The master of the meats and drinks, be thine.’ He rose and past; then Kay, a man of mien Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself Root-bitten by white lichen, ‘ Lo ye now ! This fellow hath broken from some Abbey, where, God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow, However that might chance ! but an he work, Like any pigeon will I cram his crop, And sleeker shall he shine than any hog.’ Then Lancelot standing near, ‘ Sir Seneschal, Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, and all the hounds ; A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not know : Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine, High nose, a nostril large and fine, and hands Large, fair and fine !—Some young lad’s mystery— But, orfromsheepcot or king’s hall, the boy Is noble - natured. Treat him with all grace, Lest he should come to shame thy judging of him. ’ Then Kay, ‘ What murmurest thou of mystery ? Think ye this fellow will poison the King’s dish ? Nay, for he spake too fool-like: mystery! Tut, an the lad were noble, he had ask’d For horse and armour: fair and fine, forsooth ! Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands? but see thou to it That thine own fineness, Lancelot, some fine day Undo thee not—and leave my man to me. ’ So Gareth all for glory underwent The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage ; Ate with young lads his portion by the door, And couch’d at night with grimy kitchen- knaves. And Lancelot ever spake him pleasantly, But Kay the seneschal, who loved him not, Would hustle and harry him, and labour him Beyond his comrade of the hearth, and set To turn the broach, draw water, or hew wood, Or grosser tasks \ and Gareth bow’d himself With all obedience to the King, and wrought All kind of service with a noble ease That graced the lowliest act in doing it. And when the thralls had talk among themselves, And one would praise the love that linkt the King And Lancelot—how the King had saved his life In battle twice, and Lancelot once the King’s— For Lancelot was the first in Tournament, But Arthur mightiest on the battle-field— Gareth was glad. Or if some other told, How once the wandering forester at dawn, Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas, On Caer-Eryri’s highest found the King, A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake, ‘ He passes to the Isle Avilion, He passes and is heal’d and cannot die ’— Gareth was glad. But if their talk were foul, Then would he whistle rapid as any lark, Or carol some old roundelay, and so loud That first they mock’d, but, after, rever¬ enced him. Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale Of knights, who sliced a red life-bubbling way Thro’ twenty folds of twisted dragon, held All in a gap-mouth’d circle his good mates Lying or sitting round him, idle hands, Charm’d; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, would corne 3 26 GARETH AND LYNETTE. Blustering upon them, like a sudden wind Among dead leaves, and drive them all apart. Or when the thralls had sport among themselves, So there were any trial of mastery, He, by two yards in casting bar or stone Was counted best; and if there chanced a joust, So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go, Would hurry thither, and when he saw the knights Clash like the coming and retiring wave, And the spear spring, and good horse reel, the boy Was half beyond himself for ecstasy. So for a month he wrought among the thralls; But in the weeks that follow’d, the good Queen, Repentant of the word she made him swear, And saddening in her childless castle, sent, Between the in-crescent and de-crescent moon, Arms for her son, and loosed him from his vow. This, Gareth hearing from a squire of Lot With whom he used to play at tourney once, When both were children, and in lonely haunts Would scratch a ragged oval on the sand, And each at either dash from either end— Shame never made girl redder than Gareth joy- He laugh’d ; he sprang. ‘ Out of the smoke, at once I leap from Satan’s foot to Peter’s knee— These news be mine, none other’s—nay, the King’s— Descend into the city: ’ whereon he sought The King alone, and found, and told him all. ‘ I have stagger’d thy strong Gawain in a tilt For pastime; yea, he said it: joust can I. Make me thy knight—in secret ! let my name Be hidd’n, and give me the first quest, I spring Like flame from ashes.’ Here the King’s calm eye Fell on, and check’d, and made him flush, and bow Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answer’d him, ‘ Son, the good mother let me know thee here, And sent her wish that I would yield thee thine. Make thee my knight? my knights are sworn to vows Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness, And, loving, utter faithfulness in love, And uttermost obedience to the King.’ Then Gareth, lightly springing from his knees, ‘ My King, for hardihood I can promise thee. For uttermost obedience make demand Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal, No mellow master of the meats and drinks ! And as for love, God wot, I love not yet, But love I shall, God willing.’ And the King— ‘ Make thee my knight in secret ? yea, but he, Our noblest brother, and our truest man, And one with me in all, he needs must know.’ ‘ Let Lancelot know, my King, let Lancelot know, Thy noblest and thy truest!’ And the King— ‘ But wherefore would ye men should wonder at you ? Nay, rather for the sake of me, their King, And the deed’s sake my knighthood do the deed, Than to be noised of.’ GARETH AND LYNETTE. 327 Merrily Gareth ask’d, ‘ Have I not earn’d my cake in baking of it ? Let be my name until I make my name ! My deeds will speak : it is but for a day. ’ So with a kindly hand on Gareth’s arm Smiled the great King, and half-unwill- ingly Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to him. Then, after summoning Lancelot privily, ‘ I have given him the first quest: he is not proven. Look therefore when he calls for this in hall, Thou get to horse and follow him faraway. Cover the lions on thy shield, and see Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta’en nor slain.’ Then that same day there past into the hall A damsel of high lineage, and a brow May-blossom, and a cheek of apple- blossom, Hawk-eyes ; and lightly was her slender nose Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower ; She into hall past with her page and cried, * O King, for thou hast driven the foe without, See to the foe within ! bridge, ford, beset By bandits, everyone that owns a tower The Lord for half a league. Why sit ye there ? Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were king, Till ev’n the lonest hold were all as free From cursed bloodshed, as thine altar- cloth From that best blood it is a sin to spill.’ ‘ Comfort thyself,’ said Arthur, ‘ I nor mine Rest: so my knighthood keep the vows they swore, The wastest moorland of our realm shall be Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall. What is thy name ? thy need ?’ ‘My name?’ she said— ‘ Lynette my name ; noble ; my need, a knight To combat for my sister, Lyonors, A lady of high lineage, of great lands, And comely, yea, and comelier than my¬ self. She lives in Castle Perilous : a river Runs in three loops about her living- place ; And o’er it are three passings, and three knights Defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth And of that four the mightiest, holds her stay’d In her own castle, and so besieges her To break her will, and make her wed with him : And but delays his purport till thou send To do the battle with him, thy chief man Sir Lancelot whom he trusts to overthrow, Then wed, with glory : but she will not wed Save whom she loveth, or a holy life. Now therefore have I come for Lancelot.’ Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth ask’d, ‘ Damsel, ye know this Order lives to crush All wrongers of the Realm. But say, these four, Who be they ? What the fashion of the men ?’ ‘ They be of foolish fashion, O Sir King, The fashion of that old knight-errantry Who ride abroad, and do but what they will ; Courteous or bestial from the moment, such As have nor law nor king; and three of these Proud in their fantasy call themselves the Day, Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Even¬ ing-Star, Being strong fools ; and never a whit more wise The fourth, who alway rideth arm’d in black, 328 GARETH AND LYNETTE. A huge man-beast of boundless savagery. He names himself the Night and oftener Death, And wears a helmet mounted with a skull, And bears a skeleton figured on his arms, To show that who may slay or scape the three, Slain by himself, shall enter endless night. And all these four be fools, but mighty men, And therefore am I come for Lancelot.’ Hereat Sir Gareth call’d from where he rose, A head with kindling eyes above the throng, ‘ A boon, Sir King—this quest ! ’ then— for he mark’d Kay near him groaning like a wounded bull— ‘Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen- knave am I, And mighty thro’ thy meats and drinks am I, And I can topple over a hundred such. Thy promise, King,’ and Arthur glancing at him, Brought down a momentary brow. ‘ Rough, sudden, And pardonable, worthy to be knight— Go therefore,’ and all hearers were amazed. But on the damsel’s forehead shame, pride, wrath Slew the May-white : she lifted either arm, ‘ Fie on thee, King ! I ask’d for thy chief knight, And thou hast given me but a kitchen- knave. ’ Then ere a man in hall could stay her, turn’d, Fled down the lane of access to the King, Took horse, descended the slope street, and past The weird white gate, and paused without, beside The field of tourney, murmuring ‘ kitchen- knave. ’ Now two great entries open’d from the hall, At one end one, that gave upon a range Of level pavement where the King would pace At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood ; And down from this a lordly stairway sloped Till lost in blowing trees and tops of towers; And out by this main doorway past the King. But one was counter to the hearth, and rose High that the highest-crested helm could ride Therethro’ nor graze : and by this entry fled The damsel in her wrath, and on to this Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the door King Arthur’s gift, the worth of half a town, A warhorse of the best, and near it stood The two that out of north had follow’d him : This bare a maiden shield, a casque ; that held The horse, the spear ; whereat Sir Gareth loosed A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel, A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down, And from it like a fuel-smother’d fire, That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and flash’d as those Dull-coated things, that making slide apart Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burns A jewell’d harness, ere they pass and fly. So Gareth ere he parted flash’d in arms. Then as he donn’d the helm, and took the shield And mounted horse and graspt a spear, of grain Storm-strengthen’d on a windy site, and tipt With trenchant steel, around him slowly prest The people, while from out of kitchen came The thralls in throng, and seeing who had work’d GARETH AND LYNETTE. 329 Lustier ^han any, and whom they could but love, Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and cried, ‘ God bless the King, and all his fellow¬ ship ! ’ And on thro’ lanes of shouting Gareth rode Down the slope street, and past without the gate. So Gareth past with joy ; but as the cur Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his cause Be cool’d by fighting, follows, being named, His owner, but remembers all, and growls Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door Mutter’d in scorn of Gareth whom he used To harry and hustle. ‘ Bound upon a quest With horse and arms—the King hath past his time— My scullion knave ! Thralls to your work again, For an your fire be low ye kindle mine ! Will there be dawn in West and eve in East? Begone !—my knave !—belike and like enow Some old head-blow not heeded in his youth So shook his wits they wander in his prime— Crazed ! How the villain lifted up his voice, Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen- knave. Tut: he was tame and meek enow with me, Till peacock’d up with Lancelot’s noticing. Well—I will after my loud knave, and learn Whether he know me for his master yet. Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance Hold, by God’s grace, he shall into the mire— Thence, if the King awaken from his craze, Into the smoke again.’ But Lancelot said, ‘ Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King, For that did never he whereon ye rail, But ever meekly served the King in thee ? Abide : take counsel; for this lad is great And lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword. ’ ‘Tut, tell not me,’ said Kay, ‘ye are overfine To mar stout knaves with foolish courte¬ sies : ’ Then mounted, on thro’ silent faces rode Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate. But by the field of tourney lingering yet Mutter’d the damsel, ‘ Wherefore did the King Scorn me? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at least He might have yielded to me one of those Who tilt for lady’s love and glory here, Rather than—O sweet heaven ! O fie upon him— His kitchen-knave.’ To whom Sir Gareth drew (And there were none but few goodlier than he) Shining in arms, ‘Damsel, the quest is mine. Lead, and I follow. ’ She thereat, as one That smells a foul-flesh’d agaric in the holt, And deems it carrion of some woodland thing, Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, ‘ Hence ! Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease. And look who comes behind,’ for there was Kay. ‘ Knowest thou not me ? thy master ? I am Kay. We lack thee by the hearth.’ And Gareth to him, * Master no more ! too well I know thee, ay— The most ungentle knight in Arthur’s hall.’ 330 GARETH AND LYNETTE. ‘ Have at thee then, ’ said Kay: they shock’d, and Kay Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again, * Lead, and I follow, ’ and fast away she fled. But after sod and shingle ceased to fly Behind her, and the heart of her good horse Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat, Perforce she stay’d, and overtaken spoke. ‘ What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship ? Deem’st thou that I accept thee aught the more Or love thee better, that by some device Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness, Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master—thou !— Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon !— to me Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.’ ‘ Damsel,’ Sir Gareth answer’d gently, ‘ say Whate’er ye will, but whatsoe’er ye say, I leave not till I finish this fair quest, Or die therefore.’ ‘ Ay, wilt thou finish it ? Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks ! The listening rogue hath caught the man¬ ner of it. But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave, And then by such a one that thou for all The kitchen brewis that was ever supt Shalt not once dare to look him in the face.’ ‘I shall assay,’ said Gareth with a smile That madden’d her, and away she flash’d again Down the long avenues of a boundless wood, And Gareth following was again beknaved. ‘ Sir Kitchen-knave, I have miss’d the only way Where Arthur’s men are set along the wood ; The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves : If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet, Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine ? Fight, an thou canst: I have miss’d the only way.’ So till the dusk that follow’d evensong Rode on the two, reviler and reviled ; Then after one long slope was mounted, saw, Bowl-shaped, thro’ tops of many thousand pines A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink To westward—in the deeps whereof a mere, Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl, Under the half-dead sunset glared ; and shouts Ascended, and there brake a servingman Flying from out of the black wood, and crying, ‘ They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere.’ Then Gareth, ‘ Bound am I to right the wrong’d, But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee.’ And when the damsel spake contempt¬ uously, ‘Lead, and I follow,’ Gareth cried again, ‘Follow, I lead!’ so down among the pines He plunged; and there, blackshadow’d nigh the mere, And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed, Saw six tall men haling a seventh along, A stone about his neck to drown him in it. Three with good blows he quieted, but three Fled thro’ the pines; and Gareth loosed the stone From off his neck, then in the mere beside Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the mere. Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free feet Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur’s friend. GARETH AND L YNETTE. 33 ‘ Well that ye came, or else these caitiff rogues Had wreak’d themselves on me ; good cause is theirs To hate me, for my wont hath ever been To catch my thief, and then like vermin here Drown him, and with a stone about his neck ; And under this wan water many of them Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone, And rise, and flickering in a grimly light Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have saved a life Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this wood. And fain would I reward thee worship- fully. What guerdon will ye?’ Gareth sharply spake, ‘ None ! for the deed’s sake have I done the deed, In uttermost obedience to the King. But wilt thou yield this damsel harbour¬ age?’ Whereat the Baron saying, ‘I well believe You be of Arthur’s Table,’ a light laugh Broke from Lynette, ‘ Ay, truly of a truth, And in a sort, being Arthur’s kitchen- knave !— But deem not I accept thee aught the more, Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit Down on a rout of craven foresters. A thresher with his flail had scatter’d them. Nay—for thou smellest of the kitchen still. But an this lord will yield us harbourage, Well.’ So she spake. A league beyond the wood, All in a full-fair manor and a rich, His towers where that day a feast had been Held in high hall, and many a viand left, And many a costly cate, received the three. And there they placed a peacock in his pride Before the damsel, and the Baron set Gareth beside her, but at once she rose. ‘ Meseems, that here is much dis¬ courtesy, Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side. Hear me—this morn I §tood in Arthur’s hall, And pray’d the King would grant me Lancelot To fight the brotherhood of Day and Night— The last a monster unsubduable Of any save of him for whom I call’d— Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen- knave, “The quest is mine ; thy kitchen-knave am I, And mighty thro’ thy meats and drinks am I.’’ Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies, “ Go therefore,” and so gives the quest to him— I lim—here—a villain fitter to stick swine Than ride abroad redressing women’s wrong, Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman.’ Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, the lord Now look’d at one and now at other, left The damsel by the peacock in his pride, And, seating Gareth at another board, Sat down beside him, ate and then began. ‘ Friend, whether thou be kitchen- knave, or not, Or whether it be the maiden’s fantasy, And whether she be mad, or else the King, Or both or neither, or thyself be mad, I ask not: but thou strikest a strong stroke, For strong thou art and goodly there¬ withal, And saver of my life ; and therefore now, For here be mighty men to joust with, weigh 332 GARETH AND LYNETTE. Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel back To crave again Sir Lancelot of the King. Thy pardon ; I but speak for thine avail, The saver of my life.’ And Gareth said, ‘ Full pardon, but I follow up the quest, Despite of Day and Night and Death and Hell.’ So when, next morn, the lord whose life he saved Had, some brief space, convey’d them on their way And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth spake, ‘Lead, and I follow.’ Haughtily she replied, ‘I fly no more : I allow thee for an hour. Lion and stoat have isled together, knave, In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, methinks Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool? For hard by here is one will overthrow And slay thee : then will I to court again, And shame the King for only yielding me My champion from the ashes of his hearth.’ To whom Sir Gareth answer’d cour¬ teously, ‘ Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed. Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay Among the ashes and wedded the King’s son.’ Then to the shore of one of those long loops Wherethro’ the serpent river coil’d, they came. Rough - thicketed were the banks and steep ; the stream Full, narrow ; this a bridge of single arc Took at a leap ; and on the further side Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue, Save that the dome was purple, and above, Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering. And therebefore the lawless warrior paced Unarm’d, and calling, ‘ Damsel, is this he, The champion thou hast brought from Arthur’s hall ? For whom we let thee pass.’ ‘Nay, nay,’ she said, * Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter scorn Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee here His kitchen - knave : and look thou to thyself: See that he fall not on thee suddenly, And slay thee unarm’d : he is not knight but knave.’ Then at his call, < O daughters of the Dawn, And servants of the Morning-Star, ap¬ proach, Arm me,’ from out the silken curtain-folds Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair girls In gilt and rosy raiment came : their feet In dewy grasses glisten’d ; and the hair All over glanced with dewdrop or with gem Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine. These arm’d him in blue arms, and gave a shield Blue also, and thereon the morning star. And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight, Who stood a moment, ere his horse was brought, Glorying ; and in the stream beneath him, shone Immingled with Heaven’s azure waver- ingly, The gay pavilion and the naked feet, His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star. Then she that watch’d him, ‘ Wherefore stare ye so ? Thou shakest in thy fear : there yet is time : GARETH AND LYNETTE. 333 Flee down the valley before he get to horse. Who will cry shame.? Thou art not knight but knave.’ Said Gareth, ‘ Damsel, whether knave or knight, Far liefer had I fight a score of times Than hear thee so missay me and revile. Fair words were best for him who fights for thee ; But truly foul are better, for they send That strength of anger thro’ mine arms, I know That I shall overthrow him.’ And he that bore The star, when .mounted, cried from o'er the bridge, ‘A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me ! Such fight not I, but answer scorn with scorn. For this were shame to do him further wrong Than set him on his feet, and take his horse And arms, and so return him to the King. Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, knave. Avoid : for it beseemeth not a knave To ride with such a lady.’ ‘ Dog, thou liest. I spring from loftier lineage than thine own.’ He spake ; and all at fiery speed the two Shock’d on the central bridge, and either spear Bent but not brake, and either knight at once, Hurl’d as a stone from out of a catapult Beyond his horse’s crupper and the bridge, Fell, as if dead; but quickly rose and drew, And Gareth lash’d so fiercely with his brand He drave his enemy backward down the bridge, The damsel crying, * Well - stricken, kitchen-knave !’ Till Gareth’s shield was cloven ; but one stroke Laid him that clove it grovelling on the ground. Then cried the fall’n, ‘Take not my life : I yield.’ And Gareth, ‘ So this damsel ask it of me Good—I accord it easily as a grace.’ She reddening, ‘ Insolent scullion : I of thee ? I bound to thee for any favour ask’d !’ ‘Then shall he die.’ And Gareth there unlaced His helmet as to slay him, but she shriek’d, ‘ Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay One nobler than thyself. ’ ‘ Damsel, thy charge Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight, Thy life is thine at her command. Arise And quickly pass to Arthur’s hall, and say His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See thou crave His pardon for thy breaking of his laws. Myself, when I return, will plead for thee. Thy shield is mine — farewell; and, damsel, thou, Lead, and I follow.’ And fast away she fled. Then when he came upon her, spake, ‘ Methought, Knave, when I watch’d thee striking on the bridge The savour of thy kitchen came upon me A little faintlier: but the wind hath changed : I scent it twenty-fold. ’ And then she sang, ‘ “ O morning star ” (not that tall felon there Whom thou by sorceiy or unhappiness Or some device, hast foully overthrown), ‘ ‘ O morning star that smilest in the blue, O star, my morning dream hath proven true, Smile sweetly, thou ! my love hath smiled on me.” ‘But thou begone, take counsel, and away, For hard by here is one that guards a ford— 334 GARETH AND LYNETTE. The second brother in their fool’s parable— Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot. Care not for shame : thou art not knight but knave.’ To whom Sir Gareth answer’d, laugh¬ ingly, * Parables ? Hear a parable of the knave. When I was kitchen-knave among the rest Fierce was the hearth, and one of my co-mates Own’d a rough dog, to whom he cast his coat, “Guard it,” and there was none to meddle with it. And such a coat art thou, and thee the King Gave me to guard, and such a dog am I, To worry, and not to flee—and—knight or knave— The knave that doth thee service as full knight Is all as good, meseems, as any knight Toward thy sister’s freeing.’ 4 Ay, Sir Knave ! Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a knight, Being but knave, I hate thee all the more.’ 4 Fair damsel, you should worship me the more, That, being but knave, I throw thine enemies.’ ‘ Ay, ay,’ she said, 4 but thou shalt meet thy match.’ So when they touch’d the second river- loop, Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail Burnish’d to blinding, shone the Noonday Sun Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower, That blows a globe of after arrowlets, Ten thousand-fold had grown, flash’d the fierce shield, All sun ; and Gareth’s eyes had flying blots Before them when he turn’d from watch¬ ing him. He from beyond the roaring shallow roar’d, 4 What doest thou* brother, in my marches here ? ’ And she athwart the shallow shrill’d again, 4 Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur’s hall Hath overthrown thy brother, and hath his arms.’ 4 Ugh ! ’ cried the Sun, and vizoring up a red And cipher face of rounded foolishness, Push’d horse across the foamings of the ford, Whom Gareth met midstream : no room was there For lance or tourney-skill: four strokes they struck With sword, and these were mighty ; the new knight Had fear he might be shamed ; but as the Sun Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the fifth, The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the stream Descended, and the Sun was wash’d away. Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the ford ; So drew him home; but he that fought no more, As being all bone-batter’d on the rock, Yielded ; and Gareth sent him to the King. 4 Myself when I return will plead for thee.’ 4 Lead, and I follow. ’ Quietly she led. 4 Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed again ? ’ 4 Nay, not a point: nor art thou victor here. There lies a ridge of slate across the ford ; His horse thereon stumbled—ay, for I saw it. 4 44 O Sun ” (not this strong fool whom thou, Sir Knave, Hast overthrown thro’mere unhappiness), 44 O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain, GARETH AND L YNETTE. 335 O moon, that layest all to sleep again, Shine sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on me.” * What knowest thou of lovesong or of love ? Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born, Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, perchance,— ‘ “ O dewy flowers that open to the sun, O dewy flowers that close when day is done, Blow sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on me.” ‘ What knowest thou of flowers, except, belike, To garnish meats with? hath not our good King Who lent me thee, the flower of kitchen- dom, A foolish love for flowers ? what stick ye round The pasty? wherewithal deck the boar’s head ? Flowers? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and bay. ‘ “ O birds, that warble to the morning sky, O birds that warble as the day goes by, Sing sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on me.” ‘ What knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, merle, Linnet ? what dream ye when they utter forth May-music growing with the growing light, Their sweet sun-worship ? these be for the snare (So runs thy fancy) these be for the spit, Larding and basting. See thou have not now Larded thy last, except thou turn and fly. There stands the third fool of their allegory. ’ For there beyond a bridge of treble bow, All in a rose-red from the west, and all Naked it seem’d, and glowing in the broad Deep-dimpled current underneath, the knight, That named himself the Star of Evening, stood. And Gareth, * Wherefore waits the madman there Naked in open dayshine?’ ‘ Nay,’she cried, ‘Not naked, only wrapt in harden’d skins That fit him like his own; and so ye cleave His armour off him, these will turn the blade. ’ Then the third brother shouted o’er the bridge, ‘ O brother-star, why shine ye here so low ? Thy ward is higher up : but have ye slain The damsel’s champion ? ’ and the damsel cried, ‘No star of thine, but shot from Arthur’s heaven With all disaster unto thine and thee ! For both thy younger brethren have gone down Before this youth; and so wilt thou, Sir Star ; Art thou not old ? ’ ‘ Old, damsel, old and hard, Old, with the might and breath of twenty boys.’ Said Gareth, ‘ Old, and over - bold in brag ! But that same strength which threw the Morning Star Can throw.the Evening.’ Then that other blew A hard and deadly note upon the horn. ‘ Approach and arm me ! ’ With slow steps from out An old storm-beaten, russet, many-stain’d Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came, And arm’d him in old arms, and brought a helm 336 GARETH AND L YNETTE. With but a drying evergreen for crest, And gave a shield whereon the Star of Even Half - tarnish’d and half-bright, his em¬ blem, shone. But when it glitter’d o’er the saddle-bow, They madly hurl’d together on the bridge; And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew, There met him drawn, and overthrew him again, But up like fire he started : and as oft As Gareth brought him grovelling on his knees, So many a time he vaulted up again ; Till Gareth panted hard, and his great heart, Foredooming all his trouble was in vain, Labour’d within him, for he seem’d as one That all in later, sadder age begins To war against ill uses of a life, But these from all his life arise, and cry, ‘ Thou hast made us lords, and canst not put us down ! ’ He half despairs; so Gareth seem’d to strike Vainly, the damsel clamouring all the while, ‘ Well done, knave-knight, well stricken, O good knight-knave— O knave, as noble as any of all the knights— Shame me not, shame me not. I have prophesied— Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Round— His arms are old, he trusts the harden’d skin— Strike—strike—the wind will never change again.’ And Gareth hearing ever stronger smote, And hew’d great pieces of his armour off him, But lash’d in vain against the harden’d skin, And could not wholly bring him under, more Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on ridge, The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs For ever; till at length Sir Gareth’s brand Clash’d his, and brake it utterly to the hilt. ‘ I have thee now ; ’ but forth that other sprang, And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry arms Around him, till he felt, despite his mail, Strangled, but straining ev’n his uttermost Cast, and so hurl’d him headlong o’er the bridge Down to the river, sink or swim, and cried, ‘ Lead, and I follow. ’ But the damsel said, ‘ I lead no longer ; ride thou at my side; Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen- knaves. ‘ “ O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain, O rainbow with three colours after rain, Shine sweetly: thrice my love hath smiled on me.” ‘Sir,—and, good faith, I fain had added—Knight, But that I heard thee call thyself a knave,— Shamed am I that I so rebuked, reviled, Missaid thee; noble I am ; and thought the King Scorn’d me and mine ; and now thy pardon, friend, For thou hast ever answer’d courteously, And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal As any of Arthur’s best, but, being knave, Hast mazed my wit: I marvel what thou art. ‘Damsel,’ he said, ‘you be not all to blame, Saving that you mistrusted our good King Would handle scorn, or yield you, asking, one Not fit to cope your quest. You said your say; Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth ! I hold GARETH AND LYNETTE. 337 He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor meet To fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets His heart be stirr’d with any foolish heat At any gentle damsel’s waywardness. Shamed ? care not ! thy foul sayings fought for me : And seeing now thy words are fair, methinks There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self, Hath force to quell me.’ Nigh upon that hour When the lone hem forgets his melancholy, Lets down his other leg, and stretching, dreams Of goodly supper in the distant pool, Then turn’d the noble damsel smiling at him, And told him of a cavern hard at hand, Where bread and baken meats and good red wine Of Southland, which the Lady Lyonors Had sent her coming champion, waited him. Anon they past a narrow comb wherein Were slabs of rock with figures, knights on horse Sculptured, and deckt in slowly-waning hues. * Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was here, Whose holy hand hath fashion’d on the rock The war of Time against the soul of man. And yon four fools have suck’d their alle¬ gory From these damp walls, and taken but the form. Know ye not these ? ’ and Gareth lookt and read— In letters like to those the vexillary Hath left crag-carven o’er the streaming Gelt— ‘ Phosphorus,’ then ‘ Meridies ’— ‘ Hesperus ’— ‘ Nox ’— * Mors,’ beneath five figures, armed men, Slab after slab, their faces forward all, And running down the Soul, a Shape that fled With broken wings, torn raiment and loose hair, For help and shelter to the hermit’s cave. ‘ Follow the faces, and we find it. Look, Who comes behind ? ’ For one—delay’d at first Thro’ helping back the dislocated Kay To Camelot, then by what thereafter chanced, The damsel’s headlong error thro’ the wood— Sir Lancelot, having swum the river loops— His blue shield-lions cover’d—softly drew Behind the twain, and when he saw the star Gleam, on Sir Gareth’s turning to him, cried, ‘ Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my friend. ’ And Gareth crying prick’d against the cry; But when they closed—in a moment—at one touch Of that skill’d spear, the wonder of the world— Went sliding down so easily, and fell, That when he found the grass within his hands He laugh’d; the laughter jarr’d upon Lynette : Harshly she ask’d him, ‘ Shamed and overthrown, And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave, Why laugh ye ? that ye blew your boast in vain ? ’ ‘ Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son Of old King Lot and good Queen Belli- cent, And victor of the bridges and the ford, And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whom I know not, all thro’ mere unhappiness— Device and sorcery and unhappiness— Out, sword ; we are thrown ! ’ And Lancelot answer’d, ‘ Prince, O Gareth—thro’ the mere unhappiness Z 338 GARETH AND LYNETTE. Of one who came to help thee, not to harm, Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole, As on the day when Arthur knighted him.’ Then Gareth, ‘Thou — Lancelot!— thine the hand That threw me ? An some chance to mar the boast Thy brethren of thee make—which could not chance— Had sent thee down before a lesser spear, Shamed had I been, and sad—O Lancelot —thou !’ Whereat the maiden, petulant, 4 Lance¬ lot, Why came ye not, when call’d ? and wherefore now Come ye, not call’d ? I gloried in my knave, Who being still rebuked, would answer still Courteous as any knight—but now, if knight, The marvel dies, and leaves me fool’d and trick’d, And only wondering wherefore play’d upon : And doubtful whether I and mine be scorn’d. Where should be truth if not in Arthur’s hall, In Arthur’s presence ? Knight, knave, prince and fool, I hate thee and for ever.’ And Lancelot said, 4 Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth! knight art thou To the King’s best wish. O damsel, be you wise To call him shamed, who is but over¬ thrown ? Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time. Victor from vanquish’d issues at the last, And overthrower from being overthrown. With sword we have not striven ; and thy good horse And thou are weary ; yet not less I felt Thy manhood thro’ that wearied lance of thine. Well hast thou done ; for all the stream is freed, And thou hast wreak’d his justice on his foes, And when reviled, hast answer’d graci¬ ously, And makest merry when overthrown. Prince, Knight, Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table Round !’ And then when turning to Lynette he told The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said, 4 Ay well—ay well—for worse than being fool’d Of others, is to fool one’s self. A cave, Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks And forage for the horse, and flint for fire. But all about it flies a honeysuckle. Seek, till we find.’ And when they sought and found, Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life Past into sleep; on whom the maiden gazed. 4 Sound sleep be thine ! sound cause to sleep hast thou. Wake lusty ! Seem I not as tender to him As any mother ? Ay, but such a one As all day long hath rated at her child, And vext his day, but blesses him asleep— Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle In the hush’d night, as if the world were one Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness ! O Lancelot, Lancelot’ — arid she clapt her hands— 4 Full merry am I to find my goodly knave Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I, Else yon black felon had not let me pass, To bring thee back to do the battle with him. Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first; GARETH AND LYNETTE. 339 Who doubts thee victor? so will my knight-knave Miss the full flower of this accomplish¬ ment.’ Said Lancelot, ‘ Peradventure he, you name, May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will, Change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh, Not to be spurr’d, loving the battle as well As he that rides him.’ ‘Lancelot-like,’ she said, ‘ Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as in all.’ And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutch’d the shield ; ‘ Ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on whom all spears Are rotten sticks ! ye seem agape to roar ! Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord !— Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you. O noble Lancelot, from my hold on these Streams virtue—fire—thro’ one that will not shame Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield. Hence : let us go. ’ Silent the silent field They traversed. Arthur’s harp tho’ summer-wan, In counter motion to the clouds, allured The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege. A star shot: ‘ Lo,’ said Gareth, ‘the foe falls !’ An owl whoopt : ‘ Hark the victor peal¬ ing there !’ Suddenly she that rode upon his left Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, crying, ‘ Yield, yield him this again: ’tis he must fight: I curse the tongue that all thro’ yesterday Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now To lend thee horse and shield : wonders ye have done ; Miracles ye cannot: here is glory enow In having flung the three : I see thee maim’d, Mangled: I swear thou canst not fling the fourth.’ ‘And wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye know. You cannot scare me ; nor rough face, or voice, Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery Appal me from the quest.’ ‘Nay, Prince,’ she cried, ‘ God wot, I never look’d upon the face, Seeing he never rides abroad by day; But watch’d him have I like a phantom pass Chilling the night: nor have I heard the voice. Always he made his mouthpiece of a page Who came and went, and still reported him As closing in himself the strength of ten, And when his anger tare him, massacring Man, woman, lad and girl—yea, the soft babe ! Some hold that he hath swallow’d infant flesh, Monster ! O Prince, I went for Lancelot first, The quest is Lancelot’s : give him back the shield. ’ Said Gareth laughing, ‘ An he fight for this. Belike he wins it as the better man : Thus—and not else !’ But Lancelot on him urged All the devisings of their chivalry When one might meet a mightier than himself; How best to manage horse, lance, sword and shield, And so fill up the gap where force might fail With skill and fineness. Instant were his words. 340 GARETH AND LYNETTE. Then Gareth, ‘ Here be rules. I know but one— To dash against mine enemy and to win. Yet have I watch’d thee victor in the joust, And seen thy way.’ ‘ Heaven help thee,’ sigh’d Lynette. Then for a space, and under cloud that grew To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode In converse till she made her palfrey halt, Lifted an arm, and softly whisper’d, ‘ There.’ And all the three were silent seeing, pitch’d Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field, A huge pavilion like a mountain peak Sunder the glooming crimson on the marge, Black, with black banner, and a long black horn Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth graspt, And so, before the two could hinder him, Sent all his heart and breath thro’ all the horn. Echo’d the walls ; a light twinkled; anon Came lights and lights, and once again he blew; Whereon were hollow tramplings up and down And muffled voices heard, and shadows past; Till high above him, circled with her maids, The Lady Lyonors at a window stood, Beautiful among lights, and waving to him White hands, and courtesy; but when the Prince Three times had blown—after long hush —at last— The huge pavilion slowly yielded up, Thro’ those black foldings, that which housed therein. High on a nightblack horse, in nightblack arms, With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of Death, And crown’d with fleshless laughter— some ten steps— In the half-light—thro’ the dim dawn— advanced The monster, and then paused, and spake no word. But Gareth spake and all indignantly, ‘ Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten, Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given, But must, to make the terror of thee more, Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod, Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers As if for pity?’ But he spake no word ; Which set the horror higher : a maiden swoon’d ; The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and wept, As doom’d to be the bride of Night and Death ; Sir Gareth’s head prickled beneath his helm ; And ev’n Sir Lancelot thro’ his warm blood felt Ice strike, and all that mark’d him were aghast. At once Sir Lancelot’s charger fiercely neigh’d, And Death’s dark war-horse bounded forward with him. Then those that did not blink the terror, saw That Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose. But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull. Half fell to right and half to left and lay. Then with a stronger buffet he clove the helm As throughly as the skull; and out from this Issued the bright face of a blooming boy Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, ‘ Knight, THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT. 34i Slay me not: my three brethren bad me do it, To make a horror all about the house, And stay the world from Lady Lyonors. They never dream’d the passes would be past. ’ Answer’d Sir Gareth graciously to one Not many a moon his younger, ‘ My fair child, What madness made thee challenge the chief knight Of Arthur’s hall?’ ‘Fair Sir, they bad me do it. They hate the King, and Lancelot, the King’s friend, They hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream, They never dream’d the passes could be past. ’ Then sprang the happier day from underground; And Lady Lyonors and her house, with dance And revel and song, made merry over Death, As being after all their foolish fears And horrors only proven a blooming boy. So large mirth lived and Gareth won the quest. And he that told the tale in older times Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors, But he, that told it later, says Lynette. THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT. The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur’s court, A tributary prince of Devon, one Of that great Order of the Table Round, Had married Enid, Yniol’s only child, And loved her, as he loved the light of Heaven. And as the light of Heaven varies, now At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night With moon and trembling stars, so loved Geraint To make her beauty vary day by day. In crimsons and in purples and in gems. And Enid, but to please her husband’s eye, Who first had found and loved her in a state Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him In some fresh splendour ; and the Queen herself, Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done, Loved her, and often with her own white hands Array’d and deck’d her, as the loveliest, Next after her own self, in all the court. And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart Adored her, as the stateliest and the best And loveliest of all women upon earth. And seeing them so tender and so close, Long in their common love rejoiced Geraint. But when a rumour rose about the Queen, Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, Tho’ yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard The world’s loud whisper breaking into storm, Not less Geraint believed it; and there fell A horror on him, lest his gentle wife, Thro’ that great tenderness for Guinevere, Had suffer’d, or should suffer any taint In nature : wherefore going to the King, He made this pretext, that his princedom lay Close on the borders of a territory, Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff knights, Assassins, and all flyers from the hand Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law : And therefore, till the King himself should please To cleanse this common sewer of all his realm, He craved a fair permission to depart, And there defend his marches ; and the King Mused for a little on his plea, but, last, Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode, And fifty knights rode with them, to the shores 342 THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT. Of Severn, and they past to their own land ; Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife True to her lord, mine shall be so to me, He compass’d her with sweet observances And worship, never leaving her, and grew Forgetful of his promise to the King, Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt, Forgetful of the tilt and tournament, Forgetful of his glory and his name, Forgetful of his princedom and its cares. And this forgetfulness was hateful to her. And by and by the people, when they met In twos and threes, or fuller companies, Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him As of a prince whose manhood was all gone, And molten down in mere uxoriousness. And this she gather’d from the people’s eyes : This too the women who attired her head, To please her, dwelling on his boundless love, Told Enid, and they sadden’d her the more : And day by day she thought to tell Geraint, But could not out of bashful delicacy ; While he that watch’d her sadden, was the more Suspicious that her nature had a taint. At last, it chanced that on a summer morn (They sleeping each by either) the.new sun Beat thro’ the blindless casement of the room, And heated the strong warrior in his dreams ; Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, And bared the knotted column of his throat, The massive square of his heroic breast, And arms on which the standing muscle sloped, As slopes a wild brook o’er a little stone, Running too vehemently to break upon it. And Enid woke and sat beside the couch, Admiring him, and thought within herself, Was ever man so grandly made as he ? Then, like a shadow, past the people’s talk And accusation of uxoriousness Across her mind, and bowing over him, Low to her own heart piteously she said : * O noble breast and all-puissant arms, Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men Reproach you, saying all your force is gone ? I am the cause, because I dare not speak And tell him what I think and what they say. And yet I hate that he should linger here; I cannot love my lord and not his name. Far liefer had I gird his harness on him, And ride with him to battle and stand by, And watch his mightful hand striking great blows At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world. Far better were I laid in the dark earth, Not hearing any more his noble voice, Not to be folded more in these dear arms, And darken’d from the high light in his eyes, Than that my lord thro’ me should suffer shame. Am I so bold, and could I so stand by, And see my dear lord wounded in the strife, Or maybe pierced to death before mine eyes, And yet not dare to tell him what I think, And how men slur him, saying all his force Is melted into mere effeminacy ? O me, I fear that I am no true wife.’ Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, And the strong passion in her made her weep True tears upon his broad and naked breast, And these awoke him, and by great mis¬ chance He heard but fragments of her later words, And that she fear’d she was not a true wife. ! And then he thought, ‘ In spite of all my care, For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains, She is not faithful to me, and I see her Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur’s hall.’ THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT. 343 Then tho’ he loved and reverenced her too much To dream she could be guilty of foul act, Right thro’ his manful breast darted the pang That makes a man, in the sweet face of her Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable. At this he hurl’d his huge limbs out of bed, And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, ‘ My charger and her palfreythen to her, ‘ I will ride forth into the wilderness ; For tho’ it seems my spurs are yet to win, I have not fall’n so low as some would wish. And thou, put on thy worst and meanest dress And ride with me.’ And Enid ask’d, amazed, ‘ If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault. ’ But he, ‘I charge thee, ask not, but obey.’ Then she bethought her of a faded silk, A faded mantle and a faded veil, And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, Wherein she kept them folded reverently With sprigs of summer laid between the folds, She took them, and array’d herself therein, Remembering when first he came on her Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, And all her foolish fears about the dress, And all his journey to her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court. For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. There on a day, he sitting high in hall, Before him came a forester of Dean, Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart Taller than all his fellows, milky-white, First seen that day : these things he told the King. Then the good King gave order to let blow His horns for hunting on the morrow morn. And when the Queen petition’d for his leave To see the hunt, allow’d it easily. So with the morning all the court were gone. But Guinevere lay late into the morn, Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her love For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt ; But rose at last, a single maiden with her, Took horse, and forded Usk, and gain’d the wood ; There, on a little knoll beside it, stay’d Waiting to hear the hounds; but heard instead A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint, Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand, Came quickly flashing thro’ the shallow ford Behind them, and so gallop’d up the knoll. A purple scarf, at either end whereof There swung an apple of the purest gold, Sway’d round about him, as he gallop’d up To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly In summer suit and silks of holiday. Low bow’d the tributary Prince, and she. Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace Of womanhood and queenhood, answer’d him : ‘ Late, late. Sir Prince, ’ she said, ‘ later than we ! ’ ‘Yea, noble Queen,’ he answer’d, ‘and so late That I but come like you to see the hunt, Not join it.’ ‘ Therefore wait with me,’ she said ; ‘For on this little knoll, if anywhere, There is good chance that we shall hear the hounds : Here often they break covert at our feet.’ And while they listen’d for the distant hunt, And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, King Arthur’s hound of deepest mouth, there rode Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf; Whereof the dwarf lagg’d latest, and the knight Had vizor up, and show’d a youthful face, 344 THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT. Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments. And Guinevere, not mindful of his face In the King’s hall, desired his name, and sent Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf; Who being vicious, old and irritable, And doubling all his master’s vice of pride, Made answer sharply, that she should not know. ‘Then will I ask it of himself,’ she said. ‘ Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,’ cried the dwarf; * Thou art not worthy ev’n to speak of him ;’ And when she put her horse toward the knight, Struck at her with his whip, and she return’d Indignant to the Queen; whereat Geraint Exclaiming, ‘ Surely I will learn the name, ’ Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask’d it of him, Who answer’d as before ; and when the Prince Had put his horse in motion toward the knight, Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek. The Prince’s blood spirted upon the scarf, Dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive hand Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him : But he, from his exceeding manfulness And pure nobility of temperament, Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain’d From ev’n a word, and so returning said : ‘ I will avenge this insult, noble Queen, Done in your maiden’s person to yourself: And I will track this vermin to their earths: For tho’ I ride unarm’d, I do not doubt To find, at some place I shall come at, arms On loan, or else for pledge ; and, being found, Then will I fight him, and will break his pride, And on the third day will again be here, So that I be not fall’n in fight. Farewell. ’ ‘Farewell, fair Prince,’ answer’d the stately Queen. ‘ Be prosperous in this journey, as in all ; And may you light on all things that you love, And live to wed with her whom first you love : But ere you wed with any, bring your bride, And I, were she the daughter of a king, Yea, tho’ she were a beggar from the hedge, Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun.’ And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard The noble hart at bay, now the far horn, A little vext at losing of the hunt, A little at the vile occasion, rode, By ups and downs, thro’ many a grassy glade And valley, with fixt eye following the three. At last they issued from the world of wood, And climb’d upon a fair and even ridge, And show’d themselves against the sky, and sank. And thither came Geraint, and under¬ neath Beheld the long street of a little town In a long valley, on one side whereof, White from the mason’s hand, a fortress rose ; And on one side a castle in decay, Beyond a bridge that spann’d a dry ravine : And out of town and valley came a noise As of a broad brook o’er a shingly bed Brawling, or like a clamour of the rooks At distance, ere they settle for the night. And onward to the fortress rode the three, And enter’d, and were lost behind the walls. ‘ So,’ thought Geraint, ‘ I have track’d him to his earth.’ THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT. 345 And down the long street riding wearily, Found every hostel full, and everywhere Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss And bustling whistle of the youth who scour’d His master’s armour ; and of such a one He ask’d, ‘What means the tumult in the town ?’ Who told him, scouring still, ‘ The sparrow-hawk !’ Then riding close behind an ancient churl, Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam, Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, Ask’d yet once more what meant the hubbub here ? Who answer’d gruffly, ‘Ugh ! the sparrow- hawk. ’ Then riding further past an armourer’s, Who, with back turn’d, and bow’d above his work, Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, He put the self-same query, but the man Not turning round, nor looking at him, said : ‘ Friend, he that labours for the sparrow- hawk Has little time for idle questioners.’ Whereat Geraint flash’d into sudden spleen: ‘ A thousand pips eat up your sparrow- hawk ! Tits, wrens, and all wing’d nothings peck him dead ! Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg The murmur of the world ! What is it to me ? O wretched set of sparrows, one and all, Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow- hawks ! Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk- mad, Where can I get me harbourage for the night ? And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy? Speak !’ Whereat the armourer turning all amazed And seeing one so gay in purple silks, Came forward with the helmet yet in hand And answer’d, ‘ Pardon me, O stranger knight; We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn, And there is scantly time for half the work. Arms ? truth ! I know not : all are wanted here. Harbourage? truth, good truth, I know not, save, It may be, at Earl Yniol’s, o’er the bridge Yonder.’ He spoke and fell to work again. Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet, Across the bridge that spann’d the dry ravine. There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl, (His dress a suit of fray’d magnificence, Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said : ‘ Whither, fair son ? ’ to whom Geraint replied, ‘ O friend, I seek a harbourage for the night. ’ Then Yniol, ‘ Enter therefore and partake The slender entertainment of a house Once rich, now poor, but ever open- door’d.’ ‘ Thanks, venerable friend,’ replied Geraint; ‘ So that ye do not serve me sparrow- hawks For supper, I will enter, I will eat With all the passion of a twelve hours’ fast.’ Then sigh’d and smiled the hoary-headed Earl, And answer’d, ‘ Graver cause than yours is mine To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow- hawk : But in, go in ; for save yourself desire it, We will not touch upon him ev’n in jest.’ Then rode Geraint into the castle court, His charger trampling many a prickly star Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones. He look’d and saw that all was ruinous. Here stood a shatter’d archway plumed with fern ; 346 THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT. And here had fall’n a great part of a tower, Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff, And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers : And high above a piece of turret stair, Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms, And suck’d the joining of the stones, and look’d A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove. And while he waited in the castle court, The voice of Enid, Yniol’s daughter, rang Clear thro’ the open casement of the hall, Singing ; and as the sweet voice of a bird, Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, Moves him to think what kind of bird it is That sings so delicately clear, and make Conjecture of the plumage and the form; So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint; And made him like a man abroad at morn When first the liquid note beloved of men Comes flying over many a windy wave To Britain, and in April suddenly Breaks from a coppice gemm’d with green and red, And he suspends his converse with a friend, Or it may be the labour of his hands, To think or say, ‘There is the nightingale;’ So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said, ‘ Here, by God’s grace, is the one voice for me.’ It chanced the song that Enid sang was one Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang: ‘ Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud ; Turn thy wild wheel thro’ sunshine, storm, and cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. ‘ Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown ; With that wild wheel we go not up or down; Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. ‘ Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; For man is man and master of his fate. ‘ Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd ; Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud ; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. ’ ‘ Hark, by the bird’s song ye may learn the nest,’ Said Yniol; ‘enter quickly.’ Entering then, Right o’er a mount of newly-fallen stones, The dusky-rafter’d many-cobweb’d hall, He found an ancient dame in dim bro¬ cade ; And near her, like a blossom vermeil- white, That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath, Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk, Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint, ‘ Here by God’s rood is the one maid for me.’ But none spake word except the hoary Earl: ‘ Enid, the good knight’s horse stands in the court; Take him to stall, and give him corn, and then Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine ; And we will make us merry as we may. Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.’ He spake : the Prince, as Enid past him, fain To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT. 347 His purple scarf, and held, and said, ‘ Forbear ! Rest ! the good house, tho’ ruin’d, O my son, Endures not that her guest should serve himself. ’ And reverencing the custom of the house Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore. So Enid took his charger to the stall; And after went her way across the bridge, And reach’d the town, and while the Prince and Earl Yet spoke together, came again with one, A youth, that following with a costrel bore The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine. And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer, And in her veil enfolded, manchet bread. And then, because their hall must also serve For kitchen, boil’d the flesh, and spread the board, And stood behind, and waited on the three. And seeing her so sweet and serviceable, Geraint had longing in him evermore To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb, That crost the trencher as she laid it down : But after all had eaten, then Geraint, For now the wine made summer in his veins, Let his eye rove in following, or rest On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work, Now here, now there, about the dusky hall; Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl: ‘Fair Host and Earl, I pray your courtesy; This sparrow-hawk, what is he ? tell me of him. His name ? but no, good faith, I will not have it: For if he be the knight whom late I saw Ride into that new fortress by your town, White from the mason’s hand, then have I sworn From his own lips to have it — I am Geraint Of Devon — for this morning when the Queen Sent her own maiden to demand the name, His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing, Struck at her with his whip, and she re¬ turn’d Indignant to the Queen; and then I swore That I would track this caitiff" to his hold, And fight and break his pride, and have it of him. And all unarm’d I rode, and thought to find Arms in your town, where all the men are mad ; They take the rustic murmur of their bourg For the great wave that echoes round the world ; They would not hear me speak : but if ye know Where I can light on arms, or if yourself Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn That I will break his pride and learn his name, Avenging this great insult done the Queen. ’ Then cried Earl Yniol, ‘Art thou he indeed, Geraint, a name far-sounded among men For noble deeds ? and truly I, when first I saw you moving by me on the bridge, Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by your state And presence might have guess’d you one of those That eat in Arthur’s hall at Camelot. Nor speak I now from foolish flattery; For this dear child hath often heard me praise Your feats of arms, and often when I paused Hath ask’d again, and ever loved to hear; So grateful is the noise of noble deeds To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong: O never yet had woman such a pair Of suitors as this maiden ; first Limours, 348 THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT. A creature wholly given to brawls and wine, Drunk even when he woo’d ; and be he dead I know not, but he past to the wild land. The second was your foe, the sparrow- hawk, My curse, my nephew—I will not let his name Slip from my lips if I can help it—he, When I that knew him fierce and tur¬ bulent Refused her to him, then his pride awoke; And since the proud man often is the mean, He sow’d a slander in the common ear, Affirming that his father left him gold, And in my charge, which was not ren¬ der’d to him ; Bribed with large promises the men who served About my person, the more easily Because my means were somewhat broken into Thro’ open doors and hospitality; Raised my own town against me in the night Before my Enid’s birthday, sack’d my house; From mine own earldom foully ousted me ; Built that new fort to overawe my friends, For truly there are those who love me yet; And keeps me in this ruinous castle here, Where doubtless he would put me soon to death, But that his pride too much despises me: And I myself sometimes despise myself; For I have let men be, and have their way; Am much too gentle, have not used my power : Nor know I whether I be very base Or very manful, whether very wise Or very foolish ; only this I know, That whatsoever evil happen to me, I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb, But can endure it all most patiently.’ ‘ Well said, true heart,’ replied Geraint, ‘ but arms, That if the sparrow-hawk, this nephew, fight In next day’s tourney I may break his pride.’ And Yniol answer’d, ‘ Arms, indeed, but old And rusty, old and rusty, Prince Geraint, Are mine, and therefore at thine asking, thine. But in this tournament can no man tilt, Except thie lady he loves best be there. Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground, And over these is placed a silver wand, And over that a golden sparrow-hawk, The prize of beauty for the fairest there. And this, what knight soever be in field Lays claim to for the lady at his side, And tilts with my good nephew there¬ upon, Who being apt at arms and big of bone Has ever won it for the lady with him, And toppling over all antagonism Has earn’d himself the name of sparrow- hawk. But thou, that hast no lady, canst not fight.’ To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied, Leaning a little toward him, ‘ Thy leave ! Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host, For this dear child, because I never saw, Tho’ having seen all beauties of our time, Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair. And if I fall her name will yet remain Untarnish’d as before ; but if I live, So aid me Heaven when at mine utter¬ most, As I will make her truly my true wife.’ Then, howsoever patient, Yniol’s heart Danced in his bosom, seeing better days. And looking round he saw not Enid there, (Who hearing her own name had stol’n away) But that old dame, to whom full tenderly And fondling all her hand in his he said, THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT. 349 ‘ Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, And best by her that bore her understood. Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince. ’ So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she With frequent smile and nod departing found, Half disarray’d as to her rest, the girl; Whom first she kiss’d on either cheek, and then On either shining shoulder laid a hand, And kept her off and gazed upon her face, And told her all their converse in the hall, Proving her heart : but never light and shade Coursed one another more on open ground Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale Across the face of Enid hearing her ; While slowly falling as a scale that falls, When weight is added only grain by grain, Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast; Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it; So moving without answer to her rest She found no rest, and ever fail’d to draw The quiet night into her blood, but lay Contemplating her own unworthiness ; And when the pale and bloodless east began To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised Her mother too, and hand in hand they moved Down to the meadow where the jousts were held, And waited there for Yniol and Geraint. And thither came the twain, and when Geraint Beheld her first in field, awaiting him, He felt, were she the prize of bodily force, Himself beyond the rest pushing could move The chair of Idris. Yniol’s rusted arms Were on his princely person, but thro’ these Princelike his bearing shone ; and errant knights And ladies came, and by and by the town Flow’d in, and settling circled all the lists. And there they fixt the forks into the ground, And over these they placed the silver wand, And over that the golden sparrow-hawk. Then Yniol’s nephew, after trumpet blown, Spake to the lady with him and pro¬ claim’d, ‘ Advance and take, as fairest of the fair, What I these two years past have won for thee, The prize of beauty.’ Loudly spake the Prince, ‘Forbear : there is a worthier,’ and the knight With some surprise and thrice as much disdain Turn’d, and beheld the four, and all his face Glow’d like the heart of a great fire at Yule, So burnt he was with passion, crying out, ‘ Do battle for it then,’ no more ; and thrice They clash’d together, and thrice they brake their spears. Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lash’d at each So often and with such blows, that all the crowd Wonder’d, and now and then from distant walls There came a clapping as of phantom hands. So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and still The dew of their great labour, and the blood Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain’d their force. But either’s force was match’d till Yniol’s cry, * Remember that great insult done the Queen,’ Increased Geraint’s, who heaved his blade aloft, 35o THE MARK I AGE OF GERAINT. And crack’d the helmet thro’, and bit the bone, And fell’d him, and set foot upon his breast, And said, ‘Thy name?’ To whom the fallen man Made answer, groaning, ‘ Edyrn, son of Nudd ! Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee. My pride is broken : men have seen my fall.’ ‘Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd,’ replied Geraint, ‘ These two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest. First, thou thyself, with damsel and with dwarf, Shalt ride to Arthur’s court, and coming there, Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen, And shalt abide her judgment on it; next, Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin. These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die.’ And Edyrn answer’d, ‘ These things will I do, For I have never yet been overthrown, And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall!’ And rising up, he rode to Arthur’s court, And there the Queen forgave him easily. And being young, he changed and came to loathe His crime of traitor, slowly drew himself Bright from his old dark life, and fell at last In the great battle fighting for the King. But when the third day from the hunting-morn Made a low splendour in the world, and wings Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay With her fair head in the dim-yellow light, Among the dancing shadows of the birds, Woke and bethought her of her promise given No later than last eve to Prince Geraint— So bent he seem’d on going the third day, He would not leave her, till her promise given— To ride with him this morning to the court, And there be made known to the stately Queen, And there be wedded with all ceremony. At this she cast her eyes upon her dress, And thought it never yet had look’d so mean. For as a leaf in mid-November is To what it was in mid-October, seem’d The dress that now she look’d on to the dress She look’d on ere the coming of Geraint. And still she look’d, and still the terror grew Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court, All staring at her in her faded silk : And softly to her own sweet heart she said : ‘ This noble prince who won our earldom back, So splendid in his acts and his attire, Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him ! Would he could tarry with us here awhile, But being so beholden to the Prince, It were but little grace in any of us, Bent as he seem’d on going this third day, To seek a second favour at his hands. Yet if he could but tarry a day or two, Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame, Far liefer than so much discredit him.’ And Enid fell in longing for a dress All branch’d and flower’d with gold, a costly gift Of her good mother, given her on the night Before her birthday, three sad years ago, That night of fire, when Edyrn sack’d their house, And scatter’d all they had to all the winds: For w r hile the mother show’d it, and the two THE MARRIAGE OF GERA I NT. 35i Were turning and admiring it, the work To both appear’d so costly, rose a cry That Edyrn’s men were on them, and they fled With little save the jewels they had on, Which being sold and sold had bought them bread : And Edyrn’s men had caught them in their flight, And placed them in this ruin; and she wish’d The Prince had found her in her ancient home; Then let her fancy flit across the past, And roam the goodly places that she knew; And last bethought her how she used to watch, Near that old home, a pool of golden carp; And one was patch’d and blurr’d and lustreless Among his burnish’d brethren of the pool; And half asleep she made comparison Of that and these to her own faded self And the gay court, and fell asleep again ; And dreamt herself was such a faded form Among her burnish’d sisters of the pool; But this was in the garden of a king; And tho’ she lay dark in the pool, she knew That all was bright; that all about were birds Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work ; That all the turf was rich in plots that look’d Each like a garnet or a turkis in it; And lords and ladies of the high court went In silver tissue talking things of state ; And children of the King in cloth of gold Glanced at the doors or gambol’d down the walks; And while she thought ‘ They will not see me,’ came A stately queen whose name was Guinevere, And all the children in their cloth of gold Ran to her, crying, ‘ If we have fish at all Let them be gold; and charge the gardeners now To pick the faded creature from the pool, And cast it on the mixen that it die.’ And therewithal one came and seized on her, And Enid started waking, with her heart All overshadow’d by the foolish dream, And lo ! it was her mother grasping her To get her well awake ; and in her hand A suit of bright apparel, which she laid Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly: ‘ See here, my child, how fresh the colours look, How fast they hold like colours of a shell That keeps the wear and polish of the wave. Why not ? It never yet was worn, I trow : Look on it, child, and tell me if ye know it.’ And Enid look’d, but all confused at first, Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream : Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced, And answer’d, ‘Yea, I know it; your good gift, So sadly lost on that unhappy night; Your own good gift! ’ ‘Yea, surely,’ said the dame, ‘ And gladly given again this happy morn. For when the jousts were ended yesterday, Went Yniol thro’ the town, and every¬ where He found the sack and plunder of our house All scatter’d thro’ the houses of the town; And gave command that all which once was ours Should now be ours again: and yester-eve, While ye were talking sweetly with your Prince, Came one with this and laid it in my hand, For love or fear, or seeking favour of us, Because we have our earldom back again. And yester-eve I would not tell you of it, But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn. Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise? 352 THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT. For I myself unwillingly have worn My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours, And howsoever patient, Yniol his. Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house, With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare, And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal, And pastime both of hawk and hound, and all That appertains to noble maintenance. Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house; But since our fortune swerved from sun to shade, And all thro’ that young traitor, cruel need Constrain’d us, but a better time has come; So clothe yourself in this, that better fits Our mended fortunes and a Prince’s bride: For tho’ ye won the prize of fairest fair, And tho’ I heard him call you fairest fair, Let never maiden think, however fair, She is not fairer in new clothes than old. And should some great court-lady say, the Prince Hath pick’d a ragged-robin from the hedge, And like a madman brought her to the court, Then were ye shamed, and, worse, might shame the Prince To whom we are beholden ; but I know, When my dear child is set forth at her best, That neither court nor country, tho’ they sought Thro’ all the provinces like those of old That lighted on Queen Esther, has her match.’ Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath ; And Enid listen’d brightening as she lay; Then, as the white and glittering star of morn Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose, And left her maiden couch, and robed herself, Help’d by the mother’s careful hand and eye, Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown; Who, after, turn’d her daughter round, and said, She never yet had seen her half so fair; And call’d her like that maiden in the tale, Whom Gwydion made by glamour out of flowers, And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun, Flur, for whose love the Roman Caesar first Invaded Britain, ‘ But we beat him back, As this great Prince invaded us, and we, Not beat him back, but welcomed him with joy. And I can scarcely ride with you to court, For old am I, and rough the ways and wild ; But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream I see my princess as I see her now, Clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay.’ But while the women thus rejoiced, Geraint Woke where he slept in the high hall, and call’d For Enid, and when Yniol made report Of that good mother making Enid gay In such apparel as might well beseem His princess, or indeed the stately Queen, He answer’d : ‘ Earl, entreat her by my love, Albeit I give no reason but my wish, That she ride with me in her faded silk. ’ Yniol with that hard message went; it fell Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn : For Enid, all abash’d she knew not why, Dared not to glance at her good mother’s face, But silently, in all obedience, Her mother silent too, nor helping her, Laid from her limbs the costly-broider’d gift, And robed them in her ancient suit again, And so descended. Never man rejoiced More than Geraint to greet her thus attired; And glancing all at once as keenly at her As careful robins eye the delver’s toil, Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall, THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT. 353 But rested with her sweet face satisfied ; Then seeing cloud upon the mother’s brow, Her by both hands he caught, and sweetly said, ‘ O my new mother, be not wroth or grieved At thy new son, for my petition to her. When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen, In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet, Made promise, that whatever bride I brought, Herself would clothe her like the sun in Heaven. Thereafter, when I reach’d this ruin’d hall, Beholding one so bright in dark estate, I vow’d that could I gain her, our fair Queen, No hand but hers, should make your Enid burst Sunlike from cloud—and likewise thought perhaps, That service done so graciously would bind The two together; fain I would the two Should love each other: how can Enid find A nobler friend ? Another thought was mine; I came among you here so suddenly, That tho’ her gentle presence at the lists Might well have served for proof that I was loved, I doubted whether daughter’s tenderness, Or easy nature, might not let itself Be moulded by your wishes for her weal; Or whether some false sense in her own self Of my contrasting brightness, overbore Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall ; And such a sense might make her long for court And all its perilous glories: and I thought, That could I someway prove such force in her Link’d with such love for me* that at a word (No reason given her) she could cast aside A splendour dear to women, new to her, And therefore dearer ; or if not so new, Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power Of intermitted usage ; then I felt That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows, Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I do rest, A prophet certain of my prophecy, That never shadow of mistrust can cross Between us. Grant me pardon for my thoughts : And for my strange petition I will make Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day, When your fair child shall wear your costly gift Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her knees, Who knows? another gift of the high God, Which, maybe, shall have learn’d to lisp you thanks.’ He spoke : the mother smiled, but half in tears, Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it, And claspt and kiss’d her, and they rode away. Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climb’d The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say, Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, And white sails flying on the yellow sea; But not to goodly hill or yellow sea Look’d the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk, By the flat meadow, till she saw them come ; And then descending met them at the gates, Embraced her with all welcome as a friend, And did her honour as the Prince’s bride, And clothed her for her bridals like the sun ; And all that week was old Caerleon gay, 2 A 354 GERAINT AND ENID. For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint, They twain were wedded with all cere¬ mony. And this was on the last year’s Whit¬ suntide. But Enid ever kept the faded silk, Remembering how first he came on her, Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, And all her foolish fears about the dress, And all his journey toward her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court. And now this morning when he said to her, ‘ Put on your worst and meanest dress,’ she found And took it, and array’d herself therein. GERAINT AND ENID. O purblind race of miserable men, How many among us at this very hour Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, By taking true for false, or false for true; Here, thro’the feeble twilight of this world Groping, how many, until we pass and reach That other, where we see as we are seen ! So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth That morning, when they both had got to horse, Perhaps because he loved her passionately, And felt that tempest brooding round his heart, Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce Upon a head so dear in thunder, said : ‘ Not at my side. I charge thee ride before, Ever a good way on before ; and this I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife, Whatever happens, not to speak to me, No, not a word !’ and Enid was aghast; And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on, When crying out, ‘ Effeminate as I am, I will not fight my way with gilded arms, All shall be iron; ’ he loosed a mighty purse, Hung at his belt, and hurl’d it toward the squire. So the last sight that Enid had of home Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown With gold and scatter’d coinage, and the squire Chafing his shoulder: then he cried again, ‘ To the wilds !’ and Enid leading down the tracks Thro’ which he bad her lead him on, they past The marches, and by bandit - haunted holds, Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern, And wildernesses, perilous paths, they . rode : Round was their pace at first, but slacken’d soon : A stranger meeting them had surely thought They rode so slowly and they look’d so pale, That each had suffer’d some exceeding wrong. For he was ever saying to himself, ‘ O I that wasted time to tend upon her, To compass her with sweet observances, To dress her beautifully and keep her true ’— And there he broke the sentence in his heart Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue May break it, when his passion masters him. And she was ever praying the sweet heavens To save her dear lord whole from any wound. And ever in her mind she cast about For that unnoticed failing in herself, Which made him look so cloudy and so cold ; Till the great plover’s human whistle amazed GERAINT AND ENID. 355 Her heart, and glancing round the waste she fear’d In every wavering brake an ambuscade. Then thought again, ‘ If there be such in me, I might amend it by the grace of Heaven, If he would only speak and tell me of it.’ But when the fourth part of the day was gone, Then Enid was aware of three tall knights On horseback, wholly arm’d, behind a rock In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all; And heard one crying to his fellow, ‘ Look, Here comes a laggard hanging down his head, Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound; Come, we will slay him and will have his horse And armour, and his damsel shall be ours. ’ Then Enid ponder’d in her heart, and said: ‘ I will go back a little to my lord, And I will tell him all their caitiff talk ; For, be he wroth even to slaying me, Far liefer by his dear hand had I die, Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame.’ Then she went back some paces of return, Met his full frown timidly firm, and said ; ‘ My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock Waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast That they would slay you, and possess your horse And armour, and your damsel should be theirs.’ He made a wrathful answer : ‘ Did I wish Your warning or your silence? one com¬ mand I laid upon you, not to speak to me, And thus ye keep it ! Well then, look —for now, Whether ye wish me victory or defeat, Long for my life, or hunger for my death, Yourself shall see my vigour is not lost.’ Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful, And down upon him bare the bandit three. And at the midmost charging, Prince Geraint Drave the long spear a cubit thro’ his breast And out beyond; and then against his brace Of comrades, each of whom had broken on him A lance that splinter’d like an icicle. Swung from his brand a windy buffet out Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunn’d the twain Or slew them, and dismounting like a man That skins the wild beast after slaying him, Stript from the three dead wolves of woman born The three gay suits of armour which they wore, And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits Of armour on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, ‘ Drive them on Before you ; ’ and she drove them thro’ the waste. He follow’d nearer: ruth began to work Against his anger in him, while he watch’d The being he loved best in all the world, With difficulty in mild obedience Driving them on : he fain had spoken to her, And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath And smoulder’d wrong that burnt him all within; But evermore it seem’d an easier thing At once without remorse to strike her dead, 356 GERAINT AND ENID. Than to cry ‘ Halt,’ and to her own bright face Accuse her of the least immodesty : And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more That she could speak whom his own ear had heard Call herself false : and suffering thus he made Minutes an age : but in scarce longer time Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, Before he turn to fall seaward again, Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold In the first shallow shade of a deep wood, Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks, Three other horsemen waiting, wholly arm’d, Whereof one seem’d far larger than her lord, And shook her pulses, crying, ‘ Look, a prize ! Three horses and three goodly suits of arms, And all in charge of whom? a girl: set on.’ ‘ Nay,’ said the second, ‘yonder comes a knight.’ The third, ‘ A craven ; how he hangs his head.’ The giant answer’d merrily, ‘Yea, but one? Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him.’ And Enid ponder’d in her heart and said, ‘ I will abide the coming of my lord, And I will tell him all their villainy. My lord is weary with the fight before, And they will fall upon him unawares. I needs must disobey him for his good ; How should I dare obey him to his harm ? Needs must I speak, and tho’ he kill me for it, I save a life dearer to me than mine.’ And she abode his coming, and said to him With timid firmness, ‘ Have I leave to speak ?’ He said, ‘Ye take it, speaking,’ and she spoke. ‘ There lurk three villains yonder in the wood, And each of them is wholly arm’d, and one Is larger-limb’d than you are, and they say That they will fall upon you while ye pass. ’ To which he flung a wrathful answer back : ‘ And if there were an hundred in the wood, And every man were larger-limb’d than I, And all at once should sally out upon me, I swear it would not ruffle me so much As you that not obey me. Stand aside, And if I fall, cleave to the better man. ’ And Enid stood aside to wait the event, Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe Short fits of prayer, at eveiy stroke a breath. And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him. Aim’d at the helm, his lance err’d ; but Geraint’s, A little in the late encounter strain’d, Struck thro’ the bulky bandit’s corselet home, And then brake short, and down his enemy roll’d, And there lay still; as he that tells the tale Saw once a great piece of a promontory, That had a sapling growing on it, slide From the long shore-cliff’s windy walls to the beach, And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew : So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair Of comrades making slowlier at the Prince, When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood ; On whom the victor, to confound them more, Spurr’d with his terrible war-cry ; for as one, That listens near a torrent mountain- brook, GERAINT AND ENID. 357 All thro’ the crash of the near cataract hears The drumming thunder of the huger fall At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear His voice in battle, and be kindled by it, And foemen scared, like that false pair who turn’d Flying, but, overtaken, died the death Themselves had wrought on many an innocent. Thereon Geraint, dismounting, pick’d the lance That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves Their three gay suits of armour, each from each, And bound them on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, ‘ Drive them on Before you,’ and she drove them thro’ the wood. He follow’d nearer still: the pain she had To keep them in the wild ways of the wood, Two sets of three laden with jingling arms, Together, served a little to disedge The sharpness of that pain about her heart: And they themselves, like creatures gently born But into bad hands fall’n, and now so long By bandits groom’d, prick’d their light ears, and felt Her low firm voice and tender government. So thro’ the green gloom of the wood they past, And issuing under open heavens beheld A little town with towers, upon a rock, And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it: And down a rocky pathway from the place There came a fair-hair’d youth, that in his hand Bare victual for the mowers: and Geraint Had ruth again on Enid looking pale : Then, moving downward to the meadow ground, He, when the fair-hair’d youth came by him, said, ‘ Friend, let her eat ; the damsel is so faint.’ ‘Yea, willingly,’ replied the youth; ‘and thou, My lord, eat also, tho’ the fare is coarse, And only meet for mowers ; ’ then set down His basket, and dismounting on the sward They let the horses graze, and ate them¬ selves. And Enid took a little delicately, Less having stomach for it than desire To close with her lord’s pleasure ; but Geraint Ate all the mowers’ victual unawares, And when he found all empty, was amazed ; And ‘Boy,’ said he, ‘I have eaten all, but take A horse and arms for guerdon; choose the best.’ He, reddening in extremity of delight, ‘ My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold.’ ‘Ye will be all the wealthier,’ cried the Prince. ‘I take it as free gift, then,’ said the boy, ‘ Not guerdon ; for myself can easily, While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl ; For these are his, and all the field is his, And I myself am his ; and I will tell him How great a man thou art: he loves to know When men of mark are in his territory : And he will have thee to his palace here, And serve thee costlier than with mowers’ fare. ’ Then said Geraint, ‘ I wish no better fare : I never ate with angrier appetite 358 GERAINT AND ENID. Than when I left your mowers dinnerless. And into no Earl’s palace will I go. I know, God knows, too much of palaces ! And if he want me, let him come to me. But hire us some fair chamber for the night, And stalling for the horses, and return With victual for these men, and let us know.’ ‘Yea, my kind lord,’ said the glad youth, and went, Held his head high, and thought himself a knight, And up the rocky pathway disappear’d, Leading the horse, and they were left alone. But when the Prince had brought his eri'ant eyes Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance At Enid, where she droopt : his own false doom, That shadow of mistrust should never cross Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sigh’d ; Then with another humorous ruth re¬ mark’d The lusty mowers labouring dinnerless, And watch’d the sun blaze on the turning scythe, And after nodded sleepily in the heat. But she, remembering her old ruin’d hall, And all the windy clamour of the daws About her hollow turret, pluck’d the grass There growing longest by the meadow’s edge, And into many a listless annulet, Now over, now beneath her marriage ring, Wove and unwove it, till the boy return’d And told them of a chamber, and they went; Where, after saying to her, * If ye will, Call for the woman of the house,’ to which She answer’d, ‘ Thanks, my lord ; ’ the two remain’d Apart by all the chamber’s width, and mute As creatures voiceless thro’ the fault of birth, Or two wild men supporters of a shield, Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance The one at other, parted by the shield. On a sudden, many a voice along the street, And heel against the pavement echoing, burst Their drowse; and either started while the door, Push’d from without, drave backward to the wall, And midmost of a rout of roisterers, Femininely fair and dissolutely pale, Her suitor in old years before Geraint, Enter’d, the wild lord of the place, Limours. He moving up with pliant courtliness, Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily, In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hand, Found Enid with the corner of his eye, And knew her sitting sad and solitary. Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer To feed the sudden guest, and sump¬ tuously According to his fashion, bad the host Call in what men soever were his friends, And feast with these in honour of their Earl; ‘ And care not for the cost; the cost is mine.’ And wine and food were brought, and Earl Limours Drank till he jested with all ease, and told Free tales, and took the word and play’d upon it, And made it of two colours ; for his talk, When wine and free companions kindled him, Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem Of fifty facets ; thus he moved the Prince To laughter and his comrades to applause. GERAINT AND ENID . 359 Then, when the Prince was merry, ask’d Limours, ‘ Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak To your good damsel there who sits apart, And seems so lonely ? ’ ‘ My free leave, ’ he said ; ‘ Get her to speak : she doth not speak to me.’ Then rose Limours, and looking at his feet, Like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail, Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes, Bow’d at her side and utter’d whisper- ingly : ‘ Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, Enid, my early and my only love, Enid, the loss of whom hath turn’d me wild— What chance is this ? how is it I see you here ? Ye are in my power at last, are in my power. Yet fear me not : I call mine own self wild, But keep a touch of sweet civility Here in the heart of waste and wilderness. I thought, but that your father came between, In former days you saw me favourably. And if it were so do not keep it back : Make me a little happier : let me know it: Owe you me nothing for a life half-lost ? Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are. And, Enid, you and he, I see with joy, Ye sit apart, you do not speak to him, You come with no attendance, page or maid, To serve you—doth he love you as of old ? For, call it lovers’ quarrels, yet I know Tho’ men may bicker with the things they love, They would not make them laughable in all eyes, Not while they loved them ; and your wretched dress, A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks Your story, that this man loves you no more. Your beauty is no beauty to him now : A common chance—right well I know it —pall’d— For I know men : nor will ye win him back, For the man’s love once gone never returns. But here is one who loves you as of old ; With more exceeding passion than of old : Good, speak the word : my followers ring him round : He sits unarm’d ; I hold a finger up ; They understand : nay ; I do not mean blood : Nor need ye look so scared at what I say : My malice is no deeper than a moat, No stronger than a wall: there is the keep ; He shall not cross us more; speak but the word : Or speak it not; but then by Him that made me The one true lover whom you ever own’d, I will make use of all the power I have. O pardon me ! the madness of that hour, When first I parted from thee, moves me yet.’ At this the tender sound of his own voice And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it, Made his eye moist ; but Enid fear’d his eyes, Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast ; And answer’d with such craft as women use, Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance That breaks upon them perilously, and said : ‘ Earl, if you love me as in former years, And do not practise on me, come with morn, And snatch me from him as by violence ; Leave me to-night: I am weary to the death.’ 360 GERAINT AND ENID. Low at leave-taking, with his brandish’d plume Brushing his instep, bow’d the all- amorous Earl, And the stout Prince bad him a loud good-night. He moving homeward babbled to his men, How Enid never loved a man but him, Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord. But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint, Debating his command of silence given, And that she now perforce must violate it, Held commune with herself, and while she held He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart To wake him, but hung o’er him, wholly pleased To find him yet unwounded after fight, And hear him breathing low and equally. Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heap’d The pieces of his armour in one place, All to be there against a sudden need ; Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoil’d By that day’s grief and travel, evermore Seem’d catching at a rootless thorn, and then Went slipping down horrible precipices, And strongly striking out her limbs awoke ; Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door, With all his rout of random followers, Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her; Which was the red cock shouting to the light, As the gray dawn stole o’er the dewy world, And glimmer’d on his armour in the room. And once again she rose to look at it, But touch’d it unawares : jangling, the casque Fell, and he started up and stared at her. Then breaking his command of silence given, She told him all that Earl Limours had said, Except the passage that he loved her not; Nor left untold the craft herself had used ; But ended with apology so sweet, Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seem’d So justified by that necessity. That tho’ he thought ‘ was it for him she wept In Devon ?’ he but gave a wrathful groan, Saying, ‘Your sweet faces make good fellows fools And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring Charger and palfrey.’ So she glided out Among the heavy breathings of the house, And like a household Spirit at the walls Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and return’d : Then tending her rough lord, tho’ all unask’d, In silence, did him service as a squire ; Till issuing arm’d he found the host and cried, ‘ Thy reckoning, friend ? ’ and ere he learnt it, * Take Five horses and their armours ; ’ and the host Suddenly honest, answer’d in amaze, ‘ My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of one ! ’ ‘Ye will be all the wealthier,’ said the Prince, And then to Enid, ‘ Forward ! and to¬ day I charge you, Enid, more especially, What thing soever ye may hear, or see, Or fancy (tho’ I count it of small use To charge you) that ye speak not but obey.’ And Enid answer’d, ‘Yea, my lord, I know Your wish, and would obey; but riding first, I hear the violent threats you do not hear, I see the danger which you cannot see : Then not to give you warning, that seems hard ; Almost beyond me : yet I would obey.’ GERAINT AND ENID. 36 1 ‘Yea so,’ said he, ‘do it : be not too wise ; Seeing that ye are wedded to a man, Not all mismated with a yawning clown, But one with arms to guard his head and yours, With eyes to find you out however far, And ears to hear you even in his dreams. ’ With that he turn’d and look’d as keenly at her As careful robins eye the delver’s toil; And that within her, which a wanton fool, Or hasty judger would have call’d her guilt, Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. And Geraint look’d and was not satisfied. Then forward by a way which, beaten broad, Led from the territory of false Limours To the waste earldom of another earl, Doorm, whom his shaking vassals call’d the Bull, Went Enid with her sullen follower on. Once she look’d back, and when she saw him ride More near by many a rood than yester- morn, ft wellnigh made her cheerful; till Geraint Waving an angry hand as who should say ‘Ye watch me,’ sadden’d all her heart again. But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade, The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof Smote on her ear, and turning round she saw Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it. Then not to disobey her lord’s behest, And yet to give him warning, for he rode As if he heard not, moving back she held Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. At which the warrior in his obstinacy, Because she kept the letter of his word, Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood. And in the moment after, wild Limours, Borne on a black horse, like a thunder¬ cloud Whose skirts are loosen’d by the breaking storm, Half ridden off with by the thing he rode, And all in passion uttering a dry shriek, Dash’d on Geraint, who closed with him, and bore Down by the length of lance and arm beyond The crupper, and so left him stunn’d or dead, And overthrew the next that follow’d him, And blindly rush’d on all the rout behind. But at the flash and motion of the man They vanish’d panic-stricken, like a shoal Of darting fish, that on a summer morn Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot Come slipping o’er their shadows on the sand, But if a man who stands upon the brink But lift a shining hand against the sun, There is not left the twinkle of a fin Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower ; So, scared but at the motion of the man, Fled all the boon companions of the Earl, And left him lying in the public way ; So vanish friendships only made in wine. Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint, Who saw the chargers of the two that fell Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, Mixt with the flyers. ‘ Horse and man,’ he said, ‘ All of one mind and all right-honest friends ! Not a hoof left: and I methinks till now Was honest—paid with horses and with arms ; I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg: And so what say ye, shall we strip him there Your lover ? has your palfrey heart enough To bear his armour ? shall we fast, or dine ? No?—then do thou, being right honest, pray That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm, 362 GERAINT AND ENID. I too would still be honest.’ Thus he said : And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins, And answering not one word, she led the way. But as a man to whom a dreadful loss Falls in a far land and he knows it not, But coming back he learns it, and the loss ■So pains him that he sickens nigh to death ; So fared it with Geraint, who being prick’d In combat with the follower of Limours, Bled underneath his armour secretly, And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife What ail’d him, hardly knowing it himself, Till his eye darken’d and his helmet wagg’d ; And at a sudden swerving of the road, Tho’ happily down on a bank of grass, The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell. And Enid heard the clashing of his fall, Suddenly came, and at his side all pale Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms, Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound, And tearing off her veil of faded silk Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun, And swathed the hurt that drain’d her dear lord’s life. Then after all was done that hand could do, She rested, and her desolation came Upon her, and she wept beside the way. And many past, but none regarded her, For in that realm of lawless turbulence, A woman weeping for her murder’d mate Was cared as much for as a summer shower: One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm, Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him: Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl ; Half whistling and half singing a coarse song, He drove the dust against her veilless eyes: Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm Before an ever-fancied arrow, made The long way smoke beneath him in his fear; At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel, And scour’d into the coppices and was lost, While the great charger stood, grieved like a man. But at the point of noon the huge Earl Doorm, Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet beard, Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey, Came riding with a hundred lances up ; But ere he came, like one that hails a ship, Cried out with a big voice, ‘ What, is he dead ? ’ ‘ No, no, not dead !’ she answer’d in all haste. ‘ Would some of your kind people take him up, And bear him hence out of this cruel sun? Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead. ’ Then said Earl Doorm : * Well, if he be not dead, Why wail ye for him thus? ye seem a child. And be he dead, I count you for a fool; Your wailing will not quicken him: dead or not, Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. Yet, since the face is comely—some of you, Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall: An if he live, we will have him of our band ; And if he die, why earth has earth enough To hide him. See ye take the charger too, A noble one.’ He spake, and past away, But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced, Each growling like a dog, when his. good bone Seems to be pluck’d at by the village boys Who love to vex him eating, and he fears To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it, Gnawing and growling: so the ruffians growl’d, Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man, GERAINT AND ENID . 363 Their chance of booty from the morning’s raid, Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier, Such as they brought upon their forays out Tor those that might be wounded ; laid him on it All in the hollow of his shield, and took And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm, (His gentle charger following him unled) And cast him and the bier in which he lay Down on an oaken settle in the hall, And then departed, hot in haste to join Their luckier mates, but growling as before, And cursing their lost time, and the dead man, And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her. They might as well have blest her: she was deaf To blessing or to cursing save from one. So for long hours sat Enid by her lord, There in the naked hall, propping his head, And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him. Till at the last he waken’d from his swoon, And found his own dear bride propping his head, And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him ; And felt the warm tears falling on his face; And said to his own heart, ‘ She weeps for me : ’ And yet lay still, and feign’d himself as dead. That he might prove her to the uttermost, And say to his own heart, ‘ She weeps for me.’ But in the falling afternoon return’d The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall. His lusty spearmen follow’d him with noise : Each hurling down a heap of things that rang Against the pavement, cast his lance aside, And doff’d his helm : and then there flutter’d in, Half-bold, half-frighted, Math dilated eyes, A tribe of women, dress’d in many hues, And mingled with the spearmen : and Earl Doorm .Struck with a knife’s haft hard against the board, And call’d for flesh and wine to feed his spears. And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves, And all the hall M 7 as dim with steam of flesh : And none spake word, but all sat dovm at once, And ate with tumult in the naked hall, Feeding like horses when you hear them feed; Till Enid shrank far back into herself, To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe. But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would, He roll’d his eyes about the hall, and found A damsel drooping in a corner of it. Then he remember’d her, and how she wept; And out of her there came a power upon him ; And rising on the sudden he said, ‘ Eat! I never yet beheld a thing so pale. God’s curse, it makes me mad to see you weep. Eat ! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man, For were I dead who is it would weep for me ? Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath Have I beheld a lily like yourself. And so there lived some colour in your cheek, There is not one among my gentlewomen Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove. But listen to me, and by me be ruled, And I will do the thing I have not done, For ye shall share my earldom with me, girl, And we will live like two birds in one nest, 36 4 GERAINT AND ENID . And I will fetch you forage from all fields, For I compel all creatures to my will.’ He spoke : the brawny spearman let his cheek Bulge with the unswallow’d piece, and turning stared ; While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn Down, as the worm draws in the wither’d leaf And makes it earth, hiss’d each at other’s ear What shall not be recorded—women they, Women, or what had been those gracious things, But now desired the humbling of their best, Yea, would have help’d him to it: and all at once They hated her, who took no thought of them, But answer’d in low voice, her meek head yet Drooping, ‘ I pray you of your courtesy, He being as he is, to let me be.’ She spake so low he hardly heard her speak, But like a mighty patron, satisfied With what himself had done so graci¬ ously, Assumed that she had thank’d him, add¬ ing, ‘ Yea, Eat and be glad, for I account you mine. ’ She answer’d meekly, ‘ How should I be glad Henceforth in all the world at anything, Until my lord arise and look upon me?’ Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk, As all but-empty heart and weariness And sickly nothing; suddenly seized on her, And bare her by main violence to the board, And thrust the dish before her, crying, ‘Eat.’ ‘ No, no,’ said Enid, vext, ‘ I will not eat Till yonder man upon the bier arise, And eat with me.’ ‘Drink, then,’ he answer’d. ‘Here!’ (And fill’d a horn with wine and held it to her,) ‘ Lo ! I, myself, when flush’d with fight, or hot, God’s curse, with anger—often I myself, Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat : Drink therefore and the wine will change your will.’ ‘ Not so,’ she cried, ‘ by Heaven, I will not drink Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it, And drink with me; and if he rise no more, I will not look at wine until I die.’ At this he turn’d all red and paced his hall, Now gnaw’d his under, now his upper lip, And coming up close to her, said at last : ‘ Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies, Take warning: yonder man is surely dead ; And I compel all creatures to my will. Not eat nor drink ? And wherefore wail for one, Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn By dressing it in rags ? Amazed am I, Beholding how ye butt against my wish, That I forbear you thus : cross me no more. At least put off to please me this poor gown, This silken rag, this beggar-woman’s weed : I love that beauty should go beautifully : For see ye not my gentlewomen here, How gay, how suited to the house of one Who loves that beauty should go beauti¬ fully ? Rise therefore; robe yourself in this : obey. ’ GERAINT AND ENID. 365 He spoke, and one among his gentle¬ women Display’d a splendid silk of foreign loom, Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue Play’d into green, and thicker down the front With jewels than the sward with drops of dew, When all night long a cloud clings to the hill, And with the dawn ascending lets the day Strike where it clung: so thickly shone the gems. But Enid answer’d, harder to be moved Than hardest tyrants in their day of power, With life-long injuries burning unavenged, And now their hour has come ; and Enid said : ‘ In this poor gown my dear lord found me first, And loved me serving in my father’s hall: In this poor gown I rode with him to court, And there the Queen array’d me like the sun : In this poor gown he bad me clothe myself, When now we rode upon this fatal quest Of honour, where no honour can be gain’d : And this poor gown I will not cast aside Until himself arise a living man, And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough : Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be : I never loved, can never love but him : Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness, He being as he is, to let me be.’ Then strode the brute Earl up and down his hall, And took his russet beard between his teeth; Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood Crying, * I count it of no more avail, Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you ; Take my salute,’ unknightly with flat hand, However lightly, smote her on the cheek. Then Enid, in her utter helplessness, And since she thought, ‘ He had not dared to do it, Except he surely knew my lord was dead,’ Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry, As of a wild thing taken in the trap, Which sees the trapper coming thro’ the wood. This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword, (It lay beside him in the hollow shield), Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it Shore thro’ the swarthy neck, and like a ball The russet-bearded head roll’d on the floor. So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead. And all the men and women in the hall Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled Yelling as from a spectre, and the two Were left alone together, and he said : ‘ Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man ; Done you more wrong: we both have undergone That trouble which has left me thrice your own : Henceforward I will rather die than doubt. And here I lay this penance on myself, Not, tho’ mine own ears heard you yestermorn— You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say, I heard you say, that you were no true wife: I swear I will not ask your meaning in it: I do believe yourself against yourself, And will henceforward rather die than doubt.’ And Enid could not say one tender word, She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart : She only pray’d him, ‘ Fly, they Will return GERAINT AND ENID. 366 And slay you ; fly, your charger is with¬ out, My palfrey lost.’ ‘ Then, Enid, shall you ride Behind me.’ ‘Yea,’said Enid, ‘let us go.’ And moving out they found the stately horse, Who now no more a vassal to the thief, But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight, Neigh’d with all gladness as they came, and stoop’d With a low whinny toward the pair : and she Kiss’d the white star upon his noble front, Glad also ; then Geraint upon the horse Mounted, and reach’d a hand, and on his foot She set her own and climb’d ; he turn’d his face And kiss’d her climbing, and she cast her arms About him, and at once they rode away. And never yet, since high in Paradise O’er the four rivers the first roses blew, Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind Than lived thro’ her, who in that perilous hour Put hand to hand beneath her husband’s heart, And felt him hers again: she did not weep, But o’er her meek eyes came a happy mist Like that which kept the heart of Eden green Before the useful trouble of the rain : Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes As not to see before them on the path, Right in the gateway of the bandit hold, A knight of Arthur’s court, who laid his ■ lance In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood, She, with her mind all full of what had chanced, Shriek’d to the stranger ‘ Slay not a dead man! ’ ‘The voice of Enid,’ said the knight; but she, Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, Was moved so much the more, and shriek’d again, ‘ O cousin, slay not him who gave you life.’ And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake: ‘ My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love ; I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm ; And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him, Who love you, Prince, with something of the love Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us. For once, when I was up so high in pride * That I was halfway down the slope to Hell, By overthrowing me you threw me higher. Now, made a knight of Arthur’s Table Round, And since I knew this Earl, when I my¬ self Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm (The King is close behind me) bidding him Disband himself, and scatter all his powers, Submit, and hear the judgment of the King.’ ‘ He hears the judgment of the King of kings,’ Cried the wan Prince; ‘ and lo, the powers of Doorm Are scatter’d,’ and he pointed to the field, Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll, Were men and women staring and aghast, While some yet fled; and then he plainlier told How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall. But when the knight besought him, ‘ Follow me, Prince, to the camp, and in the King’s own ear GERAINT AND ENID. 367 Speak what has chanced ; ye surely have endured Strange chances here alone;’ that other flush’d, And hung his head, and halted in reply, Fearing the mild face of the blameless King, And after madness acted question ask’d : Till Edyrn crying, ‘ If ye will not go To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you,’ ‘Enough,’ he said, ‘I follow,’ and they went. But Enid in their going had two fears, One from the bandit scatter’d in the field, And one from Edyrn. Every now and then, When Edyrn rein’d his charger at her side, She shrank a little. In a hollow land, From which old fires have broken, men may fear Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said: ‘ Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed. Yourself were first the blameless cause to make My nature’s prideful sparkle in the blood Break into furious flame ; being repulsed By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wrought Until I overturn’d him ; then set up (With one main purpose ever at my heart) My haughty jousts, and took a paramour ; Did her mock-honour as the fairest fair, And, toppling over all antagonism, So wax’d in pride, that I believed myself Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad : And, but for my main purpose in these jousts, I should have slain your father, seized yourself. I lived in hope that sometime you would come To these my lists with him whom best you loved; And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes, The truest eyes that ever answer’d Heaven, Behold me overturn and trample on him. Then, had you cried, or knelt, or pray’d to me, I should not less have kill’d him. And you came,— But once you came,—and with your own true eyes Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one Speaks of a service done him) overthrow My proud self, and my purpose three years old, And set his foot upon me, and give me life. There was I broken down ; there was I saved : Tho’ thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. And all the penance the Queen laid upon me Was but to rest awhile within her court; Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged, And waiting to be treated like a wolf, Because I knew my deeds were known, I found, Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn, Such fine reserve and noble reticence, Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace Of tenderest courtesy, that I began To glance behind me at my former life, And find that it had been the wolf’s in¬ deed : And oft I talk’d with Dubric, the high saint, Who, with mild heat of holy oratory, Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness, Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man. And you were often there about the Queen, But saw me not, or mark’d not if you saw; Nor did I care or dare to speak with you, But kept myself aloof till I was changed ; And fear not, cousin; I am changed indeed. ’ He spoke, and Enid easily believed, Like simple noble natures, credulous Of what they long for, good in friend or foe, There most in those who most have done them ill. 3 68 GERAINT AND ENID . And when they reach’d the camp the King himself Advanced to greet them, and beholding her Tho’ pale, yet happy, ask’d her not a word, But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held In converse for a little, and return’d, And, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse, And kiss’d her with all pureness, brother¬ like, And show’d an empty tent allotted her, And glancing for a minute, till he saw her Pass into it, turn’d to the Prince, and said : ‘ Prince, when of late ye pray’d me for my leave To move to your own land, and there defend Your marches, I was prick’d with some reproof, As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be, By having look’d too much thro’ alien eyes, And wrought too long with delegated hands, Not used mine own : but now behold me come To cleanse this common sewer of all my realm, With Edyrn and with others: have ye look’d At Edyrn ? have ye seen how nobly changed ? This work of his is great and wonderful. His very face with change of heart is changed. The world will not believe a man repents: And this wise world of ours is mainly right. Full seldom doth a man repent, or use Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch Of blood and custom wholly out of him, And make all clean, and plant himself afresh. Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart As I will weed this land before I go. I, therefore, made him of our Table Round, Not rashly, but have proved him every¬ way One of our noblest, our most valorous, Sanest and most obedient: and indeed This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself After a life of violence, seems to me A thousand-fold more great and wonderful Than if some knight of mine, risking his life, My subject with my subjects under him, Should make an onslaught single on a realm Of robbers, tho’ he slew them one by one, And were himself nigh wounded to the death. ’ So spake the King; low bow’d the Prince, and felt His work was neither great nor wonderful, And past to Enid’s tent; and thither came The King’s own leech to look into his hurt; And Enid tended on him there; and there Her constant motion round him, and the breath Of her sweet tendance hovering over him, Fill’d all the genial courses of his blood With deeper and with ever deeper love, As the south-west that blowing Bala lake Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days. But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt, The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes On each of all whom Uther left in charge Long since, to guard the justice of the King : He look’d and found them wanting ; and as now Men weed the white horse on the Berk¬ shire hills To keep him bright and clean as hereto¬ fore, He rooted out the slothful officer Or guilty, which for bribe had wink’d at wrong, “ Once more the gate behind me falls, Once more before my face I see the moulder'd Abbey walls. That stand within the chace MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 3 6 9 And in their chairs set up a stronger race With hearts and hands, and sent a thou¬ sand men To till the wastes, and moving everywhere Clear’d the dark places and let in the law, And broke the bandit holds and cleansed the land. Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. There the great Queen once more em¬ braced her friend, And clothed her in apparel like the day. And tho’ Geraint could never take again That comfort from their converse which he took Before the Queen’s fair name was breathed upon. He rested well content that all was well. Thence after tarrying fora space they rode, And fifty knights rode with them to the shores Of Severn, and they past to their own land. And there he kept the justice of the King So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died : And being ever foremost in the chase, And victor at the tilt and tournament, They call’d him the great Prince and man of men. But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call Enid the Fair, a grateful people named Enid the Good ; and in their halls arose The cry of children, Enids and Geraints Of times to be; nor did he doubt her more, But rested in her fealty, till he crown’d A happy life with a fair death, and fell Against the heathen of the Northern Sea In battle, fighting for the blameless King. MERLIN AND VIVIEN. A storm was coming, but the winds were still, And in the wild woods of Broceliande, Before an oak, so hollow, huge and old It look’d a tower of ivied mason work, At Merlin’s feet the wily Vivien lay. For he that always bare in bitter grudge The slights of Arthur and his Table, Mark The Cornish King, had heard a wandering voice, A minstrel of Caerleon by strong storm Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say That out of naked knightlike purity Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried girl But the great Queen herself, fought in her name, Sware by her—vows like theirs, that high in heaven Love most, but neither marry, nor are given In marriage, angels of our Lord’s report. He ceased, and then — for Vivien sweetly said (She sat beside the banquet nearest Mark), ‘ And is the fair example follow’d, Sir, In Arthur’s household?’—answer’d inno¬ cently : ‘ Ay, by some few—ay, truly—youths that hold It more beseems the perfect virgin knight To worship woman as true wife beyond All hopes of gaining, than as maiden girl. They place their pride in Lancelot and the Queen. So passionate for an utter purity Beyond the limit of their bond, are these, For Arthur bound them not to singleness. Brave hearts and clean ! and yet—God guide them—young.’ Then Mark was half in heart to hurl his cup Straight at the speaker, but forbore : he rose To leave the hall, and, Vivien following him, Turn’d to her : ‘ Here are snakes within the grass ; And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye fear The monkish manhood, and the mask of pure Worn by this court, can stir them till they sting.’ 2 n 37o MERLIN AND VIVIEN. And Vivien answer’d, smiling scorn¬ fully, ‘ Why fear ? because that foster’d at thy court I savour of thy—virtues ? fear them ? no. As Love, if Love be perfect, casts out fear, So Hate, if Hate be perfect, casts out fear. My father died in battle against the King, My mother on his corpse in open field ; She bore me there, for born from death was I Among the dead and sown upon the wind— And then on thee ! and shown the truth betimes, That old true filth, and bottom of the well, Where Truth is hidden. Gracious lessons thine And maxims of the mud ! This Arthur pure ! Great Nature thro’ the flesh herself hath made Gives him the lie ! There is no being pure, My cherub; saith not Holy Writ the same ? ”— If I were Arthur, I would have thy blood. Thy blessing, stainless King ! I bring thee back, When I have ferreted out their burrow- ings, The hearts of all this Order in mine hand— Ay—so that fate and craft and folly close, Perchance, one curl of Arthur’s golden beard. To me this narrow grizzled fork of thine Is cleaner-fashion’d—Well, I loved thee first, That warps the wit.’ Loud laugh’d the graceless Mark. But Vivien, into Camelot stealing, lodged Low in the city, and on a festal day When Guinevere was crossing the great hall Cast herself down, knelt to the Queen, and wail’d. ‘ Why kneel ye there ? What evil have ye wrought ? Rise ! ’ and the damsel bidden rise arose And stood with folded hands and down¬ ward eyes Of glancing corner, and all meekly said, ‘ None wrought, but suffer’d much, an orphan maid ! My father died in battle for thy King, My mother on his corpse—in open field, The sad sea-sounding wastes of Ly onesse— Poor wretch—no friend !—and now by Mark the King For that small charm of feature mine, pursued— If any such be mine—I fly to thee. Save, save me thou—Woman of women— thine The wreath of beauty, thine the crown of power, Be thine the balm of pity, O Heaven’s own white Earth-angel, stainless bride of stainless King- Help, for he follows ! take me to thyself! O yield me shelter for mine innocency Among thy maidens !’ Here her slow sweet eyes Fear-tremulous, but humbly hopeful, rose Fixt on her hearer’s, while the Queen who stood All glittering like May sunshine on May leaves In green and gold, and plumed with green replied, ‘ Peace, child ! of overpraise and over¬ blame We choose the last. Our noble Arthur, him Ye scarce can overpraise, will hear and know. Nay—we believe all evil of thy Mark— Well, we shall test thee farther ; but this hour We ride a-hawking with Sir Lancelot. He hath given us a fair falcon which he train’d ; We go to prove it. Bide ye here the while.’ MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 37 She past; and Vivien murmur’d after ‘Go ! I bide the while.’ Then thro’ the portal- arch Peering askance, and muttering broken- wise, As one that labours with an evil dream, Beheld the Queen and Lancelot get to horse. ‘ Is that the Lancelot ? goodly—ay, but gaunt: Courteous—amends for gauntness—takes her hand— That glance of theirs, but for the street, had been A clinging kiss—how hand lingers in hand ! Let go at last!—they ride away—to hawk For waterfowl. Royaller game is mine. For such a supersensual sensual bond As that gray cricket chirpt of at our hearth— Touch flax with flame—a glance will serve —the liars ! Ah little rat that borest in the dyke Thy hole by night to let the boundless deep Down upon far-off cities while they dance— Or dream—of thee they dream’d not— nor of me These—ay, but each of either : ride, and dream The mortal dream that never yet was mine— Ride, ride and dream until ye wake—to me ! Then, narrow court and lubber King, farewell ! For Lancelot will be gracious to the rat, And our wise Queen, if knowing that I know, Will hate, loathe, fear—but honour me the more.’ Yet while they rode together down the plain, Their talk was all of training, terms of art, Diet and seeling, jesses, leash and lure. ‘ She is too noble ’ he said ‘ to check at pies, Nor will she rake : there is no baseness in her.’ Here when the Queen demanded as by chance ‘Know ye the stranger woman?’ ‘Let her be,’ Said Lancelot and unhooded casting off The goodly falcon free; she tower’d; her bells, Tone under tone, shrill’d ; and they lifted up Their eager faces, wondering at the strength, Boldness and royal knighthood of the bird Who pounced her quarry and slew it. Many a time As once—of old—among the flowers— they rode. But Vivien half-forgotten of the Queen Among her damsels broidering sat, heard, watch’d And whisper’d : thro’ the peaceful court she crept And whisper’d : then as Arthur in the highest Leaven’d the world, so Vivien in the lowest, Arriving at a time of golden rest, And sowing one ill hint from ear to ear, Whilp all the heathen lay at Arthur’s feet, .And no quest came, but all was joust and play, Leaven’d his hall. They heard and let her be. Thereafter as an enemy that has left Death in the living waters, and with- • drawn, The wily Vivien stole from Arthur’s court. She hated all the knights, and heard in thought Their lavish comment when her name was named. For once, when Arthur walking all alone, Vext at a rumour issued from herself Of some corruption crept among his knights, 372 MERLIN AND VIVIEN. Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair, Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken . voice, And flutter’d adoration, and at last With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more Than who should prize him most; at which the King Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by: But one had watch’d, and had not held his peace : It made the laughter of an afternoon That Vivien should attempt the blameless King. And after that, she set herself to gain Him, the most famous man of all those times, Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, Had built the King his havens, ships, and halls, Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens ; The people call’d him Wizard ; whom at first She play’d about with slight and sprightly talk, And vivid smiles, and faintly-venom’d points Of slander, glancing here and grazing there ; And yielding to his kindlier moods, the Seer Would watch her at her petulance, and play, Ev’n when they seem’d unloveable, and laugh As those that watch a kitten ; thus he grew Tolerant of what he half disdain’d, and she, Perceiving that she was but half disdain’d, Began to break her sports with graver fits, Turn red or pale, would often when they met Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him With such a fixt devotion, that the old man. Tho’ doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times Would flatter his own wish in age for love, And half believe her true: for thus at times He waver’d ; but that other clung to him, Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went. Then fell on Merlin a great melancholy; He walk’d with dreams and darkness, and he found A doom that ever poised itself to fall, An ever-moaning battle ifl the mist, World-war of dying flesh against the life, Death in all life and lying in all love, The meanest having power upon the highest, And the high purpose broken by the worm. So leaving Arthur’s court he gain’d the beach; There found a little boat, and stept into it; And Vivien follow’d, but he mark’d her not. She took the helm and he the sail; the boat Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps, And touching Breton sands, they dis¬ embark’d. And then she follow’d Merlin all the way, Ev’n to the wild woods of Broceliande. For Merlin once had told her of a charm, The which if any wrought on anyone With woven paces and with waving arms, The man so wrought on ever seem’d to lie Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower, From which was no escape for evermore ; And none could find that man for ever¬ more, Nor could he see but him who wrought the charm. Coming and going, and he lay as dead And lost to life and use and name and fame. And Vivien ever sought to work the charm Upon the great Enchanter of the Time, MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 373 As fancying that her glory would be great According to his greatness whom she quench’d. There lay she all her length and kiss’d his feet, As if in deepest reverence and in love. A twist of gold was round her hair; a robe Of samite without price, that more exprest Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs, In colour like the satin-shining palm On sallows in the windy gleams of March : And while she kiss’d them, crying, ‘ Trample me, Dear feet, that I have follow’d thro’ the world, And I will pay you worship ; tread me down And I will kiss you for it; ’ he was mute : So dark a forethought roll’d about his brain, As on a dull day in an Ocean cave The blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall In silence : wherefore, when she lifted up A face of sad appeal, and spake and said, ‘ O Merlin, do ye love me?’ and again, ‘O Merlin, do ye love me?’ and once more, ‘Great Master, do ye love me?’ he was mute. And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel, Writhed toward him, slided up his knee and sat, Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet Together, curved an arm about his neck, Clung like a snake; and letting her left hand Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf, Made with her right a comb of pearl to part The lists of such a beard as youth gone out Had left in ashes: then he spoke and said, Not looking at her, ‘Who are wise in love Love most, say least,’ and Vivien an¬ swer’d quick, ‘ I saw the little elf-god eyeless once In Arthur’s arras hall at Camelot: But neither eyes nor tongue — O stupid child ! Yet you are wise who say it; let me think Silence is wisdom : I am silent then, And ask no kissthen adding all at once, ‘ And lo, I clothe myself with wisdom,’ drew The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard Across her neck and bosom to her knee, And call’d herself a gilded summer fly Caught in a great old tyrant spider’s web, Who meant to eat her up in that wild wood Without one word. So Vivien call’d herself, But rather seem’d a lovely baleful star Veil’d in gray vapour; till he sadly smiled: ‘ To what request for what strange boon,’ he said, ‘ Are these your pretty tricks and fooleries, O Vivien, the preamble ? yet my thanks, For these have broken up my melancholy.’ And Vivien answer’d smiling saucily, ‘ What, O my Master, have ye found your voice ? I bid the stranger welcome. Thanks at last! But yesterday you never open’d lip, Except indeed to drink : no cup had we : In mine own lady palms I cull’d the spring That gather’d trickling dropwise from the cleft, And made a pretty cup of both my hands And offer’d you it kneeling: then you drank And knew no more, nor gave me one poor word ; O no more thanks than might a goat have given With no more sign of reverence than a beard. And when we halted at that other well, And I was faint to swooning, and you lay Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of those Deep meadows we had traversed, did you know 374 MERLTN AND VIVIEN. That Vivien bathed your feet before her own ? And yet no thanks : and all thro’ this wild wood And all this morning when I fondled you : Boon, ay, there was a boon, one not so strange— • How had I wrong’d you ? surely ye are wise, But such a silence is more wise than kind.’ And Merlin lock’d his hand in hers and said : ‘O did ye never lie upon the shore, And watch the curl’d white of the coming wave Glass’d in the slippery sand before it breaks ? Ev’n such a wave, but not so pleasurable, Dark in the glass of some presageful mood, Had I for three days seen, ready to fall. And then I rose and fled from Arthur’s court To break the mood. You follow’d me unask’d ; And when I look’d, and saw you follow¬ ing still, My mind involved yourself the nearest thing In that mind-mist: for shall I tell you truth ? You seem’d that wave about to break upon me And sweep me from my hold upon the world, My use and name and fame. Your pardon, child. Your pretty sports have brighten’d all again. And ask your boon, for boon I owe you thrice, Once for wrong done you by confusion, next For thanks it seems till now neglected, last For these your dainty gambols: wherefore ask ; And take this boon so strange and not so strange. ’ And Vivien answer’d smiling mourn¬ fully : ‘ O not so strange as my long asking it, Not yet so strange as you yourself are strange, Nor half so strange as that dark mood of yours. I ever fear’d ye were not wholly mine ; And see, yourself have own’d ye did me wrong. The people call you prophet: let it be : But not of those that can expound them¬ selves. Take Vivien for expounder ; she will call That three-days-long presageful gloom of yours No presage, but the same mistrustful mood That makes you seem less noble than yourself, Whenever I have ask’d this very boon, Now ask’d again : for see you not, dear love, That such a mood as that, which lately gloom’d Your fancy when ye saw me following you, Must make me fear still more you are not mine, Must make me yearn still more to prove you mine, And make me wish still more to learn this charm Of woven paces and of waving hands, As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it me. The charm so taught will charm us both to rest. For, grant me some slight power upon your fate, I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust, Should rest and let you rest, knowing you mine. And therefore be as great as ye are named, Not muffled round with selfish reticence. How hard you look and how denyingly ! O, if you think this wickedness in me, That I should prove it on you unawares, That makes me passing wrathful; then our bond Had best be loosed for ever: but think or not, MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 375 By Heaven that hears I tell you the clean truth, As clean as blood of babes, as white as milk : O Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, If these unwitty wandering wits of mine, Ev’n in the jumbled rubbish of a dream, Have tript on such conjectural treachery— May this hard earth cleave to the Nadir - hell Down, down, and close again, and nip me flat, If I be such a traitress. Yield my boon, Till which I scarce can yield you all I am ; And grant my re-reiterated wish, The great proof of your love : because I think, However wise, ye hardly know me yet.’ And Merlin loosed his hand from hers and said, ‘ I never was less wise, however wise, Too curious Vivien, tho’ you talk of trust, Than when I told you first of such a charm. Yea, if ye talk of trust I tell you this, Too much I trusted when I told you that, And stirr’d this vice in you which ruin’d man Thro’ woman the first hour; for howsoe’er In children a great curiousness be well, Who have to learn themselves and all the world, In you, that are no child, for still I find Your face is practised when I spell the lines, I call it,—well, I will not call it vice : But since you name yourself the summer fly, I well could wish a cobweb for the gnat, That settles, beaten back, and beaten back Settles, till one could yield for weariness : But since I will not yield to give you power Upon my life and use and name and fame, Why will ye never ask some other boon ? Yea, by God’s rood, I trusted you too much. ’ And Vivien, like the tenderest-hearted maid That ever bided tryst at village stile. Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears: ‘ Nay, Master, be not wrathful with your maid ; Caress her : let her feel herself forgiven Who feels no heart to ask another boon. I think ye hardly know the tender rhyme Of “ trust me not at all or all in all.” I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it once, And it shall answer for me. Listen to it. “ In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, Faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers : Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. “ It is the little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all. “ The little rift within the lover’s lute Or little pitted speck in garner’d fruit, That rotting inward slowly moulders all. “ It is not worth the keeping: let it go : But shall it ? answer, darling, answer, no. And trust me not at all or all in all.” O Master, do ye love my tender rhyme ?’ And Merlin look’d and half believed her true, So tender was her voice, so fair her face, So sweetly gleam’d her eyes behind her tears Like sunlight on the plain behind a shower : And yet he answer’d half indignantly : ‘ Far other was the song that once I heard By this huge oak, sung nearly where we sit: For here we met, some ten or twelve of us, To chase a creature that was current then In these wild woods, the haft with golden horns. It was the time when first the question rose About the founding of a Table Round, That was to be, for love of God and men And noble deeds, the flower of all the world. 376 MERLIN AND VIVIEN And each incited each to noble deeds. And while we waited, one, the youngest of us, We could not keep him silent, out he flash’d, And into such a song, such fire for fame, Such trumpet-blowings in it, coming down To such a stern and' iron-clashing close, That when he stopt we long’d to hurl together, And should have done it; but the beau¬ teous beast Scared by the noise upstarted at our feet, And like a silver shadow slipt away Thro’ the dim land ; and all day long we rode Thro’ the dim land against a rushing wind, That glorious roundel echoing in our ears, And chased the flashes of his golden horns Until they vanish’d by the fairy well That laughs at iron—as our wai-riors did— Where children cast their pins and nails, and cry, “Laugh, little well !” but touch it with a sword, It buzzes fiercely round the point; and there We lost him: such a noble song was that. But, Vivien, when you sang me that sweet rhyme, I felt as tho’ you knew this cursed charm, Were proving it on me, and that I lay And felt them slowly ebbing, name and fame. ’ And Vivien answer’d smiling mourn¬ fully : ‘ O mine have ebb’d away for evermore, And all thro’ following you to this wild wood, Because I saw you sad, to comfort you. Lo now, what hearts have men ! they never mount As high as woman in her selfless mood. And touching fame, howe’er ye scorn my song, Take one verse more—the lady speaks it —this : ‘ “ My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier mine, For fame, could fame be mine, that fame were thine, And shame, could shame be thine, that shame were mine. So trust me not at all or all in all.” ‘ Says she not well ? and there is more —this rhyme Is like the fair pearl - necklace of the Queen, That burst in dancing, and the pearls were spilt; Some lost, some stolen, some as relics kept. But nevermore the same two sister pearls Ran down the silken thread to kiss each other On her white neck—so is it with this rhyme : It lives dispersedly in many hands, And every minstrel sings it differently ; Yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls : “Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes to love.” Yea ! Love, tho’ Love were of the gross¬ est, carves A portion from the solid present, eats And uses, careless of the rest; but Fame, The Fame that follows death is nothing to us; And what is Fame in life but half-disfame, And counterchanged with darkness? ye yourself Know well that Envy calls you Devil’s son, And since ye seem the Master of all Art, They fain would make you Master of all vice.’ And Merlin lock’d his hand in hers and said, ‘ I once was looking for a magic weed, And found a fair young squire who sat alone, Had carved himself a knightly shield of wood, And then was painting on it fancied arms. MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 377 Azure, an Eagle rising or, the Sun In dexter chief; the scroll “I follow fame.” A.nd speaking not, but leaning over him, I took his brush and blotted out the bird, And made a Gardener putting in a graff, With this for motto, “ Rather use than fame. ” You should have seen him blush; but afterwards He made a stalwart knight. O Vivien, For you, methinks you think you love me well; For me, I love you somewhat; rest: and Love Should have some rest and pleasure in himself. Not ever be too curious for a boon, Too prurient for a proof against the grain Of him ye say ye love: but Fame with men, Being but ampler means to serve man¬ kind, Should have small rest or pleasure in herself, But work as vassal to the larger love, That dwarfs the petty love of one to one. Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame again Increasing gave me use. Lo, there my boon ! What other ? for men sought to prove me vile, Because I fain had given them greater wits : And then did Envy call me Devil’s son : The sick weak beast seeking to help her¬ self By striking at her better, miss’d, and brought Her own claw back, and wounded her own heart. Sweet were the days when I was all un¬ known, But when my name was lifted up, the storm Brake on the mountain and I cared not for it. Right well know I that Fame is half- disfame, Yet needs must work my work. That other fame, To one at least, who hath not children, vague, The cackle of the unborn about the grave, I cared not for it: a single misty star, Which is the second in a line of stars That seem a sword beneath a belt of three, I never gazed upon it but I dreamt Of some vast charm concluded in that star To make fame nothing. Wherefore, if I fear, Giving you power. upon me thro’ this charm, That you might play me falsely, having power, However well ye think ye love me now (As sons of kings loving in pupilage Have turn’d to tyrants when they came to power) I rather dread the loss of use than fame; If you—and not so much from wickedness, As some wild turn of anger, or a mood Of overstrain’d affection, it may be, To keep me all to your own self,—or else A sudden spurt of woman’s jealousy,— Should try this charm on whom ye say ye love.’ And Vivien answer’d smiling as in wrath: ‘ Have I not sworn? I am not trusted. Good ! Well, hide it, hide it; I shall find it out; And being found take heed of Vivien. A woman and not trusted, doubtless I Might feel some sudden turn of anger born Of your misfaith ; and your fine epithet Is accurate too, for this full love of mine Without the full heart back may merit well Your term of overstrain’d. So used as I, My daily wonder is, I love at all. And as to woman’s jealousy, O why not? O to what end, except a jealous one, And one to make me jealous if I love, Was this fair charm invented by yourself? I well believe that all about this world Ye cage a buxom captive here and there, Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower From which is no escape for evermore.’ 378 MERLIN AND VIVIEN Then the great Master merrily answer’d her : ‘Full many a love in loving youth was mine; I needed then no charm to keep them mine But youth and love ; and that full heart of yours Whereof ye prattle, may now assure you mine; So live uncharm’d. For those who wrought it first, The wrist is parted from the hand that waved, The feet unmortised from their ankle- bones Who paced it, ages back: but will ye hear The legend as in guerdon for your rhyme? ‘ There lived a king in the most Eastern East, Less old than I, yet older, for my blood Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. A tawny pirate anchor’d in his port, Whose bark had plunder’d twenty name¬ less isles; And passing one, at the high peep of dawn, He saw two cities in a thousand boats All fighting for a woman on the sea. And pushing his black craft among them all, He lightly scatter’d theirs and brought her off, With loss of half his people arrow-slain ; A maid so smooth, so white, so wonderful, They said a light came from her when she moved : And since the pirate would not yield her up, The King impaled him for his piracy; Then made her Queen : but those isle- nurtured eyes Waged such unwilling tho’ successful war On all the youth, they sicken’d ; councils thinn’d, And armies waned, for magnet-like she drew The rustiest iron of old fighters’ hearts ; And beasts themselves would worship ; camels knelt Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain back That carry kings in castles, bow’d black knees Of homage, ringing with their serpent hands, To make her smile, her golden ankle-bells. What wonder, being jealous, that he sent His horns of proclamation out thro’ all The hundred under - kingdoms that he sway’d To find a wizard who might teach the King Some charm, which being wrought upon the Queen Might keep her all his own : to such a one He promised more than ever king has given, A league of mountain full of golden mines, A province with a hundred miles of coast, A palace and a princess, all for him : But on all those who tried and fail’d, the King Pronounced a dismal sentence, meaning by it To keep the list low and pretenders back, Or like a king, not to be trifled with— Their heads should moulder on the city gates. And many tried and fail’d, because the charm Of nature in her overbore their own : And many a wizard brow bleach’d on the walls : And many weeks a troop of carrion crows Hung like a cloud above the gateway towers. ’ And Vivien breaking in upon him, said: ‘ I sit and gather honey ; yet, methinks, Thy tongue has tript a little : ask thyself. The lady never made unwilling war With those fine eyes: she had her pleasure in it, And made her good man jealous with good cause. And lived there neither dame nor damsel then Wroth at a lover’s loss ? were all as tame, I mean, as noble, as their Queen was fair ? Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes, MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 379 Or pinch a murderous dust into her drink, Or make her paler with a poison’d rose ? Well, those were not our days : but did they find A wizard ? Tell me, was he like to thee?’ She ceased, and made her lithe arm round his neck Tighten, and then drew back, and let her eyes Speak for her, glowing on him, like a bride’s On her new lord, her own, the first of men. He answer’d laughing, ‘ Nay, not like to me. At last they found — his foragers for charms— A little glassy-headed hairless man, Who lived alone in a great wild on grass ; • Read but one book, and ever reading grew So grated down and filed away with thought, So lean his eyes were monstrous ; while the skin Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and spine. And since he kept his mind on one sole aim, Nor ever touch’d fierce wine, nor tasted flesh, Nor own’d a sensual wish, to him the wall That sunders ghosts and shadow-casting men Became a crystal, and he saw them thro’ it, And heard their voices talk behind the wall, And learnt their elemental secrets, powers And forces; often o’er the sun’s bright eye Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud, And lash’d it at the base with slanting storm ; Or in the noon of mist and driving rain, When the lake whiten’d and the pinewood roar’d, And the cairn’d mountain was a shadow, sunn’d The world to peace again : here was the man. And so by force they dragg’d him to the King. And then he taught the King to charm the Queen In such-wise, that no man could see her more, Nor saw she save the King, who wrought the charm, Coming and going, and she lay as dead, And lost all use of life : but when the King Made proffer of the league of golden mines, The province with a hundred miles of coast, The palace and the princess, that old man Went back to his old wild, and lived on grass, And vanish’d, and his book came down to me.’ And Vivien answer’d smiling saucily : ‘ Ye have the book : the charm is written in it: Good : take my counsel: let me know it at once : For keep it like a puzzle chest in chest, With each chest lock’d and padlock’d thirty-fold, And w r helm all this beneath as vast a mound As after furious battle turfs the slain On some wild down above the windy deep, I yet should strike upon a sudden means To dig, pick, open, find and read the charm : Then, if I tried it, who should blame me then ?’ And smiling as a master smiles at one That is not of his school, nor any school But that where blind and naked Ignorance Delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, On all things all daylong, he answer’d her : ‘ Thou read the book, my pretty Vivien ! O ay, it is but twenty pages long, But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot, The text no larger than the limbs of fleas; And every square of text an awful charm, Writ in a language that has long gone by. So long, that mountains have arisen since 380 MERLIN AND VIVIEN With cities on their flanks—thou read the book! And every margin scribbled, crost, and cramm’d With comment, densest condensation, hard To mind and eye ; but the long sleepless nights Of my long life have made it easy to me. And none can read the text, not even I; And none can read the comment but myself; And in the comment did I find the charm. O, the results are simple ; a mere child Might use it to the harm of anyone, And never could undo it: ask no more : For tho’ you should not prove it upon me, But keep that oath ye sware, ye might, perchance, Assay it on some one of the Table Round, And all because ye dream they babble of you.’ And Vivien, frowning in true anger, said : ‘ What dare the full-fed liars say of me ? They ride abroad redressing human wrongs ! They sit with knife in meat and wine in horn ! They bound to holy vows of chastity ! Were I not woman, I could tell a tale. But you are man, you well can understand The shame that cannot be explain’d for shame. Not one of all the drove should touch me: swine !’ Then answer’d Merlin careless of her words : ‘ You breathe but accusation vast and vague, Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If ye know, Set up the charge ye know, to stand or fall!’ And Vivien answer’d frowning wrath- fully : ‘ O ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, him Whose kinsman left him watcher o’er his wife And two fair babes, and went to distant lands; Was one year gone, and on returning found Not two but three ? there lay the reckling, one But one hour old ! What said the happy sire ? A seven-months’ babe had been a truer gift. Those twelve sweet moons confused his fatherhood.’ Then answer’d Merlin, ‘ Nay, I know the tale. Sir Valence wedded with an outland dame: Some cause had kept him sunder’d from his wife : One child they had : it lived with her : she died : His kinsman travelling on his own affair Was charged by Valence to bring home the child. He brought, not found it therefore : take the truth.’ ‘ O ay,’ said Vivien, ‘ overtrue a tale. What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagramore, That ardent man? “to pluck the flower in season,” So says the song, “I trow it is no treason. ” O Master, shall we call him overquick To crop his own sweet rose before the hour?’ And Merlin answer’d, ‘ Overquick art thou To catch a loathly plume fall’n from the wing Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole prey Is man’s good name : he never wrong’d his bride. I know the tale. An angry gust of wind Puff’d out his torch among the myriad- room’d And many-corridor’d complexities Of Arthur’s palace : then he found a door, And darkling felt the sculptured ornament That wreathen round it made it seem his own ; And wearied out made for the couch and slept, MERLIN AND VIVIEN 38 A stainless man beside a stainless maid ; And either slept, nor knew of other there ; Till the high dawn piercing the royal rose In Arthur’s casement glimmer’d chastely down, Blushing upon them blushing, and at once He rose without a word and parted from her : But when the thing was blazed about the court, The brute world howling forced them into bonds, And as it chanced they are happy, being pure.’ ‘ O ay,’ said Vivien, ‘ that were likely too. What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale And of the horrid foulness that he wrought, The saintly youth, the spotless lamb of Christ, Or some black wether of St. Satan’s fold. What, in the precincts of the chapel-yard, Among the knightly brasses of the graves, And by the cold Hie Jacets of the dead ! ’ And Merlin answer’d careless of her charge, ‘ A sober man is Percivale and pure ; But once in life was fluster’d with new wine, Then paced for coolness in the chapel- yard ; Where one of Satan’s shepherdesses caught And meant to stamp him with her master’s mark ; And that he sinn’d is not believable ; For, look upon his face !—but if he sinn’d, The sin that practice burns into the blood, And not the one dark hour which brings remorse, Will brand us, after, of whose fold we be : Or else were he, the holy king, whose hymns Are chanted in the minster, worse than all. But is your spleen froth’d out, or have ye more ? ’ And Vivien answer’d frowning yet in wrath : ‘ O ay ; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, friend Traitor or true? that: commerce with the Queen, I ask you, is it clamour’d by the child, Or whisper’d in the corner ? do ye know it?’ To which he answer’d sadly, ‘Yea, I know it. Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first, To fetch her, and she watch’d him from her walls. A rumour runs, she took him for the King, So fixt her fancy on him : let them be. But have ye no one word of loyal praise For Arthur, blameless King and stainless man?’ She answer’d with a low and chuckling laugh : ‘ Man ! is he man at all, who knows and winks ? Sees what his fair bride is and does, and winks ? By which the good King means to blind himself, And blinds himself and all the Table Round To all the foulness that they work. Myself Could call him (were it not for womanhood) The pretty, popular name such manhood earns, Could call him the main cause of all their crime ; Yea, were he not crown’d King, coward, and fool.’ Then Merlin to his own heart, loathing, said : ‘ O true and tender ! O my liege and King! O selfless man and stainless gentleman. Who wouldst against thine own eye-wit¬ ness fain Have all men true and leal, all women pure ; How, in the mouths of base interpreters. From over-fineness not intelligible To things with every sense as false and foul As the poach’d filth that floods the middle street, Is thy white blamelessness accounted blame ! ’ 382 MERLIN AND VIVIEN But Vivien, deeming Merlin overborne By instance, recommenced, and let her tongue Rage like a fire among the noblest names, Polluting, and imputing her whole self, Defaming and defacing, till she left Not even Lancelot .brave, nor Galahad clean. Her words had issue other than she will’d. He dragg’d his eyebrow bushes down, and made A snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes, And mutter’d in himself, ‘ Tell her the charm ! So, if she had it, would she rail on me To snare the next, and if she have it not So will she rail. What did the wanton say ? “ Not mount as high; ” we scarce can sink as low : For men at most differ as Heaven and earth, But women, worst and best, as Heaven and Hell. I know the Table Round, my friends of old; All brave, and many generous, and some chaste. She cloaks the scar of some repulse with lies ; I well believe she tempted them and fail’d, Being so bitter : for fine plots may fail, Tho’ harlots paint their talk as well as face With colours of the heart that are not theirs. I will not let her know : nine tithes of times Face-flatterer and backbiter are the same. And they, sweet soul, that most impute a crime Are pronest to it, and impute themselves, Wanting the mental range ; or low desire Not to feel lowest makes them level all; Yea, they would pare the mountain to the plain, To leave an equal baseness ; and in this Are harlots like the crowd, that if they find Some stain or blemish in a name of note, Not grieving that their greatest are so small, Inflate themselves with some insane delight, And judge all nature from her feet of clay, Without the will to lift their eyes, and see Her godlike head crown’d with spiritual fire, And touching other worlds. I am weary of her. ’ He spoke in words part heard, in whispers part, Half-suffocated in the hoary fell And many-winter’d fleece of throat and chin. But Vivien, gathering somewhat of his mood, And hearing ‘harlot’ mutter’d twice or thrice, Leapt from her session on his lap, and stood Stiff as a viper frozen ; loathsome sight. How from the rosy lips of life and love, Flash’d the bare-grinning skeleton of death ! White was her cheek ; sharp breaths of anger puff’d Her fairy nostril out; her hand half- clench’d Went faltering sideways downward to her belt, And feeling; had she found a dagger there (For in a wink the false love turns to hate) She would have stabb’d him; but she found it not : His eye was calm, and suddenly she took To bitter weeping like a beaten child, A long, long weeping, not consolable. Then her false voice made way, broken with sobs: * O crueller than was ever told in tale, Or sung in song ! O vainly lavish’d love ! O cruel, there was nothing wild or strange, Or seeming shameful—for what shame in love, So love be true, and not as yours is— nothing Poor Vivien had not done to win his trust MERLIN AND VIVIEN 383 Who call’d her what he call’d her—all her crime, All—all—the wish to prove him wholly hers. ’ She mused a little, and then clapt her hands Together with a wailing shriek, and said : ‘ Stabb’d through the heart’s affections to the heart! Seethed like the kid in its own mother’s milk ! Kill’d with a word worse than a life of blows ! I thought that he was gentle, being great: O God, that I had loved a smaller man ! I should have found in him a greater heart. O, I, that flattering my true passion, saw The knights, the court, the King, dark in your light, Who loved to make men darker than they are, Because of that high pleasure which I had To seat you sole upon my pedestal Of worship—I am answer’d, and hence¬ forth The course of life that seem’d so flowery to me With you for guide and master, only you, Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken short, And ending in a ruin—nothing left, But into some low cave to crawl, and there, If the wolf spare me, weep my life away, Kill’d with inutterable unkindliness.’ She paused, she turn’d away, she hung her head, The snake of gold slid from her hair, the braid Slipt and uncoil’d itself, she wept afresh, And the dark wood grew darker toward the storm In silence, while his anger slowly died Within him, till he let his wisdom go For ease of heart, and half believed her true : Call’d her to shelter in the hollow oak, ‘Come from the storm,’ and having no reply, Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and the face Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or shame; Then thrice essay’d, by tenderest-touching terms, To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in vain. At last she let herself be conquer’d by him, And as the cageling newly flown returns, The seeming-injured simple-hearted thing Game to her old perch back, and settled there. There while she sat, half-falling from his knees, Half-nestled at his heart, and since he saw The slow tear creep from her closed eye¬ lid yet, About her, more in kindness than in love, The gentle wizard cast a shielding arm. But she dislink’d herself at once and rose, Her arms upon her breast across, and stood, A virtuous gentlewoman deeply wrong’d, Upright and flush’d before him: then she said : * There must be now no passages of love Betwixt us twain henceforward evermore; Since, if I be what I am grossly call’d, What should be granted which your own gross heart Would reckon worth the taking ? I will g°. In truth, but one thing now—better have died Thrice than have ask’d it once—could . make me stay— That proof of trust—so often ask’d in vain ! How justly, after that vile term of yours, I find with grief! I might believe you then, Who knows ? once more. Lo ! what was once to me Mere matter of the fancy, now hath grown The vast necessity of heart and life. 3§4 LANCELOT AND ELAINE. Farewell; think gently of me, for I fear My fate or folly, passing gayer youth For one so old, must be to love thee still. But ere I leave thee let me swear once more That if I schemed against thy peace in this, May yon just heaven, that darkens o’er me, send One flash, that, missing all things else, may make My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie.’ Scarce had she ceased, when out of heaven a bolt (For now the storm was close above them) struck, Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining With darted spikes and splinters of the wood The dark earth round. He raised his eyes and saw The tree that shone white-listed thro’ the gloom. But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard her oath, And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork, And deafen’d with the stammering cracks and claps That follow’d, flying back and crying out, ‘ O Merlin, tho’ you do not love me, save, Yet save me !’ clung to him and hugg’d him close; And call’d him dear protector in her fright, Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright, But wrought upon his mood and hugg’d him close. The pale blood of the wizard at her touch Took gayer colours, like an opal warm’d. She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales : She shook from fear, and for her fault she wept Of petulancy; she call’d him lord and liege, Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve, Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate love Of her whole life ; and ever overhead Bellow’d the tempest, and the rotten branch Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain Above them ; and in change of glare and gloom Her eyes and neck glittering went and came; Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent, Moaning and calling out of other lands, Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more To peace; and what should not have been had been, For Merlin, ovei'talk’d and overworn, Had yielded, told her all the charm, and slept. Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm Of woven paces and of waving hands, And in the hollow oak he lay as dead, And lost to life and use and name and fame. Then crying ‘ I have made his glory mine,’ And shrieking out ‘ O fool ! ’ the harlot leapt Adown the forest, and the thicket closed Behind her, and the forest echo’d ‘fool.’ LANCELOT AND ELAINE. Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, High in her chamber up a tower to the east Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot; Which first she placed where morning’s earliest ray Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam ; Then fearing rust or soilure fashion’d for it A case of silk, and braided thereupon All the devices blazon’d on the shield In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, A border fantasy of branch and flower, And yellow-throated nestling in the nest. Nor rested thus content, but day by day, LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 385 Leaving her household and good father, climb’d That eastern tower, and entering barr’d her door, Stript off the case, and read the naked shield, Now guess’d a hidden meaning in his arms, Now made a pretty history to herself Of every dint a sword had beaten in it, And every scratch a lance had made upon it. Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh; That ten years back ; this dealt him at Caerlyle; That at Caerleon ; this at Camelot: And ah God’s mercy, what a stroke was there ! And here a thrust that might have kill’d, but God Broke the strong lance, and roll’d his enemy down, And saved him: so she lived in fantasy. How came the lily maid by that good shield Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev’n his name ? He left it with her, when he rode to tilt For the great diamond in the diamond jousts, Which Arthur had ordain’d, and by that name Had named them, since a diamond was the prize. For Arthur, long before they crown’d him King, Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse, Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn. A horror lived about the tarn, and clave Like its own mists to all the mountain side : For here two brothers, one a king, had met And fought together; but their names were lost; And each had slain his brother at a blow; And down they fell and made the glen abhorr’d : And there they lay till all their bones were bleach’d, And lichen’d into colour with the crags : And he, that once was king, had on a crown Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside. And Arthur came, and labouring up the pass, All in a misty moonshine, unawares Had trodden that crown’d skeleton, and the skull Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown Roll’d into light, and turning on its rims Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn : And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught, And set it on his head, and in his heart Heard murmurs, ‘ Lo, thou likewise shalt be King.’ Thereafter, when a King, he had the gems Pluck’d from the crown, and show’d them to his knights, Saying, ‘ These jewels, whereupon I chanced Divinely, are the kingdom’s, not the King’s— For public use: henceforward let there be. Once every year, a joust for one of these : For so by nine years’ proof we needs must learn Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow In use of arms and manhood, till we drive The heathen, who, some say, shall rule the land Hereafter, which God hinder.’ Thus he spoke : And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and still Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year, With purpose to present them to the Queen, When all were won ; but meaning all at once 386 LANCELOT AND ELALNE. To snare her royal fancy with a boon Worth half her realm, had never spoken word. Now for the central diamond and the last And largest, Arthur, holding then his court Hard on the river nigh the place which now Is this world’s hugest, let proclaim a joust At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh Spake (for she had been sick) to Guine¬ vere, ‘ Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot move To these fair jousts?’ ‘Yea, lord,’ she said, ‘ ye know it. ’ ‘Then will ye miss,’he answer’d, ‘the great deeds Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists, A sight ye love to look on.’ And the Queen Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King. He thinking that he read her meaning there, ‘ Stay with me, I am sick ; my love is more Than many diamonds, ’ yielded ; and a heart Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen (However much he yearn’d to make complete The tale of diamonds for his destined boon) Urged him to speak against the truth, and say, ‘ Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole, And lets me from the saddle; ’ and the King Glanced first at him, then her, and went his way. No sooner gone than suddenly she began: ‘ To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to blame ! Why go ye not to these fair jousts ? the knights Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd Will murmur, “ Lo the shameless ones, who take Their pastime now the trustful King is gone!” ’ Then Lancelot vext at having lied in vain: ‘ Are ye so wise? ye were not once so wise, My Queen, that summer, when ye loved me first. Then of the crowd ye took no more account Than of the myriad cricket of the mead, When its own voice clings to each blade of grass, And every voice is nothing. As to knights, Them surely can I silence with all ease. But now my loyal worship is allow’d Of all men: many a bard, without offence, Has link’d our names together in his lay, Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guine¬ vere, The pearl of beauty : and our knights at feast Have pledged us in this union, while the King Would listen smiling. How then? is there more ? Has Arthur spoken aught ? or would yourself, Now weary of my service and devoir, Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord ?’ She broke into a little scornful laugh : ‘Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King, That passionate perfection, my good lord— But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaven ? He never spake word of reproach to me, He never had a glimpse of mine untruth, He cares not for me : only here to-day There gleam’d a vague suspicion in his eyes: Some meddling rogue has tamper’d with him—else Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, And swearing men to vows impossible, To make them like himself: but, friend, to me LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 387 He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth; The low sun makes the colour: I am yours, Not Arthur’s, as ye know, save by the bond. And therefore hear my words : go to the jousts : The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream When sweetest; and the vermin voices here May buzz so loud—we scorn them, but they sting.’ Then answer’d Lancelot, the chief of knights : ‘ And with what face, after my pretext made, Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I Before a King who honours his own word, As if it were his God’s ?’ ‘Yea,’ said the Queen, ‘ A moral child without the craft to rule. Else had he not lost me: but listen to me, If I must find you wit: we hear it said That men go down before your spear at a touch, But knowing you are Lancelot; your great name, This conquers : hide it therefore; go unknown : Win ! by this kiss you will: and our true King Will then allow your pretext, O my knight. As all for glory; for to speak him true, Ye know right well, how meek soe’er he seem, No keener hunter after glory breathes. He loves it in his knights more than himself: They prove to him his work : win and return. ’ Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse, Wroth at himself. Not willing to be known, He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare, Chose the green path that show’d the rarer foot, And there among the solitary downs, Full often lost in fancy, lost his way; Till as he traced a faintly-shadow’d track, That all in loops and links among the dales Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers. Thither he made, and blew the gateway horn. Then came an old, dumb, myriad- wrinkled man, Who let him into lodging and disarm’d. And Lancelot marvell’d at the wordless man ; And issuing found the Lord of Astolat With two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine, Moving to meet him in the castle court; And close behind them stept the lily maid Elaine, his daughter: mother of the house There was not: some light jest among them rose With laughter dying down as the great knight Approach’d them : then the Lord of Astolat: ‘ Whence comest thou, my guest, and by what name Livest between the lips ? for by thy state And presence I might guess thee chief of those, After the King, who eat in Arthur’s halls. Him have I seen : the rest, his Table Round, Known as they are, to me they are un¬ known.’ Then answer’d Lancelot, the chief of knights : ‘ Known am I, and of Arthur’s hall, and known, What I by mere mischance have brought, my shield. But since I go to joust as one unknown At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not, Hereafter ye shall know me—and the shield— 388 LANCELOT AND ELAINE. I pray you lend me one, if such you have, Blank, or at least with some device not mine. ’ Then said the Lord of Astolat, ‘ Here is Torre’s: Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre. And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough. His ye can have.’ Then added plain Sir Torre, ‘Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may have it.’ Here laugh’d the father saying, ‘ Fie, Sir Churl, Is that an answer for a noble knight? Allow him ! but Lavaine, my younger here, He is so full of lustihood, he will ride, Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour, And set it in this damsel’s golden hair, To make her thrice as wilful as before.’ ‘ Nay, father, nay good father, shame me not Before this noble knight,’ said young Lavaine, ‘ For nothing. Surely I but play’d on Torre: He seem’d so sullen, vext he could not go: A jest, no more ! for, knight, the maiden dreamt That some one put this diamond in her hand, And that it was too slippery to be held, And slipt and fell into some pool or stream, The castle-well, belike ; and then I said That if I went and if I fought and won it (But all was jest and joke among ourselves) Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest. But, father, give me leave, an if he will, To ride to Camelot with this noble knight: Win shall I not, but do my best to win : Young as I am, yet would I do my best.’ ‘ So ye will grace me, ’ answer’d Lancelot, Smiling a moment, ‘ with your fellowship O’er these waste downs whereon I lost myself, Then were I glad of you as guide and friend : And you shall win this diamond,—as I hear It is a fair large diamond,—if ye may, And yield it to this maiden, if ye will.’ ‘ A fair large diamond,’ added plain Sir Torre, ‘ Such be for queens, and not for simple maids.’ Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground, Elaine, and heard her name so tost about, Flush’d slightly at the slight disparagement Before the stranger knight, who, looking at her, Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus return’d: ‘ If what is fair be but for what is fair, And only queens are to be counted so, Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth, Not violating the bond of like to like.’ He spoke and ceased : the lily maid Elaine, Won by the mellow voice before she look’d, Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments. The great and guilty love he bare the Queen, In battle with the love he bare his lord, Had marr’d his face, and mark’d it ere his time. Another sinning on such heights with one, The flower of all the west and all the world, Had been the sleeker for it: but in him His mood was often like a fiend, and rose And drove him into wastes and solitudes For agony, who was yet a living soul. Marr’d as he was, he seem’d the goodliest man That ever among ladies ate in hall, And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes. However marr’d, of more than twice her years, Seam’d with an ancient swordcut on the cheek. LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 389 And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes And loved him, with that love which was her doom. Then the great knight, the darling of the court. Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall Stept with all grace, and not with half disdain Hid under grace, as in a smaller time, But kindly man moving among his kind : Whom they with meats and vintage of their best And talk and minstrel melody entertain’d. And much they ask’d of court and Table Round, And ever well and readily answer’d he : But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere, Suddenly speaking of the wordless man, Heard from the Baron that, ten years before, The heathen caught and reft him of his tongue. ‘ He learnt and warn’d me of their fierce design Against my house, and him they caught and maim’d; But I, my sons, and little daughter fled From bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods By the great river in a boatman’s hut. Dull days were those, till our good Arthur broke The Pagan yet once more on Badon hill. ’ * O there, great lord, doubtless,’ Lavaine said, rapt By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth Toward greatness in its elder, ‘you have fought. O tell us—for we live apart—you know Of Arthur’s glorious wars. ’ And Lancelot spoke And answer’d him at full, as having been With Arthur in the fight which all daylong Rang by the white mouth of the violent Glem ; And in the four loud battles by the shore Of Duglas ; that on Bassa ; then the war That thunder’d in and out the gloomy skirts Of Celidon the forest; and again By castle Gurnion, where the glorious King Had on his cuirass worn our Lady’s Head, Carved of one emerald center’d in a sun Of silver rays, that lighten’d as he breathed ; And at Caerleon had he help’d his lord, When the strong neighings of the wild white Horse Set every gilded parapet shuddering ; And up in Agned-Cathregonion too, And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Treroit, Where many a heathen fell; ‘ and on the mount Of Badon I myself beheld the King Charge at the head of all his Table Round, And all his legions crying Christ and him, And break them ; and I saw him, after, stand High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume Red as the rising sun with heathen blood, And seeing me, with a great voice he cried, “They are broken, they are broken!” for the King, However mild he seems at home, nor cares For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts— For if his own knight cast him down, he laughs Saying, his knights are better men than he— Yet in this heathen war the fire of God Fills him : I never saw his like: there lives No greater leader.’ While he utter’d this, Low to her own heart said the lily maid, ‘ Save your great self, fair lord ; ’ and when he fell From talk of war to traits of pleasantry— Being mirthful he, but in a stately kind— She still took note that when the living smile 390 LANCELOT AND ELAINE. Died from his lips, across him came a cloud Of melancholy severe, from which again, Whenever in her hovering to and fro The lily maid had striven to make him cheer, There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness Of manners and of nature: and she thought That all was nature, all, perchance, for her. And all night long his face before her lived, As when a painter, poring on a face, Divinely thro’ all hindrance finds the man Behind it, and so paints him that his face, The shape and colour of a mind and life, Lives for his children, ever at its best And fullest ; so the face before her lived, Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full Of noble things, and held her from her sleep. Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine. First as in fear, step after step, she stole Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating : Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court, ‘This shield, my friend, where is it?’ and Lavaine Past inward, as she came from out the tower. There to his proud horse Lancelot turn’d, and smooth’d The glossy shoulder, humming to himself. Half-envious of the flattering hand, she drew Nearer and stood. He look’d, and more amazed Than if seven men had set upon him, saw The maiden standing in the dewy light. He had not dream’d she was so beautiful. Then came on him a sort of sacred fear, For silent, tho’ he greeted her, she stood Rapt on his face as if it were a God’s. Suddenly flash’d on her a wild desire, That he should wear her favour at the tilt. She braved a riotous heart in asking for it. ‘ Fair lord, whose name I know not— noble it is, I well believe, the noblest—will you wear My favour at this tourney ? ’ ‘ Nay, ’ said he, ‘ Fair lady, since I never yet have worn Favour of any lady in the lists. Such is my wont, as those, who know me, know. ’ ‘Yea, so,’ she answer’d; ‘then in wearing mine Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord, That those who know should know you.’ And he turn’d Her counsel up and down within his mind, And found it true, and answer’d, ‘ True, my child. Well, I will wear it: fetch it out to me : What is it?’ and she told him ‘A red sleeve Broider’d with pearls,’ and brought it: then he bound Her token on his helmet, with a smile Saying, ‘ I never yet have done so much For any maiden living,’ and the blood Sprang to her face and fill’d her with delight; But left her all the paler, when Lavaine Returning brought the yet - unblazon’d shield, His brother’s; which he gave to Lancelot, Who parted with his own to fair Elaine : ‘ Do me this grace, my child, to have my shield In keeping till I come.’ ‘ A grace to me,’ She answer’d, ‘ twice to-day. I am your squire !’ Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, ‘ Lily maid, For fear our people call you lily maid In earnest, let me bring your colour back ; Once, twice, and thrice: now get you hence to bed : ’ So kiss’d her, and Sir Lancelot his own hand, And thus they moved away : she stay’d a minute, Then made a sudden step to the gate, and there— Her bright hair blown about the serious face LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 391 Yet rosy-kindled with her brother’s kiss— Paused by the gateway, standing near the shield In silence, while she watch’d their arms far-off Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs. Then to her tower she climb’d, and took the shield, There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. Meanwhile the new companions past away Far o’er the long backs of the bushless downs, To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a knight Not far from Camelot, now for forty years A hermit, who had pray’d, labour’d and pray’d, And ever labouring had scoop’d himself In the white rock a chapel and a hall On massive columns, like a shored iff cave, And cells and chambers: all were fair and dry; The green light from the meadows under¬ neath Struck up and lived along the milky roofs ; And in the meadows tremulous aspen-trees And poplars made a noise of falling showers. And thither wending there that night they bode. But when the next day broke from underground, And shot red fire and shadows thro’ the cave, They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away: Then Lancelot saying, ‘ Hear, but hold my name Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake,’ Abash’d Lavaine, whose instant rever¬ ence, Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise, But left him leave to stammer, ‘ Is it indeed ?’ And after muttering ‘ The great Lancelot,’ At last he got his breath and answer’d, ‘ One, One have I seen—that other, our liege lord, The dread Pendragon, Britain’s King of kings, Of whom the people talk mysteriously, He will be there—then were I stricken blind That minute, I might say that I had seen.’ So spake Lavaine, and when they reach’d the lists By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes Run thro’ the peopled gallery which half round Lay like a rainbow fall’n upon the grass, Until they found the clear-faced King, who sat Robed in red samite, easily to be known, Since to his crown the golden dragon clung, And down his robe the dragon writhed in gold, And from the carven-work behind him crept Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make Arms for his chair, while all the rest of them Thro’ knots and loops and folds innu¬ merable Fled ever thro’ the woodwork, till they found - The new design wherein they lost them¬ selves, Yet with all ease, so tender was the work : And, in the costly canopy o’er him set, Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king. Then Lancelot answer’d young Lavaine and said, ‘ Me you call great: mine is the firmer seat, The truer lance: but there is many a youth Now crescent, who will come to all I am And overcome it; and in me there dwells No greatness, save it be some far-off touch Of greatness to know well I am not great: 392 LANCELOT AND ELALNE . There is the man. ’ And Lavaine gaped upon him As on a thing miraculous, and anon The trumpets blew ; and then did either side, They that assail’d, and they that held the lists, Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move, Meet in the midst, and there so furiously Shock, that a man far-off might well perceive, If any man that day were left afield, The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms. And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw Which were the weaker ; then he hurl’d into it Against the stronger : little need to speak Of Lancelot in his glory ! King, duke, earl, Count, baron—whom he smote, he over¬ threw. But in the field were Lancelot’s kith and kin, Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists, Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight Should do and almost overdo the deeds Of Lancelot; and one said to the other, ‘Lo ! What is he? I do not mean the force alone— The grace and versatility of the man ! Is it not Lancelot ?’ ‘ When has Lance¬ lot worn Favour of any lady in the lists ? Not such his wont, as we, that know him, know.’ ‘How then? who then?’ a fury seized them all, A fiery family passion for the name Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs. They couch’d their spears and prick’d their steeds, and thus, Their plumes driv’n backward by the wind they made In moving, all together down upon him Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea, Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with all Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies, Down on a bark, and overbears the bark, And him that helms it, so they overbore Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a spear Prick’d sharply his own cuirass, and the head Pierced thro’ his side, and there snapt, and remain’d. Then Sir Lavaine did well and wor- shipfully ; He bore a knight of old repute to the earth, And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay. He up the side, sweating with agony, got, But thought to do while he might yet endure, And being lustily holpen by the rest, His party,—tho’ it seem’d half-miracle To those he fought with,—drave his kith and kin, And all the Table Round that held the lists, Back to the barrier; then the trumpets blew Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeve Of scarlet, and the pearls ; and all the knights, His party, cried ‘ Advance and take thy prize The diamond;’ but he answer’d, ‘Diamond me No diamonds ! for God’s love, a little air ! Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death ! Hence will I, and I charge you, follow me not.’ He spoke, and vanish’d suddenly from the field With young Lavaine into the poplar grove. There from his charger down he slid, and sat, LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 393 Gasping to Sir Lavaine, ‘ Draw the lance- head : ’ ‘ Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot, ’ said Lavaine, ‘ I dread me, if I draw it, you will die. ’ But he, ‘ I die already with it: draw— Draw,’—and Lavaine drew, and Sir Lancelot gave A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan, And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank For the pure pain, and wholly swoon’d away. Then came the hermit out and bare him in, There stanch’d his wound ; and there, in daily doubt Whether to live or die, for many a week Hid from the wide world’s rumour by the grove Of poplars with their noise of falling showers, And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay. But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists, His party, knights of utmost North and West, Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate isles, Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him, ‘ Lo, Sire, our knight, thro’ whom we won the day, Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize Untaken, crying that his prize is death.’ ‘Heaven hinder,’ said the King, ‘that such an one, So great a knight as we have seen to-day— He seem’d to me another Lancelot— Yea, twenty times I thought him Lance¬ lot— He must not pass uncared for. Where¬ fore, rise, O Gawain, and ride forth and find the knight. Wounded and wearied needs must he be near. I charge you that you get at once to horse. And, knights and kings, there breathes not one of you Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given : His prowess was too wondrous. We will do him No customary honour : since the knight Came not to us, of us to claim the prize, Ourselves will send it after. Rise and take This diamond, and deliver it, and return, And bring us where he is, and how he fares, And cease not from your quest until ye find.’ So saying, from thecarven flower above, To which it made a restless heart, he took, And gave, the diamond : then from where he sat At Arthur’s right, with smiling face arose, With smiling face and frowning heart, a Prince In the mid might and flourish of his May, Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and strong, And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint And Gareth, a good knight, but there¬ withal Sir Modred’s brother, and the child of Lot, Nor often loyal to his word, and now Wroth that the King’s command to sally forth In quest of whom he knew not, made him leave The banquet, and concourse of knights and kings. So all in wrath he got to horse and went; While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood, Past, thinking ‘ Is it Lancelot who hath come Despite the wound he spake of, all for gain Of glory, and hath added wound to wound, And ridd’n away to die?’ So fear’d the King, 394 LANCEL07' AND ELAINE. And, after two days’ tarriance there, return’d. Then when he saw the Queen, embrac¬ ing ask’d, ‘ Love, are you yet so sick ?’ ‘ Nay, lord,’ she said. ‘And where is Lancelot?’ Then the Queen amazed, ‘ Was he not with you ? won he not your prize?’ * Nay, but one like him.’ ‘Why that like was he.’ And when the King demanded how she knew, Said, ‘ Lord, no sooner had ye parted from us, Than Lancelot told me of a common talk That men went down before his spear at a touch, But knowing he was Lancelot; his great name Conquer’d ; and therefore would he hide his name From all men, ev’n the King, and to this end Had made the pretext of a hindering wound, That he might joust unknown of all, and learn If his old prowess were in aught decay’d; And added, “ Our true Arthur, when he learns, Will well allow my pretext, as for gain Of purer glory. ” ’ Then replied the King : ‘ Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been, In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, To have trusted me as he hath trusted thee. Surely his King and most familiar friend Might well have kept his secret. True, indeed, Albeit I know my knights fantastical, So fine a fear in our large Lancelot Must needs have moved my laughter : now remains But little cause for laughter: his own kin— Ill news, my Queen, for all who love him, this !— His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him ; So that he went sore wounded from the field: Yet good news too : for goodly hopes are mine That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart. He wore, against his wont, upon his helm A sleeve of scarlet, broider’d with great pearls, Some gentle maiden’s gift. ’ ‘Yea, lord,’ she said, ‘ Thy hopes are mine,’ and saying that, she choked, And sharply turn’d about to hide her face, Past to her chamber, and there flung herself Down on the great King’s couch, and writhed upon it, And clench’d her fingers till they bit the palm, And shriek’d out * Traitor ’ to the un¬ hearing wall, Then flash’d into wild tears, and rose again, And moved about her palace, proud and pale. Gawain the while thro’ all the region round Rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest, Touch’d at all points, except the poplar grove, And came at last, tho’ late, to Astolat: Whom glittering in enamell’d arms the maid Glanced at, and cried, ‘ What news from Camelot, lord ? What of the knight with the red sleeve ?’ ‘ He won.’ ‘ I knew it,’ she said. ‘ But parted from the jousts Hurt in the side, ’ whereat she caught her breath ; Thro’ her own side she felt the sharp lance go; LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 395 Thereon she smote her hand : wellnigh she swoon’d : And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came The Lord of Astqlat out, to whom the Prince Reported who he was, and on what quest Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find The victor, but had ridd’n a random round To seek him, and had wearied of the search. To whom the Lord of Astolat, ‘ Bide with us, And ride no more at random, noble Prince ! Here was the knight, and here he left a shield ; This will he send or come for : further¬ more Our son is with him ; we shall hear anon, Needs must we hear.’ To this the cour¬ teous Prince Accorded with his wonted courtesy, Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it, And stay’d ; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine : Where could be found face daintier ? then her shape From forehead down to foot, perfect— again From foot to forehead exquisitely turn’d : ‘ Well— : if I bide, lo ! this wild flower for me !’ And oft they met among the garden yews, And there he set himself to play upon her With sallying wit, free flashes from a height Above her, graces of the court, and songs, Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden elo¬ quence And amorous adulation, till the maid RebelPd- against it, saying to him, ‘ Prince, O loyal nephew of our noble King, Why ask you not to see the shield he left, Whence you might learn his name ? Why slight your King, And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove No surer than our falcon yesterday, Who lost the hern we slipt her at, and went To all the winds?’ ‘Nay, by mine head,’ said he, ‘ I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, O damsel, in the light of your blue eyes ; But an ye will it let me see the shield.’ And when the shield was brought, and Gawain saw Sir Lancelot’s azure lions, crown’d with gold, Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mock’d : ‘ Right was the King ! our Lancelot ! that true man ! ’ ‘And right was I,’ she answer’d merrily, ‘I, Who dream’d my knight the greatest knight of all.’ ‘ And if / dream’d,’ said Gawain, ‘ that you love This greatest knight, your pardon ! lo, ye know it! Speak therefore : shall I waste myself in vain ? ’ Full simple was her answer, ‘ What know I? My brethren have been all my fellow¬ ship; And I, when often they have talk’d of love, Wish’d it had been my mother, for they talk’d, Meseem’d, of what they knew not; so myself— I know not if I know what true love is, But if I know, then, if I love not him, I know there is none other I can love. ’ ‘Yea, by God’s death,’ said he, ‘ye love him well, But would not, knew ye what all others know, And whom he loves.’ ‘ So be it,’ cried Elaine, And lifted her fair face and moved away : But he pursued her, calling, ‘ Stay a little ! One golden minute’s grace ! he wore your sleeve: 396 LANCELOT AND ELALNE. Would he break faith with one I may not name ? Must our true man change like a leaf at last ? Nay—like enow: why then, far be it from me To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves! And, damsel, for I deem you know full well Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave My quest with you ; the diamond also : here ! For if you love, it will be sweet to give it; And if he love, it will be sweet to have it From your own hand ; and whether he love or not, A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well A thousand times !—a thousand times farewell! Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two May meet at court hereafter: there, I think, So ye will learn the courtesies of the court, We two shall know each other.’ Then he gave, And slightly kiss’d the hand to which he gave, The diamond, and all wearied of the quest Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. Thence to the court he past; there told the King What the King knew, ‘ Sir Lancelot is the knight. ’ And added, ‘ Sire, my liege, so much I learnt; But fail’d to find him, tho’ I rode all round The region : but I lighted on the maid Whose sleeve he wore ; she loves him; and to her, Deeming our courtesy is the truest law, I gave the diamond : she will render it; For by mine head she knows his hiding- place.’ The seldom - frowning King frown’d, and replied, ‘ Too courteous truly! ye shall go no more On quest of mine, seeing that ye forget Obedience is the courtesy due to kings.’ He spake and parted. Wroth, but all in awe, For twenty strokes of the blood, without a word, Linger’d that other, staring after him ; Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzz’d abroad About the maid of Astolat, and her love. All ears were prick’d at once, all tongues were loosed : ‘ The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lance¬ lot, Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat.’ Some read the King’s face, some the Queen’s, and all Had marvel what the maid might be, but most Predoom’d her as unworthy. One old dame Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news. She, that had heard the noise of it before, But sorrowing Lancelot should have stoop’d so low, Marr’d her friend’s aim with pale tran¬ quillity. So ran the tale like fire about the court, Fire ifi dry stubble a nine-days’ wonder flared : Till ev’n the knights at banquet twice or thrice Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen, And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid Smiled at each other, while the Queen, who sat With lips severely placid, felt the knot Climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 397 Crush’d the wild passion out against the floor Beneath the banquet, where the meats became As wormwood, and she hated all who pledged. But far away the maid in Astolat, Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart, Crept to her father, while he mused alone. Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and said, * Father, you call me wilful, and the fault Is yours who let me have my will, and now, Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits ?’ ‘Nay,’ said he, ‘surely.’ ‘Wherefore, let me hence,’ She answer’d, ‘and find out our dear Lavaine.’ ‘Ye will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine : Bide,’ answer’d he : ‘ we needs must hear anon Of him, and of that other.’ ‘Ay,’ she said, ‘ And of that other, for I needs must hence And find that other, wheresoe’er he be, And with mine own hand give his diamond to him, Lest I be found as faithless in the quest As yon proud Prince who left the quest to me. Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden’s aid. The gentler-born the maiden, the more bound, My father, to be sweet and serviceable To noble knights in sickness, as ye know When these have worn their tokens : let me hence I pray you.’ Then her father nodding said, ‘ Ay, ay, the diamond : wit ye well, my child, Right fain were I to learn this knight were whole, Being our greatest: yea, and you must give it— And sure I think this fruit is hung too high For any mouth to gape for save a queen’s— Nay, I mean nothing: so then, get you gone, Being so very wilful you must go.’ Lightly, her suit allow’d, she slipt away, And while she made her ready for her ride, Her father’s latest word humm’d in her ear, ‘ Being so very wilful you must go,’ And changed itself and echo’d in her heart, ‘ Being so very wilful you must die. ’ But she was happy enough and shook it off. As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us ; And in her heart she answer’d it and said, ‘ What matter, so I help him back to life?’ Then far away with good Sir Torre for guide Rode o’er the long backs of the bushless downs To Camelot, and before the city-gates Came on her brother with a happy face Making a roan horse caper and curvet For pleasure all about a field of flowers : Whom when she saw, ‘ Lavaine, ’ she cried, ‘ Lavaine, How fares my lord Sir Lancelot ?’ He amazed, ‘Torre and Elaine! why here? Sir Lancelot ! How know ye my lord’s name is Lance¬ lot?’ But when the maid had told him all her tale, Then turn’d Sir Torre, and being in his moods Left them, and under the strange-statued gate, Where Arthur’s wars were render’d mystically, Past up the still rich city to his kin, 398 LANCELOT AND ELALNE. His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot; And her, Lavaine across the poplar grove Led to the caves : there first she saw the casque Of Lancelot on the wall : her scarlet sleeve, Tho’ carved and cut, and half the pearls away, Stream’d from it still; and in her heart she laugh’d, Because he had not loosed it from his helm, But meant once more perchance to tour¬ ney in it. And when they gain’d the cell wherein he slept, His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream Of dragging down his enemy made them move. Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn, Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, Utter’d a little tender dolorous cry. The sound not wonted in a place so still Woke the sick knight, and while he roll’d his eyes Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying, ‘ Your prize the diamond sent you by the King:’ His eyes glisten’d : she fancied ‘ Is it for me ?’ And when the maid had told him all the tale Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, the quest Assign’d to her not worthy of it, she knelt Full lowly by the corners of his bed, And laid the diamond in his open hand. Her face was near, and as we kiss the child That does the task assign’d, he kiss’d her face. At once she slipt like water to the floor. ‘ Alas,’ he said, ‘your ride hath wearied you. Rest must you have.’ * No rest for me,’ she said ; ‘ Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest.’ What might she mean by that ? his large black eyes, Yet larger thro’ his leanness, dwelt upon her, Till all her heart’s sad secret blazed itself In the heart’s colours on her simple face; And Lancelot look’d and was perplext in mind, And being weak in body said no more ; But did not love the colour; woman’s love, Save one, he not regarded, and so turn’d Sighing, and feign’d a sleep until he slept. Then rose Elaine and glided thro’ the fields, And past beneath the weirdly-sculptured gates Far up the dim rich city to her kin ; There bode the night: but woke with dawn, and past Down thro’ the dim rich city to the fields, Thence to the cave : so day by day she past In either twilight ghost-like to and fro Gliding, and every day she tended him, And likewise many a night: and Lancelot Would, tho’ he call’d his wound a little hurt Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem Uncourteous, even he: but the meek maid Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him Meeker than any child to a rough nurse, Milder than any mother to a sick child, And never woman yet, since man’s first fall, Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love Upbore her ; till the hermit, skill’d in all The simples and the science of that time, Told him that her fine care had saved his life. And the sick man forgot her simple blush, Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine, Would listen for her coming and regret LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 399 Her parting step, and held her tenderly, And loved her with all love except the love Of man and woman when they love their best, Closest and sweetest, and had died the death In any knightly fashion for her sake. And peradventure had he seen her first She might have made this and that other world Another world for the sick man; but now The shackles of an old love straiten’d him, His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. Yet the great knight in his mid-sick¬ ness made Full many a holy vow and pure resolve. These, as but born of sickness, could not live: For when the blood ran lustier in him again, Full often the bright image of one face, Making a treacherous quiet in his heart, Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace Beam’d on his fancy, spoke, he answer’d not, Or short and coldly, and she knew right well What the rough sickness meant, but what this meant She knew not, and the sorrow dimm’d her sight, And drave her ere her time across the fields Far into the rich city, where alone She murmur’d, ‘ Vain, in vain : it cannot be. He will not love me: how then? must I die ? ’ Then as a little helpless innocent bird, That has but one plain passage of few notes, Will sing the simple passage o’er and o’er For all an April morning, till the ear Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid Went half the night repeating, ‘ Must I die ?’ And now to right she turn’d, and now to left, And found no ease in turning or in rest; And ‘ Him or death,’ she mutter’d, ‘ death or him,’ Again and like a burthen, ‘ Him or death. ’ But when Sir Lancelot’s deadly hurt was whole, To Astolat returning rode the three. There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self In that wherein she deem’d she look’d her best, She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought ‘ If I be loved, these are my festal robes, If not, the victim’s flowers before he fall.’ And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid That she should ask some goodly gift of him For her own self or hers; ‘ and do not shun To speak the wish most near to your true heart; Such service have ye done me, that I make My will of yours, and Prince and Lord am I In mine own land, and what I will I can. ’ Then like a ghost she lifted up her face, But like a ghost without the power to speak. And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish, And bode among them yet a little space Till he should learn it; and one morn it chanced He found her in among the garden yews, And said, ‘Delay no longer, speak your wish, Seeing I go to-day : ’ then out she brake : ‘ Going ? and we shall never see you more. And I must die for want of one bold word. ’ ‘ Speak : that I live to hear,’ he said, ‘ is yours. ’ Then suddenly and passionately she spoke: ‘ I have gone mad. I love you : let me die.’ 400 LANCELOT AND ELAINE. ‘Ah, sister,’ answer’d Lancelot, ‘what is this ? ’ And innocently extending her white arms, ‘Your love,’ she said, ‘your love—to be your wife.’ And Lancelot answer’d, ‘ Had I chosen to wed, I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine : But now there never will be wife of mine. ’ ‘No, no,’ she cried, ‘I care not to be wife, But to be with you still, to see your face, To serve you, and to follow you thro’ the world.’ And Lancelot answer’d, ‘ Nay, the world, the world, All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue To blare its own interpretation—nay, Full ill then should I quit your brother’s love, And your good father’s kindness.’ And she said, ‘ Not to be with you, not to see your face— Alas for me then, my good days are done.’ * Nay, noble maid,’ he answer’d, ‘ ten times nay ! This is not love : but love’s first flash in youth, Most common : yea, I know it of mine own self: And you yourself will smile at your own self Hereafter, when you yield your flower of life To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age : And then will I, for true you are and sweet Beyond mine old belief in womanhood, More specially should your good knight be poor, Endow you with broad land and territory Even to the half my realm beyond the seas, So that would make you happy : further¬ more, Ev’n to the death, as tho’ ye were my blood, | In all your quarrels will I be your knight. This will I do, dear damsel, for your sake, And more than this I cannot. ’ While he spoke She neither blush’d nor shook, but deathly-pale Stood grasping what was nearest, then replied : ‘ Of all this will I nothing ; ’ and so fell, And thus they bore her swooning to her tower. Then spake, to whom thro’ those black walls of yew Their talk had pierced, her father : ‘ Ay, a flash, 1 fear me, that will strike my blossom dead. Too courteous are ye, fair Lord Lancelot. I pray you, use some rough discourtesy To blunt or break her passion.’ Lancelot said, ‘ That were against me : what I can I will;’ And there that day remain’d, and toward even Sent for his shield : full meekly rose the maid, Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield ; Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones, Unclasping flung the casement back, and look’d Down on his helm, from which her sleeve had gone. And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound ; And she by tact of love was well aware That Lancelot knew that she was looking at him. And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand, Nor bad farewell, but sadly rode away. This was the one discourtesy that he used. So in her tower alone the maiden sat : His very shield was gone ; only the case, Her own poor work, her empty labour, left. LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 401 But still she heard him, still his picture form’d And grew between her and the pictured wall. Then came her father, saying in low tones, ‘ Have comfort,’ whom she greeted quietly. Then came her brethren saying, ‘ Peace to thee, Sweet sister,’ whom she answer’d with all calm. But when they left her to herself again, Death, like a friend’s voice from a distant field Approaching thro’ the darkness, call’d ; the owls Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms Of evening, and the moanings of the wind. And in those days she made a little song, And call’d her song ‘ The Song of Love and Death,’ And sang it : sweetly could she make and sing. ‘ Sweet is true love tho’ given in vain, in vain ; And sweet is death who puts an end to pain : I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. ‘ Love, art thou sweet ? then bitter death must be : Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me. O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. * Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away, Sweet death, that seems to make us love¬ less clay, I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. ‘ I fain would follow love, if that could be ; I needs must follow death, who calls for me ; Call and I follow, I follow ! let me die.’ High with the last line scaled her voice, and this, All in a fiery dawning wild with wind That shook her tower, the brothers heard, and thought With shuddering, ‘ Hark the Phantom of the house That ever shrieks before a death,’ and call’d The father, and all three in hurry and fear Ran to her and lo ! the blood-red light of dawn Flared on her face, she shrilling, ‘ Let me die !’ As when we dwell upon a word we know, Repeating, till the word we know so well Becomes a wonder, and we know not why, So dwelt the father on her face, and thought ‘ Is this Elaine ?’ till back the maiden fell, Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay, Speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes. At last she said, ‘ Sweet brothers, yester¬ night I seem’d a curious little maid again, As happy as when we dwelt among the woods, And when ye used to take me with the flood Up the great river in the boatman’s boat. Only ye would not pass beyond the cape That has the poplar on it : there ye fixt Your limit, oft returning with the tide. And yet I cried because ye would not pass Beyond it, and far up the shining flood Until we found the palace of the King. And yet ye would not; but this night I dream’d That I was all alone upon the flood, And then I said, “Now shall I have my will: ” And there I woke, but still the wish remain’d. So let me hence that I may pass at last Beyond the poplar and far up the flood, Until I find the palace of the King. 2 D 402 LANCELOT AND ELAINE. There will I enter in among them all, And no man there will dare to mock at me ; But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me, And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me; Gawain, who bad a thousand farewells to me, Lancelot, who coldly went, nor bad me one : And there the King will know me and my love, And there the Queen herself will pity me, And all the gentle court will welcome me, And after my long voyage I shall rest !’ ‘ Peace, ’ said her father, ‘ O my child, ye seem Light-headed, for what force is yours to g °. So far, being sick ? and wherefore would ye look On this proud fellow again, who scorns us all V Then the rough Torre began to heave and move, And bluster into stormy sobs and say, ‘ I never loved him: an I meet with him, I care not howsoever great he be, Then will I strike at him and strike him down, Give me good fortune, I will strike him dead, For this discomfort he hath done the house.’ To whom the gentle sister made reply, ‘ Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be wroth, Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot’s fault Not to love me, than it is mine to love Him of all men who seems to me the highest.’ ‘ Highest?’ the father answer’d, echoing ‘ highest ?’ (He meant to break the passion in her) ‘nay, Daughter, I know not what you call the highest; But this I know, for all the people know it, He loves the Queen, and in an open shame: And she returns his love in open shame; If this be high, what is it to be low?’ Then spake the lily maid of Astolat: ‘ Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I For anger: these are slanders: never yet Was noble man but made ignoble talk. He makes no friend who never made a foe. But now it is my glory to have loved One peerless, without stain: so let me pass, My father, howsoe’er I seem to you, Not all unhappy, having loved God’s best And greatest, tho’ my love had no return : Yet, seeing you desire your child to live, Thanks, but you work against your own desire; For if I could believe the things you say I should but die the sooner; wherefore cease, Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and die.’ So when the ghostly man had come and gone, She with a face, bright as for sin forgiven, Besought Lavaine to write as she devised A letter, word for word ; and when he ask’d ‘ Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord ? Then will I bear it gladly;’ she replied, ‘ For Lancelot and the Queen and all the world. But I myself must bear it. ’ Then he wrote The letter she devised; which being writ And folded, ‘ O sweet father, tender and true, Deny me not,’ she said—‘ ye never yet Denied my fancies—this, however strange, My latest: lay the letter in my hand A little ere I die, and close the hand Upon it; I shall guard it even in death. And when the heat is gone from out my heart, Then take the little bed on which I died LANCELOT AND ELAINE . 403 For Lancelot’s love, and deck it like the Queen’s For richness, and me also like the Queen In all I have of rich, and lay me on it. And let there be prepared a chariot-bier To take me to the river, and a barge Be ready on the river, clothed in black. I go in state to court, to meet the Queen. There surely I shall speak for mine own self, And none of you can speak for me so well. And therefore let our dumb old man alone Go with me, he can steer and row, and he Will guide me to that palace, to the doors.’ She ceased : her father promised ; whereupon She grew so cheerful that they deem’d her death Was rather in the fantasy than the blood. But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh Her father laid the letter in her hand, And closed the hand upon it, and she died. So that day there was dole in Astolat. But when the next sun brake from underground, Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier Past like a shadow thro’ the field, that shone Full-summer, to that stream whereon the barge, Pall’d all its length in blackest samite, lay. There sat the lifelong creature of the house, Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. So those two brethren from the chariot took And on the black decks laid her in her bed, Set in her hand a lily, o’er her hung The silken case with braided blazonings, And kiss’d her quiet brows, and saying to her ‘ Sister, farewell for ever,’ and again ‘ Farewell, sweet sister,’parted all in tears. Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead, Oar’d by the dumb, went upward with the flood— In her right hand the lily, in her left The letter—all her bright hair streaming down— And all the coverlid was cloth of gold Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white All but her face, and that clear-featured face Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, But fast asleep, and lay as tho’ she smiled. That day Sir Lancelot at the palace craved Audience of Guinevere, to give at last The price of half a realm, his costly gift, Hard-won and hardly won with bruise and blow, With deaths of others, and almost his own, The nine-years-fought-for diamonds : for he saw One of her house, and sent him to the Queen Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreed With such and so unmoved a majesty She might have seem’d her statue, but that he, Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss’d her feet For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye The shadow of some piece of pointed lace, In the Queen’s shadow, vibrate on the walls, And parted, laughing in his courtly heart. All in an oriel on the summer side, Vine-clad, of Arthur’s palace toward the stream, They met, and Lancelot kneeling utter’d, ‘ Queen, Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy, Take, what I had not won except for you, These jewels, and make me happy, making them An armlet for the roundest arm on earth, Or necklace for a neck to which the swan’s 404 LANCELOT AND ELAINE. Is tawnier than her cygnet’s : these are words : Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin In speaking, yet O grant my worship of it Words, as we grant grief tears. Such sin in words Perchance, we both can pardon : but, my Queen, I hear of rumours flying thro’ your court. Our bond, as not the bond of man and wife, Should have in it an absoluter trust To make up that defect: let rumours be: When did not rumours fly? these, as I trust That you trust me in your own nobleness, I may not well believe that you believe.’ While thus he spoke, half turn’d away, the Queen Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them off, Till all the place whereon she stood was green ; Then, when he ceased, in one cold passive hand Received at once and laid aside the gems There on a table near her, and replied : * It may be, I am quicker of belief Than you believe me, Lancelot of the Lake. Our bond is not the bond of man and wife. This good is in it, whatsoe’er of ill, It can be broken easier. I for you This many a year have done despite and wrong To one whom ever in my heart of hearts I did acknowledge nobler. What are these ? Diamonds for me ! they had been thrice their worth Being your gift, had you not lost your own. To loyal hearts the value of all gifts Must vary as the giver’s. Not for me ! For her ! for your new fancy. Only this Grant me, I pray you : have your joys apart. I doubt not that however changed, you keep So much of what is graceful: and myself Would shun to break those bounds of courtesy In which as Arthur’s Queen I move and rule : So cannot speak my mind. An end to this ! A strange one ! yet I take it with Amen. So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls; Deck her with these ; tell her, she shines me down : An armlet for an arm to which the Queen’s Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck O as much fairer—as a faith once fair Was richer than these diamonds—hers not mine— Nay, by the mother of our Lord himself, Or hers or mine, mine now to work my will— She shall not have them.’ Saying which she seized, And, thro’ the casement standing wide for heat, Flung them, and down they flash’d, and smote the stream. Then from the smitten surface flash’d, as it were, Diamonds to meet them, and they past away. Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disdain At love, life, all things, on the window ledge, Close underneath his eyes, and right across Where these had fallen, slowly past the barge Whereon the lily maid of Astolat Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night. But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst away To weep and wail in secret; and the barge, On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused. LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 405 There two stood arm’d, and kept the door; to whom, All up the marble stair, tier over tier, Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes that ask’d * What is it ?’ but that oarsman’s haggard face, As hard and still as is the face that men Shape to their fancy’s eye from broken rocks On some cliff-side, appall’d them, and they said, ‘ He is enchanted, cannot speak—and she, Look how she sleeps—the Fairy Queen, so fair ! Yea, but how pale ! what are they ? flesh and blood ? Or come to take the King to Fairyland ? For some do hold our Arthur cannot die, But that he passes into Fairyland.’ While thus they babbled of the King, the King Came girt with knights : then turn’d the tongueless man From the half-face to the full eye, and rose And pointed to the damsel, and the doors. So Arthur bad the meek Sir Percivale And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid ; And reverently they bore her into hall. Then came the fine Gawain and wonder’d at her, And Lancelot later came and mused at her, And last the Queen herself, and pitied her: But Arthur spied the letter in her hand, Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it; this was all: ‘ Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of the Lake, I, sometime call’d the maid of Astolat, Come, for you left me taking no farewell, Hither, to take my last farewell of you. I loved you, and my love had no return, And therefore my true love has been my death. And therefore to our Lady Guinevere, And to all other ladies, I make moan. Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. Pray for my soul thou too, Sir Lancelot, As thou art a knight peerless.’ Thus he read ; And ever in the reading, lords and dames Wept, looking often from his face who read To hers which lay so silent, and at times, So touch’d were they, half-thinking that her lips, Who had devised the letter, moved again. Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all: ‘ My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that hear, Know that for this most gentle maiden’s death Right heavy am I; for good she was and true, But loved me with a love beyond all love In women, whomsoever I have known. Yet to be loved makes not to love again; Not at my years, however it hold in youth. I swear by truth and knighthood that I gave No cause, not willingly, for such a love : To this I call my friends in testimony, Her brethren, and her father, who himself Besought me to be plain and blunt, and use, To break her passion, some discourtesy Against my nature : what I could, I did. I left her and I bad her no farewell ; Tho’, had I dreamt the damsel would have died, I might have put my wits to some rough use, And help’d her from herself.’ Then said the Queen (Sea was her wrath, yet working after storm) ‘ Ye might at least have done her so much grace, Fair lord, as would have help’d her from her death.’ He raised his head, their eyes met and hers fell, 406 LANCELOT AND ELAINE. He adding, ‘ Queen, she would not be content Save that I wedded her, which could not be. Then might she follow me thro’ the world, she ask’d ; It could not be. I told her that her love Was but the flash of youth, would darken down To rise hereafter in a stiller flame Toward one more worthy of her—then would I, More specially were he, she wedded, poor, Estate them with large land and territory In mine own realm beyond the narrow seas, To keep them in all joyance : more than this I could not; this she would not, and she died. ’ He pausing, Arthur answer’d, ‘ O my knight, It will be to thy worship, as my knight, And mine, as head of all our Table Round, To see that she be buried worshipfully.’ So toward that shrine which then in all the realm Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly went The marshall’d Order of their Table Round, And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to see The maiden buried, not as one unknown, Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies, And mass, and rolling music, like a queen. And when the knights had laid her comely head Low in the dust of half-forgotten kings, Then Arthur spake among them, ‘ Let her tomb Be costly, and her image thereupon, And let the shield of Lancelot at her feet Be carven, and her lily in her hand. And let the story of her dolorous voyage For all true hearts be blazon’d on her tomb In letters gold and azure! ’ which was wrought Thereafter; but when now the lords and dames And people, from the high door stream¬ ing, brake Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen, Who mark’d Sir Lancelot where he moved apart, Drew near, and sigh’d in passing, ‘ Lancelot, Forgive me ; mine was jealousy in love.’ He answer’d with his eyes upon the ground, ‘ That is love’s curse; pass on, my Queen, forgiven.’ But Arthur, who beheld his cloudy brows, Approach’d him, and with full affection said, ‘ Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I have Most joy and most affiance, for I know What thou hast been in battle by my side, And many a time have watch’d thee at the tilt Strike down the lusty and long practised knight, And let the younger and unskill’d go by To win his honour and to make his name, And loved thy courtesies and thee, a man Made to be loved; but now I would to God, Seeing the homeless trouble in thine eyes, Thou couldst have loved this maiden, shaped, it seems, By God for thee alone, and from her face, If one may judge the living by the dead, Delicately pure and marvellously fair, Who might have brought thee, now a lonely man Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons Bom to the glory of thy name and fame, My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake.’ Then answer’d Lancelot, ‘ Fair she was, • my King, Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. To doubt her fairness were to want an eye, To doubt her pureness were to want a heart— Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love Could bind him, but free love will not be bound. ’ THE HOL V GRAIL. 407 ‘ Free love, so bound, w«re freest,’ said the King. ‘ Let love be free ; free love is for the best: And, after heaven, on our dull side of death, What should be best, if not so pure a love Clothed in so pure a loveliness ? yet thee She fail’d to bind, tho’ being, as I think, Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I know.’ And Lancelot answer’d nothing, but he went, And at the inrunning of a little brook Sat by the river in a cove, and watch’d The high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes And saw the barge that brought her moving down, Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and said Low in himself, ‘Ah simple heart and sweet, Ye loved me, damsel, surely with a love Far tenderer than my Queen’s. Pray for thy soul ? Ay, that will I. Farewell too—now at last— Farewell, fair lily. “Jealousy in love?” Not rather dead love’s harsh heir, jealous pride ? Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love, May not your crescent fear for name and fame Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes? Why did the King dwell on my name to me ? Mine own name shames me, seeming a reproach, Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake Caught from his mother’s arms—the wondrous one Who passes thro’ the vision of the night— She chanted snatches of mysterious hymns Heard on the winding waters, eve and morn She kiss’d me saying, “ Thou art fail*, my child, As a king’s son,” and often in her arms She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere. Would she had drown’d me in it, where’er it be ! For what am I? what profits me my name Of greatest knight ? I fought for it, and have it : Pleasure to have it, none; to lose it, pain; Now grown a part of me: but what use in it ? To make men worse by making my sin known ? Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great? Alas for Arthur’s greatest knight, a man Not after Arthur’s heart! I needs must break These bonds that so defame me : not without She wills it: would I, if she will’d it? nay, Who knows ? but if I would not, then may God, I pray him, send a sudden Angel down To seize me by the hair and bear me far, And fling me deep in that forgotten mere, Among the tumbled fragments of the hills.’ So groan’d Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain, Not knowing he should die a holy man. THE HOLY GRAIL. From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale, Whom Arthur and his knighthood call’d The Pure, Had pass’d into the silent life of prayer, Praise, fast, and alms; and leaving for the cowl The helmet in an abbey far away From Camelot, there, and not long after, died. And one, a fellow-monk among the rest, Ambrosius, loved him much beyond the rest, And honour’d him, and wrought into his heart A way by love that waken’d love within, To answer that which came : and as they sat 408 THE HOLY GRAIL. Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darkening half The cloisters, on a gustful April morn That puff’d the swaying branches into smoke Above them, ere the summer when he died, The monk Ambrosius question’d Per- civale : ‘ O brother, I have seen this yew-tree smoke, Spring after spring, for half a hundred years : For never have I known the world with¬ out, Nor ever stray’d beyond the pale: but thee, When first thou earnest—such a courtesy Spake thro’ the limbs and in the voice— I knew For one of those who eat in Arthur’s hall; For good ye are and bad, and like to coins, Some true, some light, but everyone of you Stamp’d with the image of the King; and now Tell me, what drove thee from the Table Round, My brother? was it earthly passion crost?’ ‘Nay,’ said the knight; ‘for no such passion mine. But the sweet vision of the Holy Grail Drove me from all vainglories, rivalries, And earthly heats that spring and sparkle out Among us in the jousts, while women watch Who wins, who falls ; and waste the spiritual strength Within us, better offer’d up to Heaven.’ To whom the monk : ‘ The Holy Grail !—I trust We are green in Heaven’s eyes ; but here too much We moulder—as to things without I mean— Yet one of your own knights, a guest of ours, Told us of this in our refectory, But spake with such a sadness and so low We heard not half of what he said. What is it ? The phantom of a cup that comes and goes ?’ ‘Nay, monk ! what phantom?’answer’d Percivale. ‘ The cup, the cup itself, from which our Lord Drank at the last sad supper with his own. This, from the blessed land of Aromat— After the day of darkness, when the dead Went wandering o’er Moriah—the good saint Arimathaean Joseph, journeying brought To Glastonbury, where the winter thorn Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our Lord. And there awhile it bode ; and if a man Could touch or see it, he was heal’d at once, By faith, of all his ills. But then the times Grew to such evil that the holy cup Was caught away to Heaven, and dis¬ appear’d.’ To whom the monk : ‘ From our old books I know That Joseph came of old to Glastonbury, And there the heathen Prince, Arviragus, Gave him an isle of marsh whereon to build ; And there he built with wattles from the marsh A little lonely church in days of yore, For so they say, these books of ours, but seem Mute of this miracle, far as I have read. But who first saw the holy thing to-day ? ’ ‘ A woman,’ answer’d Percivale, ‘ a nun, And one no further off in blood from me Than sister ; and if ever holy maid With knees of adoration wore the stone, A holy maid ; tho’ never maiden glow’d, But that was in her earlier maidenhood, With such a fervent flame of human love, THE HOL Y GRAIL. 409 Which being rudely blunted, glanced and shot Only to holy things ; to prayer and praise She gave herself, to fast and alms. And yet, Nun as she was, the scandal of the Court, Sin against Arthur and the Table Round, And the strange sound of an adulterous race, Across the iron grating of her cell Beat, and she pray’d and fasted all the more. * And he to whom she told her sins, or what Her all but utter whiteness held for sin, A man wellnigh a hundred winters old, Spake often with her of the Holy Grail, A legend handed down thro’ five or six, And each of these a hundred winters old, From our Lord’s time. And when King Arthur made His Table Round, and all men’s hearts became Clean for a season, surely he had thought That now the Holy Grail would come again; But sin broke out. Ah, Christ, that it would come, And heal the world of all their wickedness ! “ O Father ! ” ask’d the maiden, “ might it come To me by prayer and fasting?” “ Nay,” said he, “ I know not, for thy heart is pure as snow.” And so she pray’d and fasted, till the sun Shone, and the wind blew, thro’ her, and I thought She might have risen and floated when I saw her. ‘For on a day she sent to speak with me. And when she came to speak, behold her eyes Beyond my knowing of them, beautiful, Beyond all knowing of them, wonderful, Beautiful in the light of holiness. And “ O my brother Percivale,” she said, “ Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy Grail: For, waked at dead of night, I heard a sound As of a silver horn from o’er the hills Blown, and I thought, ‘ It is not Arthur’s use To hunt by moonlight; ’ and the slender sound As from a distance beyond distance grew Coming upon me—O never harp nor horn, Nor aught we blow with breath, or touch with hand, Was like that music as it came ; and then Stream’d thro’ my cell a cold and silver beam, And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail, Rose-red with beatings in it, as if alive, Till all the white walls of my cell were dyed With rosy colours leaping on the wall; And then the music faded, and the Grail Past, and the beam decay’d, and from the walls The rosy quiverings died into the night. So now the Holy Thing is here again Among us, brother, fast thou too and pray, And tell thy brother knights to fast and pray, That so perchance the vision may be seen By thee and those, and all the world be heal’d.” ‘ Then leaving the pale nun, I spake of this To all men; and myself fasted and pray’d Always, and many among us many a week Fasted and pray’d even to the uttermost, Expectant of the wonder that would be. ‘ And one there was among us, ever moved Among us in white armour, Galahad. “ God make thee good as thou art beau¬ tiful,” Said Arthur, when he dubb’d him knight; and none, 410 THE HOLY GRAIL. In so young youth, was ever made a knight Till Galahad ; and this Galahad, when he heard My sister’s vision, fill’d me with amaze ; His eyes became so like her own, they seem’d Hers, and himself her brother more than I. ‘ Sister or brother none had he; but some Call’d him a son of Lancelot, and some said Begotten by enchantment—chatterers they, Like birds of passage piping up and down, That gape for flies—we know not whence they come ; For when was Lancelot wanderingly lewd ? ‘ But she, the wan sweet maiden, shore away Clean from her forehead all that wealth of hair Which made a silken mat-work for her feet; And out of this she plaited broad and long A strong sword-belt, and wove with silver thread And crimson in the belt a strange device, A crimson grail within a silver beam ; And saw the bright boy-knight, and bound it on him, Saying, “ My knight, my love, my knight of heaven, O thou, my love, whose love is one with mine, I, maiden, round thee, maiden, bind my belt. Go forth, for thou shalt see what I have seen, And break thro’ all, till one will crown thee king Far in the spiritual city: ” and as she spake She sent the deathless passion in her eyes Thro’ him, and made him hers, and laid her mind On him, and he believed in her belief. ‘ Then came a year of miracle: O brother, In our great hall there stood a vacant chair, Fashion’d by Merlin ere he past away, And carven with strange figures ; and in and out The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll Of letters in a tongue no man could read. And Merlin call’d it “The Siege peril¬ ous,” Perilous for good and ill; “for there,” he said, “ No man could sit but he should lose himself: ” And once by misadvertence Merlin sat In his own chair, and so was lost; but he, Galahad, when he heard of Merlin’s doom, Cried, “If I lose myself, I save myself!” ‘ Then on a summer night it came to pass, While the great banquet lay along the hall, That Galahad would sit down in Merlin’s chair. ‘ And all at once, as there we sat, we heard A cracking and a riving of the roofs, And rending, and a blast, and overhead Thunder, and in the thunder was a cry. And in the blast there smote along the hall A beam of light seven times more clear than day: And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail All over cover’d with a luminous cloud, And none might see who bare it, and it past. But every knight beheld his fellow’s face As in a glory, and all the knights arose, And staring each at other like dumb men Stood, till I found a voice and sware a vow. ‘ I sware a vow before them all, that I, Because I had not seen the Grail, would ride A twelvemonth and a day in quest of it, Until I found and saw it, as the nun THE HOLY GRAIL. My sister saw it; and Galahad sware the vow, And good Sir Bors, our Lancelot’s cousin, sware, And Lancelot sware, and many among the knights, And Gawain sware, and louder than the rest. ’ Then spake the monk Ambrosius, ask¬ ing him, ‘ What said the King? Did Arthur take the vow ?’ ‘ Nay, for my lord,’ said Percivale, ‘ the King, Was not in hall: for early that same day, Scaped thro’ a cavern from a bandit hold, An outraged maiden sprang into the hall Crying on help : for all her shining hair Was smear’d with earth, and either milky arm Red-rent with hooks of bramble, and all she wore Torn as a sail that leaves the rope is torn In tempest: so the King arose and went To smoke the scandalous hive of those wild bees That made such honey in his realm. Howbeit Some little of this marvel he too saw, Returning o’er the plain that then began To darken under Camelot; whence the King Look’d up, calling aloud, “ Lo, there ! the roofs Of our great hall are roll’d in thunder- smoke ! Pray Heaven, they be not smitten by the bolt.” For dear to Arthur was that hall of ours, As having there so oft with all his knights Feasted, and as the stateliest under heaven. ‘ O brother, had you known our mighty hall, Which Merlin built for Arthur long ago ! For all the sacred mount of Camelot, And all the dim rich city, roof by roof, Tower after tower, spire beyond spire, 411 By grove, and garden-lawn, and rushing brook, Climbs to the mighty hall that Merlin built. And four great zones of sculpture, set betwixt With many a mystic symbol, gird the hall: And in the lowest beasts are slaying men, And in the second men are slaying beasts, And on the third are warriors, perfect men, And on the fourth are men with growing wings, And over all one statue in the mould Of Arthur, made by Merlin, with a crown, And peak’d wings pointed to the Northern Star. And eastward fronts the statue, and the crown And both the wings are made of gold, and flame At sunrise till the people in far fields. Wasted so often by the heathen hordes, Behold it, crying, “We have still a King.” ‘ And, brother, had you known our hall within, Broader and higher than any in all the lands ! Where twelve great windows blazon Arthur’s wars, And all the light that falls upon the board Streams thro’ the twelve great battles of our King. Nay, one there is, and at the eastern end, Wealthy with wandering lines of mount and mere, Where Arthur finds the brand Excalibur. And also one to the west, and counter to it, And blank : and who shall blazon it ? when and how ? — O there, perchance, when all our wars are done, The brand Excalibur will be cast away. ‘ So to this hall full quickly rode the King, In horror lest the work by Merlin wrought, Dreamlike, should on the sudden vanish, wrapt In unremorseful folds of rolling fire. 412 THE HOL V GRAIL. And in he rode, and up I glanced, and saw The golden dragon sparkling over all: And many of those who burnt the hold, their arms Hack’d, and their foreheads grimed with smoke, and sear’d, Follow’d, and in arpong bright faces, ours, Full of the vision, prest: and then the King Spake tome, being nearest, “Percivale,” (Because the hall was all in tumult—some Vowing, and some protesting), “ what is this ?” ‘ O brother, when I told him what had chanced, My sister’s vision, and the rest, his face Darken’d, as I have seen it more than once, When some brave deed seem’d to be done in vain, Darken; and “Woe is me, my knights,” he cried, “ Had I been here, ye had not sworn the vow.” Bold was mine answer, “ Had thyself been here, My King, thou wouldst have sworn.” “Yea, yea,” said he, “Art thou so bold and hast not seen the Grail?” ‘“Nay, lord, I heard the sound, I saw the light, But since I did not see the Holy Thing, I sware a vow to follow it till I saw.” ‘Then when he ask’d us, knight by knight, if any Had seen it, all their answers were as one : “ Nay, lord, and therefore have we sworn our vows.” ‘ “ Lo now,” said Arthur, “have ye seen a cloud ? What go ye into the wilderness to see?” * Then Galahad on the sudden, and in a voice Shrilling along the hall to Arthur, call’d, “ But I, Sir Arthur, saw the Holy Grail, I saw the Holy Grail and heard a cry— ‘ O Galahad, and O Galahad, follow me. ’ ” ‘“Ah, Galahad, Galahad,” said the King, “ for such As thou art is the vision, not for these. Thy holy nun and thou have seen a sign— Holier is none, my Percivale, than she— A sign to maim this Order which I made. But ye, that follow but the leader’s bell ” (Brother, the King was hard upon his knights) “Taliessin is our fullest throat of song, And one hath sung and all the dumb will sing. Lancelot is Lancelot, and hath overborne Five knights at once, and every younger knight, Unproven, holds himself as Lancelot, Till overborne by one, he learns—and ye, What are ye ? Galahads ?—no, nor Per- ci vales ” (For thus it pleased the King to range me close After Sir Galahad); “nay,” said he, “ but men With strength and will to right the wrong’d, of power To lay the sudden heads of violence flat, Knights that in twelve great battles splash’d and dyed The strong White Horse in his own heathen blood— But one hath seen, and all the blind will see. Go, since your vows are sacred, being made: Yet—for ye know the cries of all my realm Pass thro’ this hall—how often, O my knights, Your places being vacant at my side, This chance of noble deeds will come and go Unchallenged, while ye follow wandering fires Lost in the quagmire ! Many of you, yea most, Return no more : ye think I show myself THE HOLY GRAIL. 4i3 Too dark a prophet: come now, let us meet The morrow morn once more in one full field Of gracious pastime, that once more the King, Before ye leave him for this Quest, may count The yet - unbroken strength of all his knights, Rejoicing in that Order which he made.” ‘ So when the sun broke next from under ground, All the great table of our Arthur closed And clash’d in such a tourney and so full, So many lances broken—never yet Had Camelot seen the like, since Arthur came ; And I myself and Galahad, for a strength Was in us from the vision, overthrew So many knights that all the people cried, And almost burst the barriers in their heat, Shouting, “ Sir Galahad and Sir Perci- vale ! ” ‘ But when the next day brake from under ground— O brother, had you known our Camelot, Built by old kings, age after age, so old The King himself had fears that it would fall, So strange, and rich, and dim ; for where the roofs Totter’d toward each other in the sky, Met foreheads all along the street of those Who watch’d us pass ; and lower, and where the long Rich galleries, lady-laden, weigh’d the necks Of dragons clinging to the crazy walls, Thicker than drops from thunder, showers of flowers Fell as we past; and men and boys astride On wyvern, lion, dragon, griffin, swan, At all the corners, named us each by name, Calling “God speed !” but in the ways below The knights and ladies wept, and rich and poor Wept, and the King himself could hardly speak For grief, and all in middle street the Queen, Who rode by Lancelot, wail’d and shriek’d aloud, “This madness has come on us for our sins.” So to the Gate of the three Queens we came, Where Arthur’s wars are render’d mys¬ tically, And thence departed every one his way. ‘And I was lifted up in heart, and thought Of all my late-shown prowess in the lists, How my strong lance had beaten down the knights, So many and famous names ; and never yet Had heaven appear’d so blue, nor earth so green, For all my blood danced in me, and I knew That I should light upon the Holy Grail. ‘Thereafter, the dark warning of our King, That most of us would follow wandering fires, Came like a driving gloom across my mind. Then every evil word I had spoken once, And every evil thought I had thought of old, And every evil deed I ever did, Awoke and cried, ‘ ‘ This Quest is not for thee. ” And lifting up mine eyes, I found myself Alone, and in a land of sand and thorns, And I was thirsty even unto death ; And I, too, cried, “ This Quest is not for thee.” ‘And on I rode, and when I thought my thirst Would slay me, saw deep lawns, and then a brook, 4H THE HOL Y GRAIL. With one sharp rapid, where the crisping white Play’d ever back upon the sloping wave, And took both ear and eye ; and o’er the brook Were apple-trees, and apples by the brook Fallen, and on the lawns. “ I will rest here,” I said, “ I am not worthy of the Quest; ” But even while I drank the brook, and ate The goodly apples, all these things at once Fell into dust, and I was left alone, And thirsting, in a land of sand and thorns. ‘ And then behold a woman at a door Spinning ; and fair the house whereby she sat, And kind the woman’s eyes and innocent, And all her bearing gracious; and she rose Opening her arms to meet me, as who should say, “Rest here but when I touch’d her, lo ! she, too, Fell into dust and nothing, and the house Became no better than a broken shed, And in it a dead babe ; and also this Fell into dust, and I was left alone. ‘ And on I rode, and greater was my thirst. Then flash’d a yellow gleam across the world, And where it smote the plowshare in the field, The plowman left his plowing, and fell down Before it; whei'e it glitter’d on her pail, The milkmaid left her milking, and fell down Before it, and I knew not why, but thought ‘ ‘ The sun is rising, ” tho’ the sun had risen. Then was I ware of one that on me moved In golden armour with a crown of gold About a casque all jewels ; and his horse In golden armour jewell’d everywhere : And on the splendour came, flashing me blind ; And seem’d to me the Lord of all the world, Being so huge. But when I thought he meant To crush me, moving on me, lo ! he, too, Open’d his arms to embrace me as he came, And up I went and touch’d him, and he, too, Fell into dust, and I was left alone And wearying in a land of sand and thorns. ‘ And I rode on and found a mighty hill, And on the top, a city wall’d : the spires Prick’d with incredible pinnacles into heaven. And by the gateway stirr’d a crowd ; and these Cried to me climbing, “Welcome, Perci- vale ! Thou mightiest and thou purest among men !” And glad was I and clomb, but found at top No man, nor any voice. And thence I past Far thro’ a ruinous city, and I saw That man had once dwelt there ; but there I found Only one man of an exceeding age. “ Where is that goodly company,” said I, “ That so cried out upon me?” and he had Scarce any voice to answer, and yet gasp’d, “ Whence and what art thou ?” and even as he spoke Fell into dust, and disappear’d, and I Was left alone once more, and cried in grief, ‘ ‘ Lo, if I find the Holy Grail itself And touch it, it will crumble into dust. ” ‘ And thence I dropt into a lowly vale, Low as the hill was high, and where the vale Was lowest, found a chapel, and thereby A holy hermit in a hermitage, To whom I told my phantoms, and he said : THE HOL Y GRAIL. 415 ‘ “ O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; For when the Lord of all things made Himself Naked of glory for His mortal change, ‘Take thou my robe,’ she said, ‘for all is thine,’ And all her form shone forth with sudden light So that the angels were amazed, and she Follow’d Him down, and like a flying star Led on the gray-hair’d wisdom of the east; But her thou hast not known: for what is this Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins ? Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself As Galahad.” When the hermit made an end, In silver armour suddenly Galahad shone Before us, and against the chapel door Laid lance, and enter’d, and we knelt in prayer. And there the hermit slaked my burning thirst, And at the sacring of the mass I saw The holy elements alone ; but he, “Saw ye no more? I, Galahad, saw the Grail, The Holy Grail, descend upon the shrine : I saw the fiery face as of a child That smote itself into the bread, and went; And hither am I come ; and never yet Hath what thy sister taught me first to see, This Holy Thing, fail’d from my side, nor come Cover’d, but moving with me night and day, Fainter by day, but always in the night Blood-red, and sliding down the blacken’d marsh Blood-red, and on the naked mountain top Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere below Blood-red. And in the strength of this I rode, Shattering all evil customs everywhere, And past thro’ Pagan realms, and made them mine, And clash’d with Pagan hordes, and bore them down, And broke thro’ all, and in the strength of this Come victor. But my time is hard at hand, And hence I go ; and one will crown me king Far in the spiritual city ; and come thou, too, For thou shalt see the vision when I go.” ‘ While thus he spake, his eye, dwelling on mine, Drew me, with power upon me, till I grew One with him, to believe as he believed. Then, when the day began to wane, we went. ‘ There rose a hill that none but man could climb, Scarr’d with a hundred wintry water¬ courses— Storm at the top, and when we gain’d it, storm Round us and death ; for every moment glanced His silver arms and gloom’d : so quick and thick The lightnings here and there to left and right Struck, till the dry old trunks about us, dead, Yea, rotten with a hundred years of death, Sprang into fire: and at the base we found On either hand, as far as eye could see, A great black swamp and of an evil smell, Part black, part whiten’d with the bones of men, Not to be crost, save that some ancient king Had built a way, where, link’d with many a bridge, A thousand piers ran into the great Sea. And Galahad fled along them bridge by bridge, j And every bridge as quickly as he crost 416 THE HOL Y GRAIL. Sprang into fire and vanish’d, tho’ I yearn’d To follow ; and thrice above him all the heavens Open’d and blazed with thunder such as seem’d Shoutings of all the sons of God: and first At once I saw him far on the great Sea, In silver-shining armour starry-clear ; And o’er his head the Holy Vessel hung Clothed in white samite or a luminous cloud. And with exceeding swiftness ran the boat, If boat it were—I saw not whence it came. And when the heavens open’d and blazed again Roaring, I saw him like a silver star— And had he set the sail, or had the boat Become a living creature clad with wings ? And o’er his head the Holy Vessel hung Redder than any rose, a joy to me, For now I knew the veil had been with¬ drawn. Then in a moment when they blazed again Opening, I saw the least of little stars Down on the waste, and straight beyond the star I saw the spiritual city and all her spires And gateways in a glory like one pearl— No larger, tho’ the goal of all the saints — Strike from the sea; and from the star there shot A rose-red sparkle to the city, and there Dwelt, and I knew it was the Holy Grail, Which never eyes on earth again shall see. Then fell the floods of heaven drowning the deep. And how my feet recrost the deathful ridge No memory in me lives; but that I touch’d The chapel-doors at dawn I know; and thence Taking my war-horse from the holy man, Glad that no phantom vext me more, return’d To whence I came, the gate of Arthur’s wars. ’ ‘O brother,’ ask’d Ambrosius,—‘for in sooth These ancient books—and they would win thee—teem, Only I find not there this Holy Grail, With miracles and marvels like to these, Not all unlike ; which oftentime I read, Who read but on my breviary with ease, Till my head swims; and then go forth and pass Down to the little thorpe that lies so close, And almost plaster’d like a martin’s nest To these old walls—and mingle with our folk ; And knowing every honest face of theirs As well as ever shepherd knew his sheep, And every homely secret in their hearts, Delight myself with gossip and old wives, And ills and aches, and teethings, lyings- in, And mirthful sayings, children of the place, That have no meaning half a league away : Or lulling random squabbles when they rise, Chafferings and chatterings at the market- cross, Rejoice, small man, in this small world of mine, Yea, even in their hens and in their eggs— O brother, saving this Sir Galahad, Came ye on none but phantoms in your quest, No man, no woman?’ Then Sir Percivale: ‘ All men, to one so bound by such a vow, And women were as phantoms. O, my brother, Why wilt thou shame me to confess to thee How far I falter’d from my quest and vow ? For after I had lain so many nights, A bedmate of the snail and eft and snake, In grass and burdock, I was changed to wan And meagre, and the vision had not come; And then I chanced upon a goodly town With one great dwelling in the middle of it; Thither I made, and there was I disarm’d By maidens each as fair as any flower: But when they led me into hall, behold, The Princess of that castle was the one, Brother, and that one only, who had ever THE HOLY GRAIL. 417 Made my heart leap; for when I moved of old A slender page about her father’s hall, And she a slender maiden, all my heart Went after her with longing : yet we twain Had never kiss’d a kiss, or vow’d a vow. And now I came upon her once again, And one had wedded her, and he was dead, And all his land and wealth and state were hers. And while I tarried, every day she set A banquet richer than the day before By me ; for all her longing and her will Was toward me as of old; till one fair morn, I walking to and fro beside a stream That flash’d across her orchard underneath Her castle-walls, she stole upon my walk, And calling me the greatest of all knights, Embraced me, and so kiss’d me the first time, And gave herself and all her wealth to me. Then I remember’d Arthur’s warning word, That most of us would follow wandering fires, And the Quest faded in my heart. Anon, The heads of all her people drew to me, With supplication both of knees and tongue: “We have heard of thee: thou art our greatest knight, Our Lady says it, and we well believe: Wed thou our Lady, and rule over us, And thou shalt be as Arthur in our land.” O me, my brother ! but one night my vow Burnt me within, so that I rose and fled, But wail’d and wept, and hated mine own self, And ev’n the Holy Quest, and all but her ; Then after I was join’d with Galahad Cared not for her, nor anything upon earth. ’ Then said the monk, ‘ Poor men, when yule is cold, Must be content to sit by little fires. And this am I, so that ye care for me Ever so little ; yea, and blest be Heaven That brought thee here to this poor house of ours Where all the brethren are so hard, to warm My cold heart with a friend : but O the pity To find thine own first love once more— to hold, Hold her a wealthy bride within thine arms, Or all but hold, and then—cast her aside, Foregoing all her sweetness, like a weed. For we that want the warmth of double life, We that are plagued with dreams of something sweet Beyond all sweetness in a life so rich,—- Ah, blessed Lord, I speak too earthlywise. Seeing I never stray’d beyond the cell, But live like an old badger in his earth, With earth about him everywhere, despite All fast and penance. Saw ye none be¬ side, None of your knights?’ ‘ Yea so,’ said Percivale : * One night my pathway swerving east, I saw The pelican on the casque of our Sir Bors All in the middle of the rising moon : And toward him spurr’d, and hail’d him, and he me, And each made joy of either; then he ask’d, “Where is he? hast thou seen him— Lancelot ?—Once,” Said good Sir Bors, “ he dash’d across me —mad, And maddening what he rode : and when I cried, * Ridest thou then so hotly on a quest So holy, ’ Lancelot shouted, * Stay me not! I have been the sluggard, and I ride apace, For now there is a lion in the way.’ So vanish’d.” ‘ Then Sir Bors had ridden on Softly, and sorrowing for our Lancelot, Because his former madness, once the talk And scandal of our table, had return’d 2 E 418 THE HOL Y GRAIL. For Lancelot’s kith and kin so worship him That ill to him is ill to them ; to Bors Beyond the rest: he well had been content Not to have seen, so Lancelot might have seen, The Holy Cup of healing ; and, indeed, Being so clouded with his grief and love, Small heart was his after the Holy Quest: If God would send the vision, well: if not, The Quest and he were in the hands of Heaven. ‘ And then, with small adventure met, Sir Bors Rode to the lonest tract of all the realm, And found a people there among their crags, Our race and blood, a remnant that were left Paynim amid their circles, and the stones They pitch up straight to heaven: and their wise men Were strong in that old magic which can trace The wandering of the stars, and scoff’d at him And this high Quest as at a simple thing : Told him he follow’d—almost Arthur’s words— A mocking fire: “what other fire than he, Whereby the blood beats, and the blossom blows, And the sea rolls, and all the world is warm’d ?” And when his answer chafed them, the rough crowd, Hearing he had a difference with their priests, Seized him, and bound and plunged him into a cell Of great piled stones ; and lying bounden there In darkness thro’ innumerable hours He heard the hollow - ringing heavens sweep Over him till by miracle—what else ?— Heavy as it was, a great stone slipt and fell, Such as no wind could move: and thro’ the gap Glimmer’d the streaming scud : then came a night Still as the day was loud ; and thro’ the g a P The seven clear stars of Arthur’s Table Round— For, brother, so one night, because they roll Thro’ such a round in heaven, we named the stars, Rejoicing in ourselves and in our King— And these, like bright eyes of familiar friends, In on him shone : “And then to me, to me,” Said good Sir Bors, “ beyond all hopes of mine, Who scarce had pray’d or ask’d it for myself— Across the seven clear stars—O grace to me— In colour like the fingers of a hand Before a burning taper, the sweet Grail Glided and past, and close upon it peal’d A sharp quick thunder.” Afterwards, a maid, Who kept our holy faith among her kin In secret, entering, loosed and let him go.’ To whom the monk : ‘And I remember now That pelican on the casque : Sir Bors it was Who spake so low and sadly at our board; And mighty reverent at our grace was he : A square-set man and honest; and his eyes, An out-door sign of all the warmth within, Smiled with his lips—a smile beneath a cloud, But heaven had meant it for a sunny one : Ay, ay, Sir Bors, who else? But when ye reach’d The city, found ye all your knights re¬ turn’d, Or was there sooth in Arthur’s prophecy, Tell me, and what said each, and what the King ?’ THE HOL V GRAIL. 419 Then answer’d Percivale : ‘ And that can I, Brother, and truly ; since the living words Of so great men as Lancelot and our King Pass not from door to door and out again, But sit within the house. O, when we reach’d The city, our horses stumbling as they trode On heaps of ruin, hornless unicorns, Crack’d basilisks, and splinter’d cocka¬ trices, And shatter’d talbots, which had left the stones Raw, that they fell from, brought us to the hall. ‘ And there sat Arthur on the dais- throne, And those that had gone out upon the Quest, Wasted and worn, and but a tithe of them, And those that had not, stood before the King, Who, when he saw me, rose, and bad me hail, Saying, “ A welfare in thine eye reproves Our fear of some disastrous chance for thee On hill, or plain, at sea, or flooding ford. So fierce a gale made havoc here of late Among the strange devices of our kings ; Yea, shook this newer, stronger hall of ours, And from the statue Merlin moulded for us Half-wrench’d a golden wing ; but now— the Quest, This vision—hast thou seen the Holy Cup, That Joseph brought of old to Glaston¬ bury?” ‘ So when I told him all thyself hast heard, Ambrosius, and my fresh but fixt resolve To pass away into the quiet life, He answer’d not, but, sharply turning, ask’d Of Gawain, “ Gawain, was this Quest for thee?” ‘ “Nay, lord,” said Gawain, “not for such as I. Therefore I communed with a saintly man, Who made me sure the Quest was not for me ; For I was much awearied of the Quest : But found a silk pavilion in a field, And merry maidens in it; and then this gale Tore my pavilion from the tenting-pin, And blew my merry maidens all about With all discomfort; yea, and but for this, My twelvemonth and a day were pleasant to me. ” ‘ He ceased; and Arthur turn’d to whom at first He saw not, for Sir Bors, on entering, push’d Athwart the throng to Lancelot, caught his hand, Held it, and there, half-hidden by him, stood, Until the King espied him, saying to him, “ Hail, Bors ! if ever loyal man and true Could see it, thou hast seen the Grail; ” and Bors, “ Ask me not, for I may not speak of it: I saw it; ” and the tears were in his eyes. ‘ Then there remain’d but Lancelot, for the rest Spake but of sundry perils in the storm ; Perhaps, like him of Cana in Holy Writ, Our Arthur kept his best until the last; “Thou, too, my Lancelot,” ask’d the King, “ my friend, Our mightiest, hath this Quest avail’d for thee ? ” ‘ “ Our mightiest!” answer’d Lancelot, with a groan ; “O King!” — and when he paused, methought I spied A dying fire of madness in his eyes— “ O King, my friend, if friend of thine I be, Happier are those that welter in their sin, Swine in the mud, that cannot see for slime, Slime of the ditch : but in me lived a sin So strange, of such a kind, that all of pure. 420 THE HOLY GRAIL. Noble, and knightly in me twined and clung Round that one sin, until the wholesome flower And poisonous grew together, each as each, Not to be pluck’d asunder ; and when thy knights Sware, I sware with them only in the hope That could I touch or see the Holy Grail They might be pluck’d asunder. Then I spake To one most holy saint, who wept and said, That save they could be pluck’d asunder, all My quest were but in vain ; to whom I vow’d That I woqld work according as he will’d. And forth I went, and while I yearn’d and strove To tear the twain asunder in my heart, My madness came upon me as of old, And whipt me into waste fields far away ; There was I beaten down by little men, Mean knights, to whom the moving of my sword And shadow of my spear had been enow To scare them from me once; and then I came All in my folly to the naked shore, Wide flats, where nothing but coarse grasses grew ; But such a blast, my King, began to blow, So loud a blast along the shore and sea, Ye could not hear the waters for the blast, Tho’ heapt in mounds and ridges all the sea Drove like a cataract, and all the sand Swept like a river, and the clouded heavens Were shaken with the motion and the sound. And blackening in the sea-foam sway’d a boat, Half - swallow’d in it, anchor’d with a chain; And in my madness to myself I said, ‘ I will embark and I will lose myself, And in the great sea wash away my sin.’ j I burst the chain, I sprang into the boat. Seven days I drove along the dreary deep, And with me drove the moon and all the stars ; And the wind fell, and on the seventh night I heard the shingle grinding in the surge, And felt the boat shock earth, and looking up, Behold, the enchanted towers of Car- bonek, A castle like a rock upon a rock, With chasm-like portals open to the sea, And steps that met the breaker ! there was none Stood near it but a lion on each side That kept the eniiy, and the moon was full. Then from the boat I leapt, and up the stairs. There drew my sword. With sudden- flaring manes Those two great beasts rose upright like a man, Each gript a shoulder, and I stood between; And, when I would have smitten them, heard a voice, ‘ Doubt not, go forward ; if thou doubt, the beasts Will tear thee piecemeal.’ Then with violence The sword was dash’d from out my hand, and fell. And up into the sounding hall I past; But nothing in the sounding hall I saw, No bench nor table, painting on the wall Or shield of knight; only the rounded moon Thro’ the tall oriel on the rolling sea. But always in the quiet house I heard, Clear as a lark, high o’er me as a lark, A sweet voice singing in the topmost tower To the eastward: up I climb’d a thousand steps With pain : as in a dream I seem’d to climb For ever: at the last I reach’d a door, | A light was in the crannies, and I heard, THE HOL Y GRAIL. 421 ‘ Glory and joy and honour to our Lord And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail.’ Then in my madness I essay’d the door; It gave ; and thro’ a stormy glare, a heat As from a seventimes-heated furnace, I, Blasted and burnt, and blinded as I was, With such a fierceness that I swoon’d away— O, yet methought I saw the Holy Grail, All pall’d in crimson samite, and around Great angels, awful shapes, and wings and eyes. And but for all my madness and my sin, And then my swooning, I had sworn I saw That which I saw ; but what I saw was veil’d And cover’d ; and this Quest was not for me.” ‘ So speaking, and here ceasing, Lance¬ lot left The hall long silent, till Sir Gawain—nay, Brother, I need not tell thee foolish words,— A reckless and irreverent knight was he, Now bolden’d by the silence of his King,— Well, I will tell thee: “O King, my liege,” he said, “Hath Gawain fail’d in any quest of thine ? When have I stinted stroke in foughten field ? But as for thine, my good friend Percivale, Thy holy nun and thou have driven men mad, Yea, made our mightiest madder than our least. But by mine eyes and by mine ears I swear, I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, To holy virgins in their ecstasies, Henceforward. ” ‘ “Deafer,” said the blameless King, “Gawain, and blinder unto holy things Hope not to make thyself by idle vows, Being too blind to have desire to see. But if indeed there came a sign from heaven, Blessed are Bors, Lancelot and Percivale, For these have seen according to their sight. For every fiery prophet in old times, And all the sacred madness of the bard, When God made music thro’ them, could but speak His music by the framework and the chord ; And as ye saw it ye have spoken truth. ‘“Nay—but thou errest, Lancelot: never yet Could all of true and noble in knight and man Twine round one sin, whatever it might be, With such a closeness, but apart there grew, Save that he were the swine thou spakest of, Some root of knighthood and pure noble¬ ness ; Whereto see thou, that it may bear its flower. * “And spake I not too truly, O my knights ? Was I too dark a prophet when I said To those who went upon the Holy Quest, That most of them would follow wan¬ dering fires, Lost in the quagmire ?—lost to me and gone, And left me gazing at a barren board, And a lean Order—scarce return’d a tithe— And out of those to whom the vision came My greatest hardly will believe he saw ; Another hath beheld it afar off, And leaving human wrongs to right them¬ selves, Cares but to pass into the silent life. And one hath had the vision face to face, And now his chair desires him here in vain, However they may crown him otherwhere. 422 PELLEAS AND ETTARKE. ‘ “And some among you held, that if the King Had seen the sight he would have sworn the vow : Not easily, seeing that the King must guard That which he rules,- and is but as the hind To whom a space of land is given to plow. Who may not wander from the allotted field Before his work be done; but, being done, Let visions of the night or of the day Come, as they will ; and many a time they come, Until this earth he walks on seems not earth, This light that strikes his eyeball is not light, This air that smites his forehead is not air But vision—yea, his very hand and foot— In moments when he feels he cannot die, And knows himself no vision to himself, Nor the high God a vision, nor that One Who rose again : ye have seen what ye have seen.” ‘ So spake the King : I knew not all he meant.’ PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. King Arthur made new knights to fill the gap Left by the Holy Quest; and as he sat In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors Were softly sunder’d, and thro’ these a youth, Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields Past, and the sunshine came along with him. ‘ Make me thy knight, because I know, Sir King, All that belongs to knighthood, and I love.’ Such was his cry: for having heard the King Had let proclaim a tournament—the prize A golden circlet and a knightly sword, Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won The golden circlet, for himself the sword : And there were those who knew him near the King, And promised for him: and Arthur made him knight. And this new knight, Sir Pelleas of the isles— But lately come to his inheritance, And lord of many a barren isle was he— Riding at noon, a day or twain before, Across the forest call’d of Dean, to find Caerleon and the King, had felt the sun Beat like a strong knight on his helm, and reel’d Almost to falling from his horse; but saw Near him a mound of even-sloping side, Whereon a hundred stately beeches grew, And here and there great hollies under them ; But for a mile all round was open space, And fern. and heath : and slowdy Pelleas drew To that dim day, then binding his good horse To a tree, cast himself down ; and as he lay At random looking over the brown earth Thro’ that green-glooming twilight of the grove, It seem’d to Pelleas that the fern without Burnt as a living fire of emeralds, So that his eyes were dazzled looking at it. Then o’er it crost the dimness of a cloud Floating, and once the shadow of a bird Flying, and then a fawn ; and his eyes closed. And since he loved all maidens, but no maid In special, half-awake he whisper’d, ‘ Where ? O where ? I love thee, tho’ I know thee not. For fair thou art and pure as Guinevere, And I will make thee with my spear and sword As famous—O my Queen, my Guinevere, For I will be thine Arthur when we meet.’ PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 423 Suddenly waken’d with a sound of talk And laughter at the limit of the wood, And glancing thro’ the hoary boles, he saw, Strange as to some old prophet might have seem’d A vision hovering on a sea of fire, Damsels in divers colours like the cloud Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them On horses, and the horses richly trapt Breast-high in that bright line of bracken stood : And all the damsels talk’d confusedly, And one was pointing this way, and one that, Because the way was lost. And Pelleas rose, And loosed his horse, and led him to the light. There she that seem’d the chief among them said, ‘ In happy time behold our pilot-star ! Youth, we aredamsels-errant, and we ride, Arm’d as ye see, to tilt against the knights There at Caerleon, but have lost our way: To right? to left? straight forward? back again ? Which? tell us quickly.’ Pelleas gazing thought, ‘ Is Guinevere herself so beautiful ? ’ For large her violet eyes look’d, and her bloom A rosy dawn kindled in stainless heavens, And round her limbs, mature in woman¬ hood ; And slender was her hand and small her shape ; And but for those large eyes, the haunts of scorn, She might have seem’d a toy to trifle with, And pass and care no more. But while he gazed The beauty of her flesh abash’d the boy, As tho’ it were the beauty of her soul: For as the base man, judging of the good, Puts his own baseness in him by default Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend All the young beauty of his own soul to hers, Believing her ; and when she spake to him, Stammer’d, and could not make her a reply. For out of the waste islands had he come, Where saving his own sisters he had known Scarce any but the women of his isles, Rough wives, that laugh’d and scream’d against the gulls, Makers of nets, and living from the sea. Then with a slow smile turn’d the lady round And look’d upon her people; and as when A stone is flung into some sleeping tarn, The circle widens till it lip the marge, Spread the slow smile thro’ all her com¬ pany. Three knights were thereamong; and they too smiled, Scorning him ; for the lady was Ettarre, And she was a great lady in her land. Again she said, ‘ O wild and of the woods, Knowest thou not the fashion of our speech ? Or have the Heavens but given thee a fair face, Lacking a tongue ? ’ ‘ O damsel, ’ answer’d he, ‘ I woke from dreams; and coming out of gloom Was dazzled by the sudden light, and crave Pardon : but will ye to Caerleon ? I Go likewise: shall I lead you to the King ? ’ ‘ Lead then,’ she said ; and thro’ the woods they went. And while they rode, the meaning in his eyes. His tenderness of manner, and chaste awe, His broken utterances and bashfulness, Were all a burthen to her, and in her heart She mutter’d, ‘ I have lighted on a fool, Raw, yet so stale !’ But since her mind was bent On hearing, after trumpet blown, her name 424 PELLEAS AND ETTA PEE. And title, ‘ Queen of Beauty,’ in the lists Cried—and beholding him so strong, she thought That peradventure he will fight for me, And win the circlet: therefore flatter’d him, Being so gracious, that he wellnigh deem’d His wish by hers was echo’d; and her knights And all her damsels too were gracious to him, For she was a great lady. And when they reach’d Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, she, Taking his hand, ‘O the strong hand,’ she said, ‘ See ! look at mine ! but wilt thou fight for me, And win me this fine circlet, Pelleas, That I may love thee?’ Then his helpless heart Leapt, and he cried, ‘ Ay ! wilt thou if I win ?’ ‘ Ay, that will I,’ she answer’d, and she laugh’d, And straitly nipt the hand, and flung it from her ; Then glanced askew at those three knights of hers, Till all her ladies laugh’d along.with her. ‘ O happy world,’ thought Pelleas, ‘all, meseems, Are happy ; I the happiest of them all. ’ Nor slept that night for pleasure in his blood, And green wood-ways, and eyes among the leaves; Then being on the morrow knighted, sware To love one only. And as he came away, The men who met him rounded on their heels And wonder’d after him, because his face Shone like the countenance of a priest of old Against the flame about a sacrifice Kindled by fire from heaven : so glad was he. Then Arthur made vast banquets, and strange knights From the four winds came in : and each one sat, Tho’ served with choice from air, land, stream, and sea, Oft in mid-banquet measuring with his eyes His neighbour’s make and might: and Pelleas look’d Noble among the noble, for he dream’d His lady loved him, and he knew himself Loved of the King: and him his new- made knight Worshipt, whose lightest whisper moved him more Than all the ranged reasons of the world. Then blush’d and brake the morning of the jousts, And this was call’d ‘ The Tournament of Youth :’ For Arthur, loving his young knight, withheld His older and his mightier from the lists, That Pelleas might obtain his lady’s love, According to her promise, and remain Lord of the tourney. And Arthur had the jousts Down in the flat field by the shore of Usk Holden: the gilded parapets were crown’d With faces, and the great tower fill’d with eyes Up to the summit, and the trumpets blew. There all day long Sir Pelleas kept the field With honour : so by that strong hand of his The sword and golden circlet were achieved. Then rang the shout his lady loved : the heat Of pride and glory fired her face ; her eye Sparkled; she caught the circlet from his lance, And there before the people crown’d herself: So for the last time she was gracious to him. PELLEAS AND ETTA PEE. 425 Then at Caerleon for a space—her look Bright for all others, cloudier on her knight— Linger’d Ettarre: and seeing Pelleas droop, Said Guinevere, ‘ We marvel at thee much, O damsel, wearing this unsunny face To him who won thee glory !’ And she said, ‘ Had ye not held your Lancelot in your bower, My Queen, he had not won.’ Whereat the Queen, As one whose foot is bitten by an ant, Glanced down upon her, turn’d and went her way. But after, when her damsels, and her¬ self, And those three knights all set their faces home, Sir Pelleas follow’d. She that saw him cried, ‘ Damsels—and yet I should be shamed to say it— I cannot bide Sir Baby. Keep him back Among yourselves. Would rather that we had Some rough old knight who knew the worldly way, Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride And jest with : take him to you, keep him off, And pamper him with papmeat, if ye will, Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep, Such as the wholesome mothers tell their boys. Nay, should ye try him with a merry one To find his mettle, good : and if^he fly us, Small matter! let him.’ This her damsels heard, And mindful of her small and cruel hand, They, closing round him thro’ the journey home, Acted her hest, and always from her side Restrain’d him with all manner of device, So that he could not come to speech with her. And when she gain’d her castle, upsprang the bridge, Down rang the grate of iron thro’ the groove, And he was left alone in open field. ‘These be the ways of ladies,’ Pelleas thought, ‘ To those who love them, trials of our faith. Yea, let her prove me to the uttermost, For loyal to the uttermost am I.’ So made his moan; and, darkness falling, sought A priory not far off, there lodged, but rose With morning every day, and, moist or dry, Full-arm’d upon his charger all day long Sat by the walls, and no one open’d to him. And this persistence turn’d her scorn to wrath. Then calling her three knights, she charged them, ‘ Out ! And drive him from the walls.’ And out they came, But Pelleas overthrew them as they dash’d Against him one by one; and these return’d, But still he kept his watch beneath the wall. Thereon her wrath became a hate ; and once, A week beyond, while walking on the walls With her three knights, she pointed downward, ‘ Look, He haunts me—I cannot breathe—be¬ sieges me ; Down ! strike him ! put my hate into your strokes, And drive him from my walls.’ And down they went, And Pelleas overthrew them one by one ; And from the tower above him cried Ettarre, ‘ Bind him, and bring him in. ’ 426 PELL E AS AND ETTA PEE. He heard her voice ; Then let the strong hand, which had overthrown Her minion - knights, by those he over¬ threw Be bounden straight, and so they brought him in. Then when he came before Ettarre, the sight Of her rich beauty made him at one glance More bondsman in his heart than in his bonds. Yet with good cheer he spake, ‘ Behold me, Lady, A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will; And if thou keep me in thy donjon here, Content am I so that I see thy face But once a day: for I have sworn my vows, And thou hast given thy promise, and I know That all these pains are trials of my faith, And that thyself, when thou hast seen me strain’d And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length Yield me thy love and know me for thy knight.’ Then she began to rail so bitterly, With all her damsels, he was stricken mute ; But when she mock’d his vows and the great King, Lighted on words : ‘For pity of thine own self, Peace, Lady, peace : is he not thine and mine ?’ ‘Thou fool,’ she said, ‘ I never heard his voice But long’d to break away. Unbind him now, And thrust him out of doors ; for save he be Fool to the midmost marrow of his bones, He will return no more. ’ And those, her three, Laugh’d, and unbound, and thrust him from the gate. And after this, a week beyond, again She call’d them, saying, ‘ There he watches yet, There like a dog before his master’s door ! Kick’d, he returns : do ye not hate him, ye ? Ye know yourselves : how can ye bide at peace, Affronted with his fulsome innocence ? Are ye but creatures of the board and bed, No men to strike? Fall on him all at once, And if ye slay him I reck not: if ye fail. Give ye the slave mine order to be bound, Bind him as heretofore, and bring him in: It may be ye shall slay him in his bonds.’ She spake; and at her will they couch’d their spears, Three against one : and Gawain passing b y> Bound upon solitary adventure, saw Low down beneath the shadow of those towers A villainy, three to one : and thro’ his heart The fire of honour and all noble deeds Flash’d, and he call’d, ‘ I strike upon thy side— The caitiffs !’ ‘Nay,’ said Pelleas, ‘ but forbear ; He needs no aid who doth his lady’s will. ’ So Gawain, looking at the villainy done, Forbore, but in his heat and eagerness Trembled and quiver’d, as the dog, with¬ held A moment from the vermin that he sees Before him, shivers, ere he springs and kills. And Pelleas overthrew them, one to three; And they rose up, and bound, and brought him in. Then first her anger, leaving Pelleas, burn’d Full on her knights in many an evil name Of craven, weakling, and thrice - beaten hound : PELLEAS AND ETTA PEE. 427 ‘Yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit to touch, Far less to bind, your victor, and thrust him out, And let who will release him from his bonds. And if he comes again ’—there she brake short; And Pelleas answer’d, ‘ Lady, for indeed I loved you and I deem’d you beautiful, I cannot brook to see your beauty marr’d Thro’ evil spite : and if ye love me not, I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn: I had liefer ye were worthy of my love, Than to be loved again of you—farewell; And tho’ ye kill my hope, not yet my love, Vex not yourself: ye will not see me more. ’ While thus he spake, she gazed upon the man Of princely bearing, tho’ in bonds, and thought, ‘ Why have I push’d him from me ? this man loves, If love there be : yet him I loved not. Why? I deem’d him fool? yea, so? or that in him A something—was it nobler than my¬ self ?— Seem’d my reproach ? He is not of my kind. He could not love me, did he know me well. Nay, let him go—and quickly.’ And her knights Laugh’d not, but thrust him bounden out of door. Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed him from his bonds, And flung them o’er the walls ; and after¬ ward, Shaking his hands, as from a lazar’s rag, ‘Faith of my body,’ he said, ‘and art thou not— Yea thou art he, whom late our Arthur made Knight of his table ; yea and he that won The circlet ? wherefore hast thou so defamed Thy brotherhood in me and all the rest, As let these caitiffs on thee work their will?’ And Pelleas answer’d, ‘ O, their wills are hers For whom I won the circlet; and mine, hers, Thus to be bounden, so to see her face, Marr’d tho’ it be with spite and mockery now, Other than when I found her in the woods ; And tho’ she hath me bounden but in spite, And all to flout me, when they bring me in, Let me be bounden, I shall see her face; Else must I die thro’ mine unhappiness.’ And Gawain answer’d kindly tho’ in scorn, ‘ Why, let my lady bind me if she will, And let my lady beat me if she will: But an she send her delegate to thrall These fighting hands of mine—Christ kill me then But I will slice him handless by the wrist, And let my lady sear the stump for him, Howd as he may. But hold me for your friend : Come, ye know nothing: here I pledge my troth, Yea, by the honour of the Table Round, I will be leal to thee and work thy work, And tame thy jailing princess to thine hand. Lend me thine horse and arms, and I will say That I have slain thee. She will let me in To hear the manner of thy fight and fall; Then, when I come within her counsels, then From prime to vespers will I chant thy praise As prowest knight and truest lover, more Than any have sung thee living, till she long 428 PELLEAS AND ETTA PEE. To have thee back in lusty life again, Not to be bound, save by white bonds and warm, Dearer than freedom. Wherefore now thy horse And armour : let me go : be comforted : Give me three days to melt her fancy, and hope The third night hence will bring thee news of gold.’ Then Pelleas lent his horse and all his arms, Saving the goodly sword, his prize, and took Gawain’s, and said, ‘ Betray me not, but help— Art thou not he whom men call light-of- love ?’ ‘ Ay, ’ said Gawain, ‘ for women be so light.’ Then bounded forward to the castle walls, And raised a bugle hanging from his neck, And winded it, and that so musically That all the old echoes hidden in the wall Rang out like hollow woods at hunting- tide. Up ran a score of damsels to the tower; ‘Avaunt,’ they cried, ‘ our lady loves thee not.’ But Gawain lifting up his vizor said, ‘ Gawain am I, Gawain of Arthur’s court, And I have slain this Pelleas whom ye hate: Behold his horse and armour. Open gates, And I will make you merry.’ And down they ran, Her damsels, crying to their lady, ‘ Lo ! Pelleas is dead—he told us—he that hath His horse and armour: will ye let him in? He slew him ! Gawain, Gawain of the court, Sir Gawain—there he waits below the wall, Blowing his bugle as who should say him nay.’ And so, leave given, straight on thro’ open door Rode Gawain, whom she greeted cour¬ teously. ‘Dead, is it so?’ she ask’d. ‘Ay, ay,’ said he, ‘ And oft in dying cried upon your name.’ ‘ Pity on him,’ she answer’d, ‘ a good knight, But never let me bide one hour at peace. ’ ‘ Ay, ’ thought Gawain, ‘ and you be fair enow : But I to your dead man have given my troth, That whom ye loathe, him will I make you love.’ So those three days, aimless about the land, Lost in a' doubt, Pelleas wandering Waited, until the third night brought a moon With promise of large light on woods and ways. Hot was the night and silent ; but a sound Of Gawain ever coming, and this lay— Which Pelleas had heard sung before the Queen, And seen her sadden listening—vext his heart, And marr’d his rest—‘ A worm within the rose.’ ‘ A rose, but one, none other rose had I, A rose, one rose, and this was wondrous fair, One rose, a rose that gladden’d earth and sky, One rose, my rose, that sweeten’d all mine air— I cared not for the thorns ; the thorns were there. ‘ One rose, a rose to gather by and by, One rose, a rose, to gather and to wear, No rose but one—what other rose had I? One rose, my rose ; a rose that will not die,— He dies who loves it,—if the worm be there.’ PELLEAS AND ETTA PEE. 429 This tender rhyme, and evermore the doubt, ‘Why lingers Gawain with his golden news ?’ So shook him that he could not rest, but rode Ere midnight to her walls, and bound his horse Hard by the gates. Wide open were the gates, And no watch kept; and in thro’ these he past, And heard but his own steps, and his own heart Beating, for nothing moved but his own self, And his own shadow. Then he crost the court, And spied not any light in hall or bower, But saw the postern portal also wide Yawning; and up a slope of garden, all Of roses white and red, and brambles mixt And overgrowing them, went on, and found, Here too, all hush’d below the mellow moon, Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave Came lightening downward, and so spilt itself Among the roses, and was lost again. Then was he ware of three pavilions rear’d Above the bushes, gilden-peakt: in one, Red after revel, droned her lurdane knights Slumbering, and their three squires across their feet: In one, their malice on the placid lip Froz’n by sweet sleep, four of her damsels lay: And in the third, the circlet of the jousts Bound on her brow, were Gawain and Ettarre. Back, as a hand that pushes thro’ the leaf To find a nest and feels a snake, he drew: Back, as a coward slinks from what he fears To cope with, or a traitor proven, or hound Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame Creep with his shadow thro’ the court again, Fingering at his sword-handle until he stood There on the castle-bridge once more, and thought, ‘ I will go back, and slay them where they lie.’ And so went back, and seeing them yet in sleep Said, ‘ Ye, that so dishallow the holy sleep, Your sleep is death,’ and drew the sword, and thought, ‘What! slay a sleeping knight? the King hath bound And sworn me to this brotherhood ; 1 again, ‘ Alas that ever a knight should be so false.’ Then turn’d, and so return’d, and groan¬ ing laid The naked sword athwart their naked throats, There left it, and them sleeping ; and she lay, The circlet of the tourney round her brows, And the sword of the tourney across her throat. And forth he past, and mounting on his horse Stared at her towers that, larger than themselves In their own darkness, throng’d into the moon. Then crush’d the saddle with his thighs, and clench’d His hands, and madden’d with himself and moan’d : ‘ Would they have risen against me in their blood At the last day ? I might have answer’d them Even before high God. O towers so strong, 430 PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. Huge, solid, would that even while I gaze The crack of earthquake shivering to your base Split you, and Hell burst up your harlot roofs Bellowing, and charr’d you thro’ and thro’ within, Black as the harlot’s heart—hollow as a skull ! Let the fierce east scream thro’ your eye¬ let-holes, And whirl the dust of harlots round and round In dung and nettles ! hiss, snake—I saw him there— Let the fox bark, let the wolf yell. Who yells Here in the still sweet summer night, but I— I, the poor Pelleas whom she call’d her fool ? Fool, beast—he, she, or I ? myself most fool; Beast too, as lacking human wit—dis¬ graced, Dishonour’d all for trial of true love— Love ?—we be all alike : only the King Hath made us fools and liars. O noble vows ! O great and sane and simple race of brutes That own no lust because they have no law ! For why should I have loved her to my shame ? I loathe her, as I loved her to my shame. I never loved her, I but lusted for her— Away—’ He dash’d the rowel into his horse, And bounded forth and vanish’d thro’ the night. Then she, that felt the cold touch on her throat, Awaking knew the sword, and turn’d herself To Gawain: ‘Liar, for thou hast not slain This Pelleas ! here he stood, and might have slain Me and thyself. ’ And he that tells the tale Says that her ever-veering fancy turn’d To Pelleas, as the one true knight on earth, And only lover; and thro’ her love her life Wasted and pined, desiring him in vain. But he by wild and way, for half the night, And over hard and soft, striking the sod From out the soft, the spark from off the hard, Rode till the star above the wakening sun, Beside that tower where Percivale was cowl’d, Glanced from the rosy forehead of the dawn. For so the words were flash’d into his heart He knew not whence or wherefore : ‘ O sweet star, Pure on the virgin forehead of the dawn ! ’ And there he would have wept, but felt his eyes Harder and drier than a fountain bed In summer: thither came the village girls And linger’d talking, and they come no more Till the sweet heavens have fill’d it from the heights Again with living waters in the change Of seasons : hard his eyes; harder his heart Seem’d; but so weary were his limbs, that he, Gasping, ‘ Of Arthur’s hall am I, but here, Here let me rest and die,’ cast himself down, And gulf’d his griefs in inmost sleep ; so lay, Till shaken by a dream, that Gawain fired The hall of Merlin, and the morning star Reel’d in the smoke, brake into flame, and fell. He woke, and being ware of some one nigh, Sent hands upon him, as to tear him, crying, ‘False! and I held thee pure as Guinevere.’ PELLEAS AND ETTA PEE. 431 But Percivale stood near him and replied, ‘ Am I but false as Guinevere is pure ? Or art thou mazed with dreams ? or being one Of our free-spoken Table hast not heard That Lancelot ’—there he check’d him¬ self and paused. Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as with one Who gets a wound in battle, and the sword That made it plunges thro’ the wound again, And pricks it deeper: and he shrank and wail’d, ‘ Is the Queen false ? ’ and Percivale was mute. ‘Have any of our Round Table held their vows ? ’ And Percivale made answer not a word. ‘Is the King true?’ ‘The King !’ said Percivale. ‘ Why then let men couple at once with wolves. What! art thou mad ?’ But Pelleas, leaping up, Ran thro’ the doors and vaulted on his horse And fled : small pity upon his horse had he, Or on himself, or any, and when he met A cripple, one that held a hand for alms— Hunch’d as he was, and like an old dwarf- elm That turns its back on the salt blast, the boy Paused not, but overrode him, shouting, ‘ False, And false with Gawain ! ’ and so left him bruised And batter’d, and fled on, and hill and wood Went ever streaming by him till the gloom, That follows on the turning of the world, Darken’d the common path : he twitch’d the reins, And made his beast that better knew it, swerve Now off it and now on ; but when he saw High up in heaven the hall that Merlin built, Blackening against the dead-green stripes of even, ‘ Black nest of rats,’ he groan’d, ‘ ye build too high.’ Not long thereafter from the city gates Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily, Warm with a gracious parting from the Queen, Peace at his heart, and gazing at a star And marvelling what it was : on whom the boy, Across the silent seeded meadow-grass Borne, clash’d: and Lancelot, saying, ‘ What name hast thou That ridest here so blindly and so hard?’ ‘ I have no name,’ he shouted, ‘ a scourge am I, To lash the treasons of the Table Round.’ ‘Yea, but thy name?’ ‘I have many names, ’ he cried : ‘ I am wrath and shame and hate and evil fame, And like a poisonous wind I pass to blast And blaze the crime of Lancelot and the Queen.’ ‘First over me,’ said Lancelot, ‘shalt thou pass.’ ‘Fight therefore,’ yell’d the youth, and either knight Drew back a space, and when they closed, at once The weary steed of Pelleas floundering flung His rider, who call’d out from the dark field, ‘ Thou art false as Hell: slay me : I have no sword.’ Then Lancelot, ‘Yea, between thy lips— and sharp ; But here will I disedge it by thy death. ’ ‘ Slay then,’ he shriek’d, ‘ my will is to be slain,’ And Lancelot, with his heel upon the fall’n, 432 THE LAST TOURNAMENT. Rolling his eyes, a moment stood, then spake: ‘ Rise, weakling; I am Lancelot; say thy say.’ And Lancelot slowly rode his warhorse back To Camelot, and Sir Pelleas in brief while Caught his unbroken limbs from the dark field, And follow’d to the city. It chanced that both Brake into hall together, worn and pale. There with her knights and dames was Guinevere. Full wonderingly she gazed on Lancelot So soon return’d, and then on Pelleas, him Who had not greeted her, but cast him¬ self Down on a bench, hai*d-breathing. ‘ Have ye fought ?’ She ask’d of Lancelot. ‘ Ay, my Queen, ’ he said. ‘ And thou hast overthrown him ?’ ‘Ay, my Queen.’ Then she, turning to Pelleas, ‘ O young knight, Hath the great heart of knighthood in thee fail’d So far thou canst not bide, unfrowardly, A fall from him V Then, for he answer’d not, ‘ Or hast thou other griefs ? If I, the Queen, May help them, loose thy tongue, and let me know.’ But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce She quail’d ; and he, hissing ‘ I have no sword,’ Sprang from the door into the dark. The Queen Look’d hard upon her lover, he on her ; And each foresaw the dolorous day to be : And all talk died, as in a grove all song Beneath the shadow of some bird of prey ; Then a long silence came upon the hall, And Modred thought, ‘The time is hard at hand.’ THE LAST TOURNAMENT. Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood Had made mock-knight of Arthur’s Table Round, At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods, Danced like a wither’d leaf before the hall. And toward him from the hall, with harp in hand, And from the crown thereof a carcanet Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday, Came Tristram, saying, ‘ Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?’ For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once Far down beneath a winding wall of rock Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead, From roots like some black coil of carven snakes, Clutch’d at the crag, and started thro’ mid air Bearing an eagle’s nest: and thro’ the tree Rush’d ever a rainy wind, and thro’ the wind Pierced ever a child’s cry : and crag and tree Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest. This ruby necklace thrice around her neck, And all unscarr’d from beak or talon, brought A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took, Then gave it to his Queen to rear : the Queen But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms Received, and after loved it tenderly, And named it Nestling ; so forgot herself A moment, and her cares ; till that young life Being smitten in mid heaven with mortal cold Past from her ; and in time the carcanet Vext her with plaintive memories of the child r THE LAST TOURNAMENT 433 So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, ‘Take thou the jewels of this dead in¬ nocence, And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney- prize.’ To whom the King, ‘ Peace to thine eagle-borne Dead nestling, and this honour after death. Following thy will ! but, O my Queen, I muse Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn, And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear.’ ‘ Would rather you had let them fall,’ she cried, ‘ Plunge and be lost—ill-fated as they were, A bitterness to me !—ye look amazed, Not knowing they were lost as soon as given— Slid from my hands, when I was leaning out Above the river—that unhappy child Past in her barge : but rosier luck will go With these rich jewels, seeing that they came Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer, But the sweet body of a maiden babe. Perchance—who knows?—the purest of thy knights May win them for the purest of my maids. ’ She ended, and the cry of a great jousts With trumpet - blowings ran on all the ways From Camelot in among the faded fields To furthest towers ; and everywhere the knights Arm’d for a day of glory before the King. But on the hither side of that loud morn Into the hall stagger’d, his visage ribb’d From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off, And.one with shatter’d fingers dangling- lame, A churl, to whom indignantly the King, ‘ My churl, for whom Christ died, what evil beast Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face ? or fiend ? Man was it who marr’d heaven’s image . in thee thus ? ’ Then, sputtering thro’ the hedge of splinter’d teeth, Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump Pitch-blacken’d sawing the air, said the maim’d churl, ‘ He took them and he drave them to his tower— Some hold he was a table-knight of thine— A hundred goodly ones—the Red Knight, he— Lord, I was tending swine, and the Red Knight Brake in upon me and drave them to his tower ; And when I call’d upon thy name as one That doest right by gentle and by churl, Maim’d me and maul’d, and would out¬ right have slain, Save that he sware me to a message, saying, “Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I Have founded my Round Table in the North, And whatsoever his own knights have sworn My knights have sworn the counter to it—and say My tower is full of harlots, like his court, But mine are worthier, seeing they profess To be none other than themselves—and say My knights are all adulterers like his own, But mine are truer, seeing they profess To be none other; and say his hour is come, The heathen are upon him, his long lance Broken, and his Excalibur a straw.” ’ 434 THE LAST TOURNAMENT. Then Arthur turn’d to Kay the sene¬ schal, * Take thou my churl, and tend him curiously Like a king’s heir, till all his hurts be whole. The heathen — but that ever - climbing wave, Hurl’d back again so often in empty foam, Hath lain for years at rest—and renegades, Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom The wholesome realm is purged of other¬ where, Friends, thro’ your manhood and your fealty,—now Make their last head like Satan in the North. My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds, Move with me toward their quelling, which achieved, The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore. But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place Enchair’d to-morrow, arbitrate the field ; For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it, Only to yield my Queen her own again ? Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it well ?’ Thereto Sir Lancelot answer’d, ‘ It is well: Yet better if the King abide, and leave The leading of his younger knights to me. Else, for the King has will’d it, it is well. ’ Then Arthur rose and Lancelot follow’d him, And while they stood without the doors, the King Turn’d to him saying, ‘ Is it then so well? Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he Of whom was written, “ A sound is in his ears”? The foot that loiters, bidden go,—the glance That only seems half-loyal to command,— A manner somewhat fall’n from rever¬ ence— Or have I dream’d the bearing of our knights Tells of a manhood ever less and lower ? Or whence the fear lest this my realm, uprear’d, By noble deeds at one with noble vows, From flat confusion and brute violences, Reel back into the beast, and be no more ?’ He spoke, and taking all his younger knights, Down the slope city rode, and sharply turn’d North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen, Working a tapestry, lifted up her head, Watch’d her lord pass, and knew not that she sigh’d. Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme Of bygone Merlin, ‘Where is he who knows ? From the great deep to the great deep he goes. ’ But when the morning of a tournament, By these in earnest those in mockery call’d The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot, Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey, The words of Arthur flying shriek’d, arose, And down a streetway hung with folds of pure White samite, and by fountains running wine, Where children sat in white with cups of gold, Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps Ascending, fill’d his double - dragon’d chair. He glanced and saw the stately galleries, Dame, damsel, each thro’ worship of their Queen White-robed in honour of the stainless child, THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 435 And some with scatter’d jewels, like a bank Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire. He look’d but once, and vail’d his eyes again. The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began : And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one Who sits and gazes on a faded fire, When all the goodlier guests are past away, Sat their great umpire, looking o’er the lists. He saw the laws that ruled the tournament Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down Before his throne of arbitration cursed The dead babe and the follies of the King; And once the laces of a helmet crack’d, And show’d him, like a vermin in its hole, Modred, a narrow face : anon he heard The voice that billow’d round the barriers roar An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight, But newly-enter’d, taller than the rest, And armour’d all in forest green, whereon There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, And wearing but a holly-spray for crest, With ever-scattering berries, and on shield A spear, a harp, a bugle—Tristram—late From overseas in Brittany return’d, And marriage with a princess of that realm, Isolt the White—Sir Tristram of the Woods— Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain His own against him, and now yearn’d to shake The burthen off his heart in one full shock With Tristram ev’n to death: his strong hands gript And dinted the gilt dragons right and left, Until he groan’d for wrath—so many of those, That ware their ladies’ colours on the casque, Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds, And there with gibes and flickering mockeries Stood, while he mutter’d, ‘ Craven crests ! O shame ! What faith have these in whom they sware to love ? The glory of our Round Table is no more.’ So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the gems, Not speaking other word than ‘ Hast thou won ? Art thou the purest, brother ? See, the hand Wherewith thou takest this, is red !’ to whom Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot’s languorous mood, Made answer, ‘Ay, but wherefore toss me this Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound? Let be thy fair Queen’s fantasy. Strength of heart And might of limb, but mainly use and skill, Are winners in this pastime of our King. My hand — belike the lance hath dript upon it— No blood of mine, I trow ; but O chief knight, Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield. Great brother, thou nor I have made the world ; Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine. ’ And Tristram round the gallery made his horse Caracole; then bow’d his homage, bluntly saying, ‘ Fair damsels, each to him who worships each Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold This day my Queen of Beauty is not here. ’ And most of these were mute, some anger’d, one Murmuring, ‘All courtesy is dead,’ and one, ‘The glory of our Round Table is no more.’ 436 THE LAST TOURNAMENT. Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung, And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day Went glooming down in wet and weari¬ ness : But under her black brows a swarthy one Laugh’d shrilly, crying, ‘ Praise the patient saints, Our one white day of Innocence hath past, Tho’ somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it. The snowdrop only, flowering thro’ the year, Would make the world as blank as Winter-tide. Come—let us gladden their sad eyes, our Queen’s And Lancelot’s, at this night’s solemnity With all the kindlier colours of the field.’ So dame and damsel glitter’d at the feast Variously gay: for he that tells the tale Liken’d them, saying, as when an hour of cold Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows, And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers Pass under white, till the warm hour returns With veer of wind, and all are flowers again ; So dame and damsel cast the simple white, And glowing in all colours, the live grass, Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced About the revels, and with mirth so loud Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen, And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts, Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. And little Dagonet on the morrow morn, High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, Danced like a wither’d leaf before the hall. Then Tristram saying, ‘Why skip ye so, Sir Fool ?’ Wheel’d round on either heel, Dagonet replied, ‘ Belike for lack of wiser company ; Or being fool, and seeing too much wit Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip To know myself the wisest knight of all.’ ‘ Ay, fool, ’ said Tristram, ‘ but ’tis eating dry To dance without a catch, a roundelay To dance to.’ Then he twangled on his harp, And while he twangled little Dagonet stood Quiet as any water-sodden log Stay’d in the wandering warble of a brook ; But when the twangling ended, skipt again; And being ask’d, 4 Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?’ Made answer, 4 1 had liefer twenty years Skip to the broken music of my brains Than any broken music thou canst make. ’ Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come, 4 Good now, what music have I broken, fool?’ And little Dagonet, skipping, ‘Arthur, the King’s ; For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt, Thou makest broken music with thy bride, Her daintier namesake down in Brittany— And so thou breakest Arthur’s music too. ’ 4 Save for that broken music in thy brains, Sir fool,’ said Tristram, 4 1 would break thy head. Fool, I came late, the heathen wars were o’er, The life had flown, we sware but by the shell — I am but a fool to reason with a fool— Come, thou art crabb’d and sour: but lean me down, Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses’ ears, And harken if my music be not true. 4 4 4 Free love—free field—we love but while we may : The woods are hush’d, their music is no more: THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 437 The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: New leaf, new life—the days of frost are o’er: New life, new love, to suit the newer day: New loves are sweet as those that went before: Free love—free field—we love but while we may.” ‘ Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune, Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods, And heard it ring as true as tested gold. ’ But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand, ‘Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday Made to run wine?—but this had run itself All out like a long life to a sour end*— And them that round it sat with golden cups To hand the wine to whosoever came— The twelve small damosels white as Innocence, In honour of poor Innocence the babe, Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen Lent to the King, and Innocence the King Gave for a prize—and one of those white slips Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, “Drink, drink, Sir Fool,” and thereupon I drank, Spat — pish — the cup was gold, the draught was mud.’ And Tristram, ‘ Was it muddier than thy gibes ? Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee ?— Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool— “ Fear God : honour the King—his one true knight— Sole follower of the vows ”—for here be they Who knew thee swine enow before I came, Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up It frighted all free fool from out thy heart; Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine, A naked aught—yet swine I hold thee still. For I have flung thee pearls and find thee swine. ’ And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, ‘ Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck In lieu of hers, I’ll hold thou hast some touch Of music, since I care not for thy pearls. Swine? I have wallow’d, I have wash’d —the world Is flesh and shadow—I have had my day. The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath foul’d me—an I wallow’d, then I wash’d— I have had my day and my philosophies— And thank the Lord I am King Arthur’s fool. Swine, say ye ? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese Troop’d round a Paynim harper once, who thrumm’d On such a wire as musically as thou Some such fine song—but never a king’s fool.’ And Tristram, ‘ Then were swine, goats, asses, geese The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard Had such a mastery of his mystery That he could harp his wife up out of hell.’ Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot, ‘ And whither harp’st thou thine ? down ! and thyself Down ! and two more : a helpful harper thou, That harpest downward! Dost thou know the star We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?’ And Tristram, ‘ Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, 438 THE LAST TOURNAMENT. Glorying in each new glory, set his name High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven.’ And Dagonet answer’d, ‘ Ay, and when the land Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself To babble about him, all to show your wit— And whether he were King by courtesy, Or King by right—and so went harping down The black king’s highway, got so far, and grew So witty that ye play’d at ducks and drakes With Arthur’s vows on the great lake of fire. • Tuwhoo ! do ye see it ? do ye see the star ?’ ‘Nay, fool,’ said Tristram, ‘not in open day.’ And Dagonet, ‘ Nay, nor will: I see it and hear. It makes a silent music up in heaven, And I, and Arthur and the angels hear, And then we skip.’ ‘ Lo, fool,’ he said, ‘ye talk Fool’s treason : is the King thy brother fool?’ Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrill’d, ‘ Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools ! Conceits himself as God that he can make Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk From burning spurge, honey from hornet- combs, And men from beasts—Long live the king of fools ! ’ And down the city Dagonet danced away; But thro’ the slowly-mellowing avenues And solitary passes of the wood Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and the west. Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt With ruby-circled neck, but evermore Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye For all that walk’d, or crept, or perch’d, or flew. Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown, Unruffling waters re-collect the shape Of one that in them sees himself, return’d; But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, Or ev’n a fall’n feather, vanish’d again. So on for all that day from lawn to lawn Thro’ many a league-long bower he rode. At length A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs Furze -cramm’d, and bracken - rooft, the which himself Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt Against a shower, dark in the golden grove Appearing, sent his fancy back to where She lived a moon in that low lodge with him : Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish King, With six or seven, when Tristram was away, And snatch’d her thence ; yet dreading worse than shame Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word, But bode his hour, devising wretchedness. And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt So sweet, that halting, in he past, and sank Down on a drift of foliage random-blown ; But could not rest for musing how to smoothe And sleek his marriage over to the Queen. Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all The tonguesters of the court she had not heard. But then what folly had sent him overseas After she left him lonely here ? a name ? Was it the name of one in Brittany, Isolt, the daughter of the King ? ‘ Isolt Of the white hands ’ they call’d her : the sweet name THE LAST TOURNAMENT 439 Allured him first, and then the maid her¬ self, Who served him well with those white hands of hers, And loved him well, until himself had thought He loved her also, wedded easily, But left her all as easily, and return’d. The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes Had drawn him home—what marvel? then he laid His brows upon the drifted leaf and dream’d. He seem’d to pace the strand of Brittany Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, And show’d them both the ruby-chain, and both Began to struggle for it, till his Queen Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. Then cried the Breton, ‘ Look, her hand is red ! These be no rubies, this is frozen blood, And melts within her hand—her hand is hot With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look, Is all as cool and white as any flower. ’ Follow’d a rush of eagle’s wings, and then A whimpering of the spirit of the child, Because the twain had spoil’d her car- canet. He dream’d ; but Arthur with a hun¬ dred spears Rode far, till o’er the illimitable reed, And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle, The wide-wing’d sunset of the misty marsh Glared on a huge machicolated tower That stood with open doors, whereout was roll’d A roar of riot, as from men secure Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease Among their harlot-brides, an evil song. ‘ Lo there,’ said one of Arthur’s youth, for there, High on a grim dead tree before the tower, A goodly brother of the Table Round Swung by the neck : and on the boughs a shield Showing a shower of blood in a field noir, And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights At that dishonour done the gilded spur, Till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn. But Arthur waved them back. Alone he rode. Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn, That sent the face of all the marsh aloft An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, and all, Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm, In blood-red armour sallying, howl’d to the King, ‘ The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash thee flat!— Lo ! art thou not that eunuch - hearted King Who fain had dipt free manhood from the world— The woman - worshipper ? Yea, God’s curse, and I ! Slain was the brother of my paramour By a knight of thine, and I that heard her whine And snivel, being eunuch - hearted too, Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell, And stings itself to everlasting death, To hang whatever knight of thine I fought And tumbled. Art thou King?—Look to thy life ! ’ He ended : Arthur knew the voice; the face Wellnigh was helmet - hidden, and the name Went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind. And Arthur deign’d not use of word or sword, But let the drunkard, as he stretch’d from horse To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp 440 THE LAST TOURNAMENT. Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave, Heard in dead night along that table- shore, Drops flat, and after the great waters break Whitening for half a league, and thin themselves, Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud, From less and less to nothing ; thus he fell Head - heavy ; then the knights, who watch’d him, roar’d And shouted and leapt down upon the fall’n ; There trampled out his face from being known, And sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves : Nor heard the King for their own cries, but sprang Thro’ open doors, and swording right and left Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurl’d The tables over and the wines, and slew Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells, And all the pavement stream’d with massacre: Then, echoing yell with yell, they fired the tower, Which half that autumn night, like the live North, Red-pulsing up thro’ Alioth and Alcor, Made all above it, and a hundred meres About it, as the water Moab saw Come round by the East, and out beyond them flush’d The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea. So all the ways were safe from shore to shore, But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord. Then, out of Tristram waking, the red dream Fled with a shout, and that low lodge return’d, Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs. He whistled his good warhorse left to graze Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him, And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf, Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross, Stay’d him. ‘ Why weep ye ? ’ ‘ Lord,’ she said, ‘ my man Hath left me or is dead; ’ whereon he thought— ‘ What, if she hate me now ? I would not this. What, if she love me still ? I would not that. I know not what I would ’—but said to her, ‘ Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return, He find thy favour changed and love thee not ’— Then pressing day by day thro’ Lyonnesse Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds Yelp at his heart, but turning, past and gain’d Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, A crown of towers. Down in a casement sat, A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair And glossy - throated grace, Isolt the Queen. And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind The spiring stone that scaled about her tower, Flush’d, started, met him at the doors, and there Belted his body with her white embrace, Crying aloud, ‘ Not Mark—not Mark, my soul! The footstep flutter’d me at first: not he : Catlike thro’ his own castle steals my Mark, But warrior-wise thou stridest thro’ his halls Who hates thee, as I him—ev’n to the death. My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark THE LAST TOURNAMENT 441 Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh.’ To whom Sir Tristram smiling, ‘ I am here. Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine.’ And drawing somewhat backward she replied, ‘ Can he be wrong’d who is not ev’n his own, But save for dread of thee had beaten me, Scratch’d, bitten, blinded, marr’d me somehow—Mark ? What rights are his that dare not strike for them ? Not lift a hand—not, tho’ he found me thus ! But harken ! have ye met him ? hence he went To-day for three days’ hunting—as he said— And so returns belike within an hour. Mark’s way, my soul!—but eat not thou with Mark, Because he hates thee even more than fears ; Nor drink : and when thou passest any wood Close vizor, lest an arrow from the bush Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell. My God, the measure of my hate for Mark Is as the measure of my love for thee.’ So, pluck’d one way by hate and one by love, Drain’d of her force, again she sat, and spake To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, ‘ O hunter, and O blower of the horn, Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, For, ere I mated with my shambling king, Ye twain had fallen out about the bride Of one—his name is out of me—the prize, If prize she were — (what marvel — she could see)— Thine, friend ; and ever since my craven seeks To wreck thee villainously : but, O Sir Knight, What dame or damsel have ye kneel’d to last?’ And Tristram, ‘ Last to my Queen Paramount, Here now to my Queen Paramount of love And loveliness—ay, lovelier than when first Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonnesse, Sailing from Ireland.’ Softly laugh’d Isolt; ‘ Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen My dole of beauty trebled ?’ and he said, ‘Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, And thine is more to me—soft, gracious, kind— Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips Most gracious; but she, haughty, ev’n to him, Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow To make one doubt if ever the great Queen Have yielded him her love.’ To whom Isolt, ‘ Ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou Who brakest thro’ the scruple of my bond, Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me That Guinevere had sinn’d against the highest, And I—misyoked with such a want of man— That I could hardly sin against the lowest.’ He answer’d, ‘ O my soul, be com¬ forted ! If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings, If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, Crown’d warrant had we for the crowning sin That made us happy : but how ye greet me—fear And fault and doubt—no word of that fond tale— 442 THE LAST TOURNAMENT. Thy deep heart - yearnings, thy sweet memories Of Tristram in that year he was away.’ And, saddening on the sudden, spake Isolt, ‘ I had forgotten all- in my strong joy To see thee—yearnings ?—ay ! for, hour by hour, Here in the never-ended afternoon, O sweeter than all memories of thee, Deeper than any yearnings after thee Seem’d those far-rolling, westward- smiling seas, Watch’d from this tower. Isolt of Britain dash’d Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand, Would that have chill’d her bride-kiss ? Wedded her ? Fought in her father’s battles? wounded there ? The King was all fulfill’d with grateful¬ ness, And she, my namesake of the hands, that heal’d Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress— Well—can I wish her any huger wrong Than having known thee ? her too hast thou left To pine and waste in those sweet memories. O were I not my Mark’s, by whom all men Are noble, I should hate thee more than love.’ And Tristram, fondling her light hands, replied, ‘ Grace, Queen, for being loved: she loved me well. Did I love her ? the name at least I loved. Isolt ?—I fought his battles, for Isolt! The night was dark ; the true star set. Isolt ! The name was ruler of the dark-Isolt ? Care not for her ! patient, and prayerful, meek, Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God.’ And Isolt answer’d, ‘Yea, and why not I ? Mine is the larger need, who am not meek, Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now. Here one black, mute midsummer night I sat, Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where, Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing, And once or twice I spake thy name aloud. Then flash’d a levin-brand ; and near me stood, In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiend— Mark’s way to steal behind one in the dark— For there was Mark : “ He has wedded her,” he said, Not said, but hiss’d it: then this crown of towers So shook to such a roar of all the sky, That here in utter dark I swoon’d away, And woke again in utter dark, and cried, ‘ ‘ I will flee hence and give myself to God And thou wert lying in thy new leman’s arms.’ Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand, ‘ May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray, And past desire !’ a saying that anger’d her. ‘ “May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old, And sweet no more to me !” I need Him now. For when had Lancelot utter’d aught so gross Ev’n to the swineherd’s malkin in the mast ? The greater man, the greater courtesy. Far other was the Tristram, Arthur’s knight! But thou, thro’ ever harrying thy wild beasts— Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 443 Becomes thee well—art grown wild beast thyself. How darest thou, if lover, push me even In fancy from thy side, and set me far In the gray distance, half a life away, Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, unswear ! Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, Broken with Mark and hate and solitude, Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe. Will ye not lie ? not swear, as there ye kneel, And solemnly as when ye sware to him, The man of men, our King—My God, the power Was once in vows when men believed the King ! They lied not then, who sware, and thro’ their vows The King prevailing made his realm :— I say, Swear to me thou wilt love me ev’n when old, Gray-hair’d, and past desire, and in de¬ spair.’ Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down, ‘ Vows ! did you keep the vow you made to Mark More than I mine ? Lied, say ye ? Nay, but learnt, The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself— My knighthood taught me this—ay, being snapt— We run more counter to the soul thereof Than had we never sworn. I swear no more. I swore to the great King, and am for¬ sworn. For once—ev’n to the height—I honour’d him. “Man, is he man at all?” methought, when first I rode from our rough Lyonnesse, and beheld That victor of the Pagan throned in hall— His hair, a sun that ray’d from off a brow Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel- blue eyes, The golden beard that clothed his lips with light— Moreover, that weird legend of his birth, With Merlin’s mystic babble about his end Amazed me ; then, his foot was on a stool Shaped as a dragon ; he seem’d to me no man, But Michael trampling Satan ; so I sware, Being amazed : but this went by—The vows ! O ay—the wholesome madness of an hour— They served their use, their time; for' every knight Believed himself a greater than himself, And every follower eyed him as a God ; Till he, being lifted up beyond himself, Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done, And so the realm was made ; but then their vows— First mainly thro’ that sullying of our Queen— Began to gall the knighthood, asking whence Had Arthur right to bind them to himself? Dropt down from heaven ? wash’d up from out the deep ? They fail’d to trace him thro’ the flesh and blood Of our old kings : whence then ? a doubt¬ ful lord To bind them by inviolable vows, Which flesh and blood perforce would violate : For feel this arm of mine—the tide within Red with free chase and heather-scented air, Pulsing full man ; can Arthur make me pure As any maiden child ? lock up my tongue From uttering freely what I freely hear? Bind me to one ? The wide world laughs at it. And worldling of the world am I, and know The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour 444 THE LAST TOURNAMENT. Woos his own end ; we are not angels here Nor shall be : vows—I am woodman of the woods, And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale Mock them : my soul, we love but while we may; And therefore is my love so large for thee, Seeing it is not bounded save by love.’ Here ending, he moved toward her, and she said, ‘ Good : an I turn’d away my love for thee To some one thrice as courteous as thy¬ self— For courtesy wins woman all as well As valour may, but he that closes both Is perfect,- he is Lancelot—taller indeed, Rosier and comelier, thou—but say I loved This knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back Thine own small saw, “We love but while we may,” Well then, what answer?’ He that while she spake, Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with, The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch The warm white apple of her throat, replied, ‘ Press this a little closer, sweet, until— Come, I am hunger’d and half-anger’d— meat, Wine, wine—and I will love thee to the death, And out beyond into the dream to come.’ So then, when both were brought to full accord, She rose, and set before him all he will’d ; And after these had comforted the blood With meats and wines, and satiated their hearts— Now talking of their woodland paradise, The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns ; Now mocking at the much ungainliness, And craven shifts, and long crane legs of Mark— Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang: ‘Ay, ay, O ay—the winds that bend the brier ! A star in heaven, a star within the mere ! Ay, ay, O ay—a star was my desire, And one was far apart, and one was near : Ay, ay, O ay—the winds that bow the grass ! And one was water and one star was fire, And one will ever shine and one will pass. Ay, ay, O ay—the winds that move the mere.’ Then in the light’s last glimmer Tris¬ tram show’d And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried, ‘ The collar of some Order, which our King Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul, For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers.’ ‘ Not so, my Queen,’ he said, ‘but the red fruit Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven, And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize, And hither brought by Tristram for his last Love - offering and peace-offering unto thee. ’ He spoke, he turn’d, then, flinging round her neck, Claspt it, and cried * Thine Order, O my Queen !’ But, while he bow’d to kiss the jewell’d throat, Out of the dark, just as the lips had touch’d, Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek— ‘ Mark’s way,’ said Mark, and clove him thro’ the brain. That night came Arthur home, and while he climb’d, All in a death-dumb autumn - dripping gloom, The stairway to the hall, and look’d and saw The great Queen’s bower was dark,— about his feet A voice clung sobbing till he question’d it, GUINEVERE. 445 ‘ What art thou ?’ and the voice about his feet Sent up an answer, sobbing, ‘ I am thy fool, And I shall never make thee smile again.’ GUINEVERE. Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat There in the holy house at Almesbury Weeping, none with her save a little maid, A novice : one low light betwixt them burn’d Blurr’d by the creeping mist, for all abroad, Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full, The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face, Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still. For hither had she fled, her cause of flight Sir Modred ; he that like a subtle beast Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne, Ready to spring, waiting a chance: for this He chill’d the popular praises of the King With silent smiles of slow disparagement; And tamper’d with the Lords of the White Horse, Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; and sought To make disruption in the Table Round Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds Serving his traitorous end; and all his aims Were sharpen’d by strong hate for Lance¬ lot. For thus it chanced one morn when all the court, Green - suited, but with plumes that mock’d the may, Had been, their wont, a-maying and return’d, That Modred still in green, all ear and eye, Climb’d to the high top of the garden- wall To spy some secret scandal if he might, And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her best Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court The wiliest and the worst; and more than this He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by Spied where he couch’d, and as the gardener’s hand Picks from the colewort a green cater¬ pillar, So from the high wall and the flowering grove Of grasses Lancelot pluck’d him by the heel, And cast him as a worm upon the way; But when he knew the Prince tho’ marr’d with dust, He, reverencing king’s blood in a bad man, Made such excuses as he might, and these Full knightly without scorn ; for in those days No knight of Arthur’s noblest dealt in scorn ; But, if a man were halt or hunch’d, in him By those whom God had made full-limb’d and tall, Scorn was allow’d as part of his defect, And he was answer’d softly by the King And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp To raise the Prince, who rising twice or thrice Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, and went: But, ever after, the small violence done Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart, As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long A little bitter pool about a stone On the bare coast. But when Sir Lancelot told This matter to the Queen, at first she laugh’d Lightly, to think of Modred’s dusty fall, Then shudder’d, as the village wife who cries ‘ I shudder, some one steps across my grave ; ’ 446 GUINEVERE. Then laugh’d again, but faintlier, for in¬ deed She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast, Would track her guilt until he found, and hers Would be for evermore a name of scorn. Henceforward rarely could she front in hall, Or elsewhere, Modred’s narrow foxy face, Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye : Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the soul, To help it from the death that cannot die, And save it even in extremes, began To vex and plague her. Many a time for hours, Beside the placid breathings of the King, In the dead night, grim faces came and went Before her, or a vague spiritual fear— Like to some doubtful noise of creaking doors, Heard by the watcher in a haunted house, That keeps the rust of murder on the walls— Held her awake: or if she slept, she dream’d An awful dream ; for then she seem’d to stand On some vast plain before a setting sun, And from the sun there swiftly made at her A ghastly something, and its shadow flew Before it, till it touch’d her, and she turn’d— When lo ! her own, that broadening from her feet, And blackening, swallow’d all the land, and in it Far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke. And all this trouble did not pass but grew; Till ev’n the clear face of the guileless King, And trustful courtesies of household life, Became her bane ; and at the last she said, ‘ O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own land, For if thou tarry we shall meet again, And if we meet again, some evil chance Will make the smouldering scandal break and blaze Before the people, and our lord the King.’ And Lancelot ever promised, but re¬ main’d, And still they met and met. Again she said, ‘ O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence. ’ And then they were agreed upon a night (When the good King should not be there) to meet And part for ever. Passion-pale they met And greeted : hands in hands, and eye to eye, Low on the border of her couch they sat Stammering and staring: it was their last hour, A madness of farewells. And Modred brought His creatures to the basement of the tower For testimony; and crying with full voice ‘ Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last,’ aroused Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike Leapt on him, and hurl’d him headlong, and he fell Stunn’d, and his creatures took and bare him off, And all was still: then she, ‘ The end is come, And I am shamed for ever; ’ and he said, ‘ Mine be the shame ; mine was the sin : but rise, And fly to my strong castle overseas : There will I hide thee, till my life shall end, There hold thee with my life against the world.’ She answer’d, ‘ Lancelot, wilt thou hold me so ? Nay, friend, for we have taken our fare¬ wells. Would God that thou couldst hide me from myself! Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou Unwedded : yet rise now, and let us fly, For I will draw me into sanctuary, And bide my doom.’ So Lancelot got her horse, GUINEVERE. 447 Set her thereon, and mounted on his own, And then they rode to the divided way, There kiss’d, and parted weeping: for he past, Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen, Back to his land ; but she to Almesbury Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan : And in herself she moan’d * Too late, too late !’ Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn, A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high, Croak’d, and she thought, ‘ He spies a field of death ; For now the Heathen of theNorthern Sea, Lured by the crimes and frailties of the court, Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land.’ And when she came to Almesbury she spake There to the nuns, and said, ‘ Mine enemies Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask Her name to whom ye yield it, till her time To tell you : ’ and her beauty, grace and power, Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared To ask it. So the stately Queen abode For many a week, unknown, among the nuns ; Nor with them mix’d, nor told her name, nor sought, Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift, But communed only with the little maid, Who pleased her with a babbling heed¬ lessness Which often lured her from herself; but now, This night, a rumour wildly blown about Came, that Sir Modred had usurp’d the realm, And leagued him with the heathen, while the King Was waging war on Lancelot: then she thought, ‘With what a hate the people and the King Must hate me,’ and bow’d down upon her hands Silent, until the little maid, who brook’d No silence, brake it, uttering ‘ Late ! so late ! What hour, I wonder, now?’ and when she drew No answer, by and by began to hum An air the nuns had taught her ; ‘ Late, so late ! ’ Which when she heard, the Queen look’d up, and said, ‘ O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing, Sing, and unbind my heart that I may weep.’ Whereat full willingly sang the little maid. ‘ Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill! Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. ‘ No light had we : for that we do repent; And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. ‘ No light: so late ! and dark and chill the night ! O let us in, that we may find the light! Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now. * Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet ? O let us in, tho’ late, to kiss his feet ! No, no, too late ! ye cannot enter now.’ So sang the novice, while full passion¬ ately, Her head upon her hands, remembering 448 GUINEVERE. Her thought when first she came, wept the sad Queen. Then said the little novice prattling to her, ‘ O pray you, noble lady, weep no more ; But let my words, the words of one so small, Who knowing nothing knows but to obey, And if I do not there is penance given— Comfort your sorrows; for they do not flow From evil done ; right sure am I of that, Who see your tender grace and stateliness. But weigh your sorrows with our lord the King’s, And weighing find them less ; for gone is he To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot there, Round that strong castle where he holds the Queen; And Modred whom he left in charge of all, The traitor—Ah sweet lady, the King’s grief For his own self, and his own Queen, and realm, Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours. For me, I thank the saints, I am not great. For if there ever come a grief to me I cry my cry in silence, and have done. None knows it, and my tears have brought me good : But even were the griefs of little ones As great as those of great ones, yet this grief Is added to the griefs the great must bear, That howsoever much they may desire Silence, they cannot weep behind a cloud: As even here they talk at Almesbury About the good King and his wicked Queen, And were I such a King with such a Queen, Well might I wish to veil her wickedness, But were I such a King, it could not be. ’ Then to her own sad heart mutter’d the Queen, ‘ Will the child kill me with her innocent talk?’ But openly she answer’d, ‘ Must not I, If this false traitor have displaced his lord, Grieve with the common grief of all the realm ? ’ ‘Yea,’ said the maid, ‘this is all woman’s grief, That she is woman, whose disloyal life Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round Which good King Arthur founded, years ago, With signs and miracles and wonders, there At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen.’ Then thought the Queen within herself again, ‘ Will the child kill me with her foolish prate ? ’ But openly she spake and said to her, ‘ O little maid, shut in by nunnery walls, What canst thou know of Kings and Tables Round, Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs And simple miracles of thy nunnery?’ To whom the little novice garrulously, ‘ Yea, but I know: the land was full of signs And wonders ere the coming of the Queen. So said my father, and himself was knight Of the great Table—at the founding of it; And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he said That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain After the sunset, down the coast, he heard Strange music, and he paused, and turn¬ ing—there, All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse, Each with a beacon-star upon his head, And with a wild sea-light about his feet, He saw them—headland after headland flame Far on into the rich heart of the west: GUINEVERE. 449 And in the light the white mermaiden swam, And strong man-breasted things stood from the sea, And sent a deep sea-voice thro’ all the land, To which the little elves of chasm and cleft Made answer, sounding like a distant horn. So said my father—yea, and furthermore, Next morning, while he past the dim-lit woods, Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy _ Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower, That shook beneath them, as the thistle shakes When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed: And still at evenings on before his horse The flickering fairy-circle wheel’d and broke Flying, and link’d again, and wheel’d and broke Flying, for all the land was full of life. And when at last he came to Camelot, A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand Swung round the lighted lantern of the hall; And in the hall itself was such a feast As never man had dream’d ; for every knight Had whatsoever meat he long’d for served By hands unseen; and even as he said Down in the cellars merry bloated things Shoulder’d the spigot, straddling on the butts While the wine ran : so glad were spirits and men Before the coming of the sinful Queen. ’ Then spake the Queen and somewhat bitterly, ‘Were they so glad? ill prophets were they all, Spirits and men : could none of them foresee, Not even thy wise father with his signs And wonders, what has fall’n upon the realm ?’ To whom the novice garrulously again, ‘Yea, one, a bard; of whom my father said, Full many a noble war-song had he sung, Ev’n in the presence of an enemy’s fleet, Between the steep cliff and the coming wave ; And many a mystic lay of life and death Had chanted on the smoky mountain- tops, When round him bent the spirits of the hills With all their dewy hair blown back like flame : So said my father—and that night the bard Sang Arthur’s glorious wars, and sang the King As wellnigh more than man, and rail’d at those Who call’d him the false son of Gorloi's : For there was no man knew from whence he came; But after tempest, when the long wave broke All down the thundering shores of Bude and Bos, There came a day as still as heaven, and then They found a naked child upon the sands Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea ; And that was Arthur ; and they foster’d him Till he by miracle was approven King : And that his grave should be a mystery From all men, like his birth; and could he find A woman in her womanhood as great As he was in his manhood, then, he sang, The twain together well might change the world. But even in the middle of his song He falter’d, and his hand fell from the harp, And pale he turn’d, and reel’d, and would have fall’n, But that they stay’d him up; nor would he tell His vision; but what doubt that he fore¬ saw This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen ?’ 2 G 45° GUINEVERE. Then thought the Queen, ‘ Lo ! they have set her on, Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns, To play upon me,’ and bow’d her head nor spake. Whereat the novice crying, with clasp’d hands, Shame on her own garrulity garrulously, Said the good nuns would check her gadding tongue Full often, ‘and, sweet lady, if I seem To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, Unmannerly, with prattling and the tales Which my good father told me, check me too Nor let me shame my father’s memory, one Of noblest manners, tho’ himself would say Sir Lancelot had the noblest j and he died, Kill’d in a tilt, come next, five summers back, And left me ; but of others who remain, And of the two first-famed for courtesy— And pray you check me if I ask amiss— But pray you, which had noblest, while you moved Among them, Lancelot or our lord the King ? ’ Then the pale Queen look’d up and answer’d her, ‘ Sir Lancelot, as became a noble knight, Was gracious to all ladies, and the same In open battle or the tilting-field Forbore his own advantage, and the King In open battle or the tilting-field Forbore his own advantage, and these two Were the most nobly -manner’d men of all; For manners are not idle, but the fruit Of loyal nature, and of noble mind.’ ‘Yea,’ said the maid, ‘be manners such fair fruit ? Then Lancelot’s needs must be a thou¬ sand-fold Less noble, being, as all rumour runs, The most disloyal friend in all the world.’ To which a mournful answer made the Queen : ‘ O closed about by narrowing nunnery- walls. What knowest thou of the world, and all its lights And shadows, all the wealth and all the woe ? If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight, Were for one hour less noble than himself, Pray for him that he scape the doom of fire, And weep for her who drew him to his doom.’ ‘Yea,’ said the little novice, ‘ I pray for both; But I should all as soon believe that his, Sir Lancelot’s, were as noble as the King’s, As I could think, sweet lady, yours would be Such as they are, were you the sinful Queen.’ So she, like many another babbler, hurt Whom she would soothe, and harm’d where she would heal; For here a sudden flush of wrathful heat Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who cried, ‘ Such as thou art be never maiden more For ever ! thou their tool, set on to plague And play upon, and harry me, petty spy And traitress.’ When that storm of anger brake From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose, White as her veil, and stood before the Queen As tremulously as foam upon the beach Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly, And when the Queen had added ‘ Get thee hence,’ Fled frighted. Then that other left alone Sigh’d, and began to gather heart again, Saying in herself, ‘ The simple, fearful child Meant nothing, but my own too-fearful guilt, Simpler than any child, betrays itself. But help me, heaven, for surely I repent. GUINEVERE. 4Si For what is true repentance but in thought— Not ev’n in inmost thought to think again The sins that made the past so pleasant to us : And I have sworn never to see him more, To see him more.’ And ev’n in saying this, Her memory from old habit of the mind Went slipping back upon the golden days In which she saw him first, when Lancelot came, Reputed the best knight and goodliest man, Ambassador, to lead her to his lord Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead Of his and her retinue moving, they, Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for the time Was may time, and as yet no sin was dream’d,) Rode under groves that look’d a paradise Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth That seem’d the heavens upbreaking thro’ the earth, And on from hill to hill, and every day Beheld at noon in some delicious dale The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised For brief repast or afternoon repose By couriers gone before ; and on again, Till yet once more ere set of sun they saw The Dragon of the great Pendragonship, That crown’d the state pavilion of the King, Blaze by the rushing brook or silent well. But when the Queen immersed in such a trance, And moving thro’ the past unconsciously, Came to that point where first she saw the King Ride toward her from the city, sigh’d to find Her journey done, glanced at him, thought him cold, High, self-contain’d, and passionless, not like him, ‘Not like my Lancelot’—while she brooded thus And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again, There rode an armed warrior to the doors. A murmuring whisper thro’ the nunnery ran, Then on a sudden a cry, ‘ The King. ’ She sat Stiff-stricken, listening ; but when armed feet Thro’ the long gallery from the outer doors Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell, And grovell’d with her face against the floor: There with her milkwhite arms and shadowy hair She made her face a darkness from the King: And in the darkness heard his armed feet Pause by her; then came silence, then a voice, Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost’s Denouncing judgment, but tho’ changed, the King’s : ‘ Liest thou here so low, the child of one I honour’d, happy, dead before thy shame? Well is it that no child is born of thee. The children born of thee are sword and fire, Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws, The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts Of heathen swarming o’er the Northern Sea; Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right arm The mightiest of my knights, abode with me, Have everywhere about this land of Christ In twelve great battles ruining overthrown. And knowest thou now from whence I come—from him, From waging bitter war with him : and he, That did not shun to smite me in worse way, Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left, 452 GUINEVERE. He spared to lift his hand against the King Who made him knight: but many a knight was slain ; And many more, and all his kith and kin Clave to him, and abode in his own land. And many more when Modred raised revolt, Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave To Modred, and a remnant stays with me. And of this remnant will I leave a part, True men who love me still, for whom I live, To guard thee in the wild hour coming on, Lest but a hair of this low head be harm’d. Fear not: thou shalt be guarded till my death. Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies Have err’d not, that I march to meet my doom. Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me, That I the King should greatly care to live; For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life. Bear with me for the last time while I show, Ev’n for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinn’d. For when the Roman left us, and their law Relax’d its hold upon us, and the ways Were fill’d with rapine, here and there a deed Of prowess done redress’d a random wrong. But I was first of all the kings who drew The knighthood-errant of this realm and all The realms together under me, their Head, In that fair Order of my Table Round, A glorious company, the flower of men, To serve as model for the mighty world, And be the fair beginning of a time. I made them lay their hands in mine and swear To reverence the King, as if he were Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, To honour his own word as if his God’s, To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, To love one maiden only, cleave to her, And worship her by years of noble deeds, Until they won her ; for indeed I knew Of no more subtle master under heaven Than is the maiden passion for a maid, Not only to keep down the base in man, But teach high thought, and amiable words And courtliness, and the desire of fame, And love of truth, and all that makes a man. And all this throve before I wedded thee. Believing, “lo mine helpmate, one to feel My purpose and rejoicing in my joy.” Then came thy shameful sin with Lance¬ lot ; Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt; Then others, following these my mightiest knights, And drawing foul ensample from fair names, Sinn’d also, till the loathsome opposite Of all my heart had destined did obtain. And all thro’ thee! so that this life of mine I guard as God’s high gift from scathe and wrong, Not greatly care to lose ; but rather think How sad it were for Arthur, should he live, To sit once more within his lonely hall, And miss the wonted number of my knights, And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds As in the golden days before thy sin. For which of us, who might be left, could speak Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee ? And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk Thy shadow still would glide from room to room, And I should evermore be vext with thee In hanging robe or vacant ornament, Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. For think not, tho’ thou wouldst not love thy lord, Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee. GUINEVERE. 453 I am not made of so slight elements. Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame. I hold that man the worst of public foes Who either for his own or children’s sake, To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife Whom he knows false, abide and rule the house : For being thro’ his cowardice allow’d Her station, taken everywhere for pure, She like a new disease, unknown to men, Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd, Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and saps The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse With devil’s leaps, and poisons half the young. Worst of the worst were that man he that reigns ! Better the King’s w T aste hearth and aching heart Than thou reseated in thy place of light, The mockery of my people, and their bane. ’ He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. Far off a solitary trumpet blew. Then waiting by the doors the warhorse neigh’d As at a friend’s voice, and he spake again: ‘ Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes, I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, I, whose vast pity almost makes me die To see thee, laying there thy golden head, My pride in happier summers, at my feet. The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce law, The doom of treason and the flaming death, (When first I learnt thee hidden here) is past. The pang—which while I weigh’d thy heart with one Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee, Made my tears burn—is also past—in part. And all is past, the sin is sinn’d, and I, Lo ! I forgive thee, as Eternal God Forgives : do thou for thine own soul the rest. But how to take last leave of all I loved ? O golden hair, with which I used to play Not knowing! O imperial-moulded form, And beauty such as never woman wore, Until it came a kingdom’s curse with thee— I cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine, But Lancelot’s : nay, they never were the King’s. I cannot take thy hand ; that too is flesh, And in the flesh thou hast sinn’d ; and mine own flesh, Here looking down on thine polluted, cries “ I loathe thee yet not less, O Guine¬ vere, For I was ever virgin save for thee, My love thro’ flesh hath wrought into my life So far, that my doom is, I love thee still. Let no man dream but that I love thee still. Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul, And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, Hereafter in that world where all are pure We two may meet before high God, and thou Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know I am thine husband—not a smaller soul, Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence. Thro’ the thick night I hear the trumpet blow : They summon me their King to lead mine hosts Far down to that great battle in the west, Where I must strike against the man they call My sister’s son—no kin of mine, who leagues With Lords of the White Horse, heathen, and knights, 454 GUINEVERE . Traitors—and strike him dead, and meet myself Death, or I know not what mysterious doom. And thou remaining here wilt learn the event; But hither shall I never come again, Never lie by thy side ; see thee no more— Farewell! ’ And while she grovell’d at his feet, She felt the King’s breath wander o’er her neck, And in the darkness o’er her fallen head, Perceived the waving of his hands that blest. Then, listening till those armed steps were gone, Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found The casement: 4 peradventure,’ so she thought, ‘ If I might see his face, and not be seen.’ And lo, he sat on horseback at the door! And near him the sad nuns with each a light Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen, To guard and foster her for evermore. And while he spake to these his helm was lower’d, To which for crest the golden dragon clung Of Britain ; so she did not see the face, Which then was as an angel’s, but she saw, Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights, The Dragon of the great Pendragonship Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire. And even then he turn’d ; and more and more The moony vapour rolling round the King, Who seem’d the phantom of a Giant in it, Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray And grayer, till himself became as mist Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom. Then she stretch’d out her arms and cried aloud ‘ Oh Arthur ! ’ there her voice brake suddenly, Then—as a stream that spouting from a cliff Fails in mid air, but gathering at the base Re-makes itself, and flashes down the vale— Went on in passionate utterance : ‘ Gone—my lord ! Gone thro’ my sin to slay and to be slain ! And he forgave me, and I could not speak. Farewell? I should have answer’d his farewell. His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord the King, My own true lord ! how dare I call him mine? The shadow of another cleaves to me, And makes me one pollution: he, the King, Call’d me polluted : shall I kill myself? What help in that ? I cannot kill my sin, If soul be soul; nor can I kill my shame; No, nor by living can I live it down. The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months, The months will add themselves and make the years, The years will roll into the centuries, And mine will ever be a name of scorn. I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. Let the world be ; that is but of the world What else ? what hope ? I think there was a hope, Except he mock’d me when he spake of hope ; His hope he call’d it; but he never mocks, For mockery is the fume of little hearts. And blessed be the King, who hath for¬ given My wickedness to him, and left me hope That in mine own heart I can live down sin And be his mate hereafter in the heavens Before high God. Ah great and gentle lord, Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint GUINR VERE. 455 Among his warring senses, to thy knights— To whom my false voluptuous pride, that took Full easily all impressions from below, Would not look up, or half-despised the height To which I would not or I could not climb— I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light— I yearn’d for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot—now I see thee what thou art, Thou art the highest and most human too, Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none Will tell the King I love him tho’ so late? Now—ere he goes to the great Battle ? none : Myself must tell him in that purer life, But now it were too daring. Ah my God, What might I not have made of thy fair world, Had I but loved thy highest creature here ? It was my duty to have loved the highest: It surely was my profit had I known : It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another.’ Here her hand Grasp’d, made her vail her eyes : she look’d and saw The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to her, ‘ Yea, little maid, for am /not forgiven?’ Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns All round her, weeping; and her heart was loosed Within her, and she wept with these and said, End of ‘ The ‘Ye know me then, that wicked one, who broke The vast design and purpose of the King. O shut me round with narrowing nunnery- walls, Meek maidens, from the voices crying “shame.” I must not scorn myself: he loves me still. Let no one dream but that he loves me still. So let me, if you do not shudder at me, Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you ; Wear black and white, and be a nun like you, Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts ; Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys, But not rejoicing; mingle with your rites; Pray and be pray’d for ; lie before your shrines ; Do each low office of your holy house ; Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole To poor sick people, richer in His eyes Who ransom’d us, and haler too than I; And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own ; And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer The sombre close of that voluptuous day, Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King.’ She said: they took her to themselves; and she Still hoping, fearing ‘is it yet too late?’ Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess died. Then she, for her good deeds and her pure life, And for the power of ministration in her, And likewise for the high rank she had borne, Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, lived For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, past To where beyond these voices there is peace. Round Table' 456 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. That story which the bold Sir Bedivere, First made and latest left of all the knights, Told, when the man was no more than a voice In the white winter of his age, to those With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds. For on their march to westward, Bedivere, Who slowly paced among the slumbering host, Heard in his tent the moanings of the King: ‘ I found Him in the shining of the stars, I mark’d Him in the flowering of His fields, But in His ways with men I find Him not. I waged His wars, and now I pass and die. O me ! for why is all around us here As if some lesser god had made the world, But had not force to shape it as he would, Till the High God behold it from beyond, And enter it, and make it beautiful ? Or else as if the world were wholly fair, But that these eyes of men are dense and dim, And have not power to see it as it is: Perchance, because we see not to the close ;— For I, being simple, thought to work His will, And have but stricken with the sword in vain; And all whereon I lean’d in wife and friend Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm Reels back into the beast, and is no more. My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death : Nay—God my Christ—I pass but shall not die.’ Then, ere that last weird battle in the west, There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain kill’d In Lancelot’s war, the ghost of Gawain blown Along a wandering wind, and past his ear Went shrilling, ‘ Hollow, hollow all delight! Hail, King ! to-morrow thou shalt pass away. Farewell ! there is an isle of rest for thee. And I am blown along a wandering wind, And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight.’ And fainter onward, like wild birds that change Their season in the night and wail their way From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream Shrill’d ; but in going mingled with dim cries Far in the moonlit haze among the hills, As of some lonely city sack’d by night, When all is lost, and wife and child with wail Pass to new lords ; and Arthur woke and call’d, ‘ Who spake ? A dream. O light upon the wind, Thine, Gawain, was the voice—are these dim cries Thine ? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild Mourn, knowing it will go along withme?’ This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake: ‘ O me, my King, let pass whatever will, Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field ; But in their stead thy name and glory cling To all high places like a golden cloud For ever : but as yet thou shalt not pass. Light was Gawain in life, and light in death Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man ; And care not thou for dreams from him. but rise— I hear the steps of Modred in the west, THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 457 And with him many of thy people, and knights Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee. Right well in heart they know thee for the King. Arise, go forth and conquer as of old.’ Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- vere: * Far other is this battle in the west Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth, And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome, Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall, And shook him thro’ the north. Ill doom is mine To war against my people and my knights. The king who fights his people fights himself. And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke That strikes them dead is as my death to me. Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way Thro’ this blind haze, which ever since I saw One lying in the dust at Almesbury, Hath folded in the passes of the world. ’ Then rose the King and moved his host by night, And ever push’d Sir Modred, league by league, Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse— A land of old upheaven from the abyss By fire, to sink into the abyss again ; Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt, And the long mountains ended in a coast Of ever-shifting sand, and far away The phantom circle of a moaning sea. There the pursuer could pursue no more, And he that fled no further fly the King; And there, that day when the great light of heaven Burn’d at his lowest in the rolling year, On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed. Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west. A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea: Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold With formless fear; and ev’n on Arthur fell Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought. For friend and foe were shadows in the mist, And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew; And some had visions out of golden youth, And some beheld the faces of old ghosts Look in upon the battle ; and in the mist Was many a noble deed, many a base, And chance and craft and strength in single fights, And ever and anon with host to host Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn, Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash Of battleaxes on shatter’d helms, and shrieks After the Christ, of those who falling down Look’d up for heaven, and only saw the mist; And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights, Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blas¬ phemies, Sweat, writhings, anguish, labouring of the lungs In that close mist, and cryings for the light, Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead. Last, as by some one deathbed after wail Of suffering, silence follows, or thro’ death 458 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore, Save for some whisper of the seething seas, A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous day Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew The mist aside, and with that wind the tide Rose, and the pale King glanced across the field Of battle : but no man was moving there; Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon, Nor yet of heathen ; only the wan wave Brake in among dead faces, to and fro Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen, And shiver’d brands that once had fought with Rome, And rolling far along the gloomy shores The voice of days of old and days to be. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- vere, And whiter than the mist that all day long Had held the field of battle was the King: ‘ Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world, And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move, And beats upon the faces of the dead, My dead, as tho’ they had not died for me ?— O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall’n Confusion, till I know not what I am, Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King. Behold, I seem but King among the dead. ’ Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere : ‘ My King, King everywhere ! and so the dead have kings. There also will I worship thee as King. Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live Who love thee ; but who hates thee, he that brought The heathen back among us, yonder stands, Modred, unharm’d, the traitor of thine house. ’ Then spake the King: ‘ My house hath been my doom. But call not thou this traitor of my house Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me. My house are rather they who sware my vows, Yea, even while they brake them, own’d me King. And well for thee, saying in my dark hour, When all the purport of my throne hath fail’d, That quick or dead thou boldest me for King. King am I, whatsoever be their cry ; And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see Yet, ere I pass.’ And uttering this the King Made at the man: then Modred smote his liege Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword Had beaten thin ; while Arthur at one blow, Striking the last stroke with Excalibur, Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell. So all day long the noise of battle roll’d Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur’s Table, man by man, Had fall’n in Lyonnesse about their lord, King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren land: On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi¬ vere : ‘ The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights THE PASSING OF ARTHUR . 459 Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made,— Tho’ Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more ; but, let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro’ the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, Which was my pride : for thou remem- berest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white samite, mystic, won¬ derful, Holding the sword—and how I row’d across And took it, and have worn it, like a king; And, wheresoever I am sung or told In aftertime, this also shall be known : But now delay not : take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere: Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.’ To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : ‘ It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten thro’ the helm— A little thing may harm a wounded man; Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.’ So saying, from the ruin’d shrine he stept, And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake. There drew he forth the brand Excali¬ bur, And o’er him, drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood, This way and that dividing the swift mind, In act to throw: but at the last it seem’d Better to leave Excalibur conceal’d There in the many-knotted waterflags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. So strode he back slow to the wounded King. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi¬ vere : ‘ Hast thou perform’d my mission which I gave? What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? ’ And answer made the bold Sir Bedi¬ vere : ‘ I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crag. ’ To whom replied King Arthur, faint, and pale : ‘ Thou hast betray’d thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseem’d Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: For surer sign had follow’d, either hand, Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 460 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again, As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word. * Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, Counting the dewy pebbles, fix’d in thought; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud : ‘ And if indeed I cast the brand away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus - be lost for ever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done ? What harm, undone ? Deep harm to disobey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable, against himself? The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumours of a doubt ? But were this kept, Stored in some treasui'e-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms, Saying, “ King Arthur’s sword, Excali- bur, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills.” So might some old man speak in the after- time To all the people, winning reverence. But now much honour and much fame were lost.’ So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, And hid Excalibur the second time, And so strode back slow to the wounded King. Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : ‘ What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? ’ And answer made the bold Sir Bedi¬ vere : ‘ I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds . 5 To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath : ‘ Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! Authority forgets a dying king, Laid widow’d of the power in his eye That bow’d the will. I see thee what thou art, For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, In whom should meet the offices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; ' Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, And the third time may prosper, get thee hence: But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, I will arise and slay thee with my hands. ’ Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush beds, and clutch’d the sword, And strongly wheel’d and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirl’d in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen where the moving isles of winter shock THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 461 By night, with noises of the Northern Sea. So flash’d and fell the brand Excalibur : But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, won¬ derful, And caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King. Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath : * Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen ?’ And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- vere : ‘ Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, Not tho’ I live three lives of mortal men, So great a miracle as yonder hilt. Then with both hands I flung him, wheel¬ ing him ; But when I look’d again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mystic, won¬ derful, That caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him Three times, and drew him under in the mere.’ And answer made King Arthur, breath¬ ing hard : * My end draws nigh ; ’tis time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.’ So saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere Remorsefully regarded thro’ his tears, And would have spoken, but he found not words; Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, O’er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, And rising bore him thro’ the place of tombs. But, as he walk’d, King Arthur panted hard, Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sigh’d the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear, ‘ Quick, quick ! I fear it is too late, and I shall die. ’ But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk’d, Larger than human on the frozen hills. He heard the deep behind him, and a cry Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. Dry clash’d his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right The bare black cliff clang’d round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp - smitten with the dint of armed heels— And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon. Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, Beneath them ; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms, Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream —by these Three Queens with crowns of gold : and from them rose A cry that shiver’d to the tingling stars. And, as it were one voice, an agony 462 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world. Then murmur’d Arthur, * Place me in the barge.’ So to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And loosed the shatter’d casque, and chafed his hands, And call’d him by his name, complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against a brow Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white And colourless, and like the wither’d moon Smote by the fresh beam of the spring¬ ing east; And all his greaves and cuisses dash’d with drops Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls— That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the dais-throne—were parch’d with dust; Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mix’d with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. So like a shatter’d column lay the King; Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, From spur to plume a star of tournament, Shot thro’ the lists at Camelot, and charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere : * Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes ? For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light that led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole Round Table is dis¬ solved Which was an image of the mighty world, And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.’ And slowly answer’d Arthur from the barge : ‘ The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me ? I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within himself make pure ! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou seest—if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)— To the island-valley of Avilion ; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow. Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies TO THE QUEEN. Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.’ So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full¬ breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away. But when that moan had past for ever¬ more, The stillness of the dead world’s winter dawn Amazed him, and he groan’d, ‘ The King is gone.’ And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme, ‘ From the great deep to the great deep he goes.’ Whereat he slowly turn’d and slowly clomb The last hard footstep of that iron crag ; TO THE O loyal to the royal in thyself, And loyal to thy land, as this to thee- Bear witness, that rememberable day, When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the Prince Who scarce had pluck’d his flickering life again From halfway down the shadow of the grave, Past with thee thro’ thy people and their love, 463 Thence mark’d the black hull moving yet, and cried, ‘ He passes to be King among the dead, And after healing of his grievous wound He comes again; but—if he come no more— O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat, Who shriek’d and wail’d, the three whereat we gazed On that high day, when, clothed with living light, They stood before his throne in silence, friends Of Arthur, who should help him at his need ? ’ Then from the dawn it seem’d there came, but faint As from beyond the limit of the world, Like the last echo born of a great cry, Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice Around a king returning from his wars. Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb Ev’n to the highest he could climb, and saw, Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand, Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King, Down that long water opening on the deep Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go From less to less and vanish into light. And the new sun rose bringing the new year. QUEEN. And London roll’d one tide of joy thro’ all Her trebled millions, and loud leagues of man And welcome! witness, too, the silent cry, The prayer of many a race and creed, and clime— Thunderless lightnings striking under sea From sunset and sunrise of all thy realm, And that true North, whereof we lately heard 464 TO THE QUEEN. A strain to shame us * keep you to your¬ selves ; So loyal is too costly ! friends—your love Is but a burthen : loose the bond, and go. ’ Is this the tone of empire ? here the faith That made us rulers ? this, indeed, her voice And meaning, whom the roar of Hougou- mont Left mightiest of all peoples under heaven? What shock has fool’d her since, that she should speak So feebly ? wealthier—wealthier—hour by hour! The voice of Britain, or a sinking land, Some third-rate isle half-lost among her seas ? There rang her voice, when the full city peal’d Thee and thy Prince ! The loyal to their crown Are loyal to their own far sons, who love Our ocean-empire with her boundless homes For ever-broadening England, and her throne In our vast Orient, and one isle, one isle, That knows not her own greatness : if she knows And dreads it we are fall’n.-But thou, my Queen, Not for itself, but thro’ thy living love For one to whom I made it o’er his grave Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale, New-old, and shadowing Sense at war with Soul Rather than that gray king, whose name, a ghost, Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from mountain peak, And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still; or him Of Geoffrey’s book, or him of Malleor’s, one Touch’d by the adulterous finger of a time That hover’d between war and wanton¬ ness, And crownings and dethronements : take withal Thy poet’s blessing, and his trust that Heaven Will blow the tempest in the distance back From thine and ours: for some are scared, who mark, Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm, Waverings of every vane with every wind, And wordy trucklings to the transient hour, And fierce or careless looseners of the faith, And Softness breeding scorn of simple life, Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold, Or Labour, with a groan and not a voice, Or Art with poisonous honey stol’n from France, And that which knows, but careful for itself, And that which knows not, ruling that which knows To its own harm : the goal of this great world Lies beyond sight: yet—if our slowly- grown And crown’d Republic’s crowning com¬ mon-sense, That saved her many times, not fail— their fears Are morning shadows huger than the shapes That cast them, not those gloomier which forego The darkness of that battle in the West, Where all of high and holy dies away. * * * * The vessel puffs her sail : Ihere gloom the dark broad seas.” QUEEN MARY: A DRAMA. DRAMATIS PERSONS. Queen Mary. Philip, King of Naples and Sicily , afterwards King of Spain. The Princess Elizabeth. Reginald Pole, Cardinal and Papal Legate. Simon Renard, Spanish A mbassador. Le Sieur de Noailles, French Ambassador. Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. Sir Nicholas Heath, Archbishop of York ; Lord Chancellor after Gardiner. Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon. Lord William Howard, afterwards Lord Howard , and Lord High Admiral. Lord Williams of Thame. Lord Paget. Lord Petre. Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester and Lord Chancellor. Edmund Bonner, Bishop of London. Thomas Thirlby, Bishop of Ely. Sir Thomas Wyatt ) , . , Sir Thomas Stafford ] Insurrectionary Leaders. Sir Ralph Bagenhall. Sir Robert Southwell. Sir Henry Bedingfield. Sir William Cecil. Sir Thomas White, Lord Mayor of London. The Duke of Alva > The Count de Feria } ^tending on Philip. Peter Martyr. Father Cole. Father Bourne. Villa Garcia. Soto. Captain Brett ) rrr Anthony Knyvett j Adherents of Wyatt. Peters, Gentleman of Lord Howard. Roger, Servant to Noailles. William, Servant to Wyatt. Steward of Household to the Princess Elizabeth. Old Nokes and Nokes. Marchioness of Exeter, Mother of Courtenay. Lady Clarence \ Lady Magdalen Dacres > Ladies in Waiting to the Queen. Alice ) Maid of Honour to the Princess Elizabeth. Joan ) — j- two Country Wives. Tib Lords and other Attendants, Members of the Privy Council, Members of Parliament, Two Gentle¬ men, Aldermen, Citizens, Peasants, Ushers, Messengers, Guards, Pages, Gospellers, Marshal- men, etc. ACT I. SCENE I. — Aldgate richly DECORATED. Crowd. Marshalmen. Marskalman. Stand back, keep a clear, lane ! When will her Majesty pass, sayst thou ? why now, even now; wherefore draw back your heads and your horns before I break them, and make what noise you will with your tongues, so it be not treason. Long live Queen Maty, the lawful and legitimate daughter of Harry the Eighth ! Shout, knaves ! Citizens. Long live Queen Mary ! First Citizen. That’s a hard word, legitimate ; what does it mean ? Second Citizen. It means a bastard. Third Citizen. Nay, it means true-born. 2 H 466 QUEEN MARY. ACT I. First Citizen. Why, didn’t the Par¬ liament make her a bastard ? Second Citizen. No ; it was the Lady Elizabeth. Third Citizen. That was after, man ; that was after. First Citizen. • Then which is the bastard ? Second Citizen. Troth, they be both bastards by Act of Parliament and Council. Third Citizen. Ay, the Parliament can make every true-born man of us a bastard. Old Nokes, can’t it make thee a bastard ? thou shouldst know, for thou art as white as three Christma'jses. Old Nokes (dreamily). Who’s a-pass- ing ? King Edward or King Richard ? Third Citizen. No, old Nokes. Old Nokes. It’s Harry ! Third Citizen. It’s Queen Mary. Old Nokes. The blessed Mary’s a- passing ! [Falls on his knees. Nokes. Let father alone, my masters ! he’s past your questioning. Third Citizen. Answer thou for him, then ! thou’rt no such cockerel thyself, for thou was born i’ the tail end of old Harry the Seventh. Nokes. Eh ! that was afore bastard¬ making began. I was born true man at five in the forenoon i’ the tail of old Harry, and so they can’t make me a bastard. Third Citizen. But if Parliament can make the Queen a bastard, why, it follows all the more that they can make thee one, who art fray’d i’ the knees, and out at elbow, and bald o’ the back, and bursten at the toes, and down at heels. Nokes. I was -born of a true man and a ring’d wife, and I can’t argue upon it; but I and my old woman ’ud burn upon it, that would we. Marshalman. What are you cackling of bastardy under the Queen’s own nose ? I’ll have you flogg’d and burnt too, by the Rood I will. First Citizen. He swears by the Rood. Whew ! Second Citizen. Hark ! the trumpets. [The Procession passes , Mary and Elizabeth riding side by side, and disappears tender the gate. Citizens. Long live Queen Mary ! down with all traitors ! God save her Grace ; and death to Northumberland ! [Exeunt. Manent Two Gentlemen. First Gentleman. By God’s light a noble creature, right royal! Second Gentleman. She looks comelier than ordinary to - day ; but to my mind the Lady Elizabeth is the more noble and royal. First Gentleman. I mean the Lady Elizabeth. Did you hear (I have a daughter in her service who reported it) that she met the Queen at Wanstead with five hundred horse, and the Queen (tho’ some say they be much divided) took her hand, call’d her sweet sister, and kiss’d not her alone, but all the ladies of her following. Second'Gentleman. Ay, that was in her hour of joy ; there will be plenty to sunder and unsister them again: this Gardiner for one, who is to be made Lord Chancellor, and will pounce like a wild beast out of his cage to worry Cranmer. First Gentleman. And furthermore, my daughter said that when there rose a talk of the late rebellion, she spoke even of Northumberland pitifully, and of the good Lady Jane as a poor innocent child who had but obeyed her father; and furthermore, she said that no one in her time should be burnt for heresy. Second Gentleman. Well, sir, I look for happy times. First Gentleman. There is but one thing against them. I know not if you know. Second Gentleman. I suppose you touch upon the rumour that Charles, the master of the world, has offer’d her his son Philip, the Pope and the Devil. I trust it is but a rumour. First Gentleman. She is going now SCENE II. QUEEN MARY. 467 to the Tower to loose the prisoners there, and among them Courtenay, to be made Earl of Devon, of royal blood, of splendid feature, whom the council and all her people wish her to marry. May it be so, for we are many of us Catholics, but few Papists, and the Hot Gospellers will go mad upon it. Second Gentleman. Was she not betroth’d in her babyhood to the Great Emperor himself? First Gentleman. Ay, but he’s too old. Second Gentleman. And again to her cousin Reginald Pole, now Cardinal ; but I hear that he too is full of aches and broken before his day. First Gentleman. O, the Pope could dispense with his Cardinalate, and his achage, and his breakage, if that were all: will you not follow the procession ? Second Gentleman. No ; I have seen enough for this day. First Gentleman. Well, I shall follow; if I can get near enough I shall judge with my own eyes whether her Grace in¬ cline to this splendid scion of Plantagenet. \Exeunt. SCENE II. A Room in Lambeth Palace. Cranmer. To Strasburg, Antwerp, Frankfort, Zurich, Worms, Geneva, Basle—our Bishops from their sees Or fled, they say, or flying — Poinet, Barlow, Bale, Scory, C overdale; besides the Deans Of Christchurch, Durham, Exeter, and Wells— Ailmer and Bullingham, and hundreds more ; So they report: I shall be left alone. No: Hooper, Ridley, Latimer will not fly. Enter Peter Martyr. Peter Martyr. Fly, Cranmer! were there nothing else, your name Stands first of those who sign’d the Letters Patent That gave her royal crown to Lady Jane. Cranmer. Stand first it may, but it was written last: Those that are now her Privy Council, sign’d Before me : nay, the Judges had pro¬ nounced That our young Edward might bequeath the crown Of England, putting by his father’s will. Yet I stood out, till Edward sent for me. The wan boy-king, with his fast-fading eyes Fixt hard on mine, his frail transparent hand, Damp with the sweat of death, and griping mine, Whisper’d me, if I loved him, not to yield His Church of England to the Papal wolf And Mary; then I could no more — I sign’d. Nay, for bare shame of inconsistency, She cannot pass her traitor council by, To make me headless. Peter Martyr. That might be forgiven. I tell you, fly, my Lord. You do not own The bodily presence in the Eucharist, Their wafer and perpetual sacrifice : Your creed will be your death. Cranmer. Step after step, Thro’ many voices crying right and left, Have I climb’d back into the primal church, And stand within the porch, and Christ with me: My flight were such a scandal to the faith, The downfall of so many simple souls, I dare not leave my post. Peter Martyr. But you divorced Queen Catharine and her father ; hence, her hate Will burn till you are burn’d. Cranmer. I cannot help it. The Canonists and Schoolmen were with me. * Thou shalt not wed thy brother’s wife.’ —’Tis written, ‘They shall be childless.’ True, Mary was born, 468 QUEEN MAR Y. ACT I. But France would not accept her for a bride As being born from incest; and this wrought Upon the king ; and child by child, you know, Were momentary sparkles out as quick Almost as kindled ; and he brought his doubts And fears to me. Peter, I’ll swear for him He did believe the bond incestuous. But wherefore am I trenching on the time That should already have seen your steps a mile From me and Lambeth? God be with you ! Go. Peter Martyr. Ah, but how fierce a letter you wrote against Their superstition when they slander’d you For setting up a mass at Canterbury To please the Queen. Cranmer. It was a wheedling monk Set up the mass. Peter Martyr. I know it, my good Lord. But you so bubbled over with hot terms Of Satan, liars, blasphemy, Antichrist, She never will forgive you. Fly, my Lord, fly ! Cranmer. I wrote it, and God grant me power to burn ! Peter Martyr. They have given me a safe conduct : for all that I dare not stay. I fear, I fear, I see you, Dear friend, for the last time ; farewell, and fly. Cranmer. Fly and farewell, and let me die the death. {Exit Peter Martyr. Enter Old Servant. O, kind and gentle master, the Queen’s Officers Are here in force to take you to the Tower. Cranmer. Ay, gentle friend, admit them. I will go. I thank my God it is too late to fly. [Exeunt. SCENE III.—St. Paul’s Cross. Father Bourne in the pulpit. A crowd. Marchioness of Exeter, Courte¬ nay. The Sieur de Noailles and his man Roger in front of the stage. Hubbub. Noailles. Hast thou let fall those papers in the palace ? Roger. Ay, sir. Noailles. ‘ There will be no peace for Maiy till Elizabeth lose her head.’ Roger. Ay, sir. Noailles. And the other, ‘ Long live Elizabeth the Queen !’ Roger. Ay, sir ; she needs must tread upon them. Noailles. Well. These beastly swine make such a grunting here, I cannot catch what Father Bourne is saying. Roger. Quiet a moment, my masters; hear what the shaveling has to say for himself. Crowd. Hush—hear ! Bourne. —and so this unhappy land, long divided in itself, and sever’d from the faith, will return into the one true fold, seeing that our gracious Virgin Queen hath- Crowd. No pope ! no pope ! Roger (to those about him , mimicking Bourne). —hath sent for the holy legate of the holy father the Pope, Cardinal Pole, to give us all that holy absolution which- First Citizen. Old Bourne to the life! Second Citizen. Holy absolution ! holy Inquisition ! Third Citizen. Down with the Papist! [Hubbub. Bourne. —and now that your good bishop, Bonner, who hath lain so long under bonds for the faith— [Hubbub. Noailles. Friend Roger, steal thou in among the crowd, And get the swine to shout Elizabeth. SCENE III. QUEEN MARY. 469 Yon gray old Gospeller, sour as midwinter, Begin with him. Roger {goes). By the mass, old friend, we’ll have no pope here while the Lady Elizabeth lives. Gospeller. Art thou of the true faith, fellow, that swearest by the mass ? Roger. Ay, that am I, new converted, but the old leaven sticks to my tongue yet. First Citizen. He says right; by the mass we’ll have no mass here. Voices of the crowd. Peace ! hear him; let his own words damn the Papist. From thine own mouth I judge thee—tear him down ! Bourne. —and since our Gracious Queen, let me call her our second Virgin Mary, hath begun to re-edify the true temple- First Citizen. Virgin Mary! we’ll have no virgins here—we’ll have the Lady Elizabeth ! [Swords are drawn , a knife is hurled and sticks in the pulpit. The mob throng to the pulpit stairs. Marchioness of Exeter. Son Courtenay, wilt thou see the holy father Murdered before thy face ? up, son, and save him ! They love thee, and thou canst not come to harm. Courtenay {in the pulpit). Shame, shame, my masters ! are you Eng¬ lish-born, And set yourselves by hundreds against one ? Crowd. A Courtenay ! a Courtenay ! [A train of Spanish servants crosses at the back of the stage. Noailles. These birds of passage come before their time : Stave off the crowd upon the Spaniard there. Roger. My masters, yonder’s fatter game for you Than this old gaping gurgoyle : look you there— The Prince of Spain coming to wed our Queen ! After him, boys ! and pelt him from the city. [Jhey seize stones and follow the Spaniards. Exeunt on the other side Marchioness of Exeter and Attendants. Noailles {to Roger). Stand from me. If Elizabeth lose her head— That makes for France. And if her people, anger’d thereupon, Arise against her and dethrone the Queen— That makes for France. And if I breed confusion anyway— That makes for France. Good-day, my Lord of Devon; A bold heart yours to beard that raging mob ! Courtenay. My mother said, Go up ; and up I went. I knew they would not do me any wrong, For I am mighty popular with them, Noailles. Noailles. You look’d a king. Courtenay. Why not ? I am king’s blood. Noailles. And in the whirl of change may come to be one. Courtenay. Ah! Noailles. But does your gracious Queen entreat you kinglike ? Courtenay. ’Fore God, I think she entreats me like a child. Noailles. You’ve but a dull life in this maiden court, I fear, my Lord ? Courtenay. A life of nods and yawns. Noailles. So you would honour my poor house to-night, We might enliven you. Divers honest fellows, The Duke of Suffolk lately freed from prison, Sir Peter Carew and Sir Thomas Wyatt, Sir Thomas Stafford, and some more— we play. Courtenay. At what ? Noailles. The Game of Chess. Courtenay. The Game of Chess ! I can play well, and I shall beat you there. 470 QUEEN MARY. ACT I. Noailles. Ay, but we play with Henry, King of France, And certain of his court. His Highness makes his moves across the Channel, We answer him with ours, and there are messengers • That go between us. Courtenay. Why, such a game, sir, were whole years a playing. Noailles. Nay ; not so long I trust. That all depends Upon the skill and swiftness of the players. Courtenay. The King is skilful at it ? Noailles. Very, my Lord. Courtenay. And the stakes high ? Noailles. But not beyond your means. Courtenay. Well, I’m the first of players. I shall win. Noailles. With our advice and in our company, And so you well attend to the king’s moves, I think you may. Courtenay. When do you meet ? Noailles. To-night. Courtenay [aside). I will be there ; the fellow’s at his tricks— Deep — I shall fathom him. [Aloud.) Good morning, Noailles. [Exit Courtenay. Noailles. Good-day, my Lord. Strange game of chess ! a King That with her own pawns plays against a Queen, Whose piay is all to find herself a King. Ay ; but this fine blue-blooded Courtenay seems Too princely for a pawn. Call him a Knight, That, with an ass’s, not a horse’s head, Skips every way, from levity or from fear. Well, we shall use him somehow, so that Gardiner And Simon Renard spy not out our game Too early. Roger, thinkest thou that anyone Suspected thee to be my man ? Roger. Not one, sir. Noailles. No ! the disguise was perfect. Let’s away. [ Exeunt. SCENE IV. London. A Room in the Palace. Elizabeth. Enter Courtenay. Courtenay. So yet am I, Unless my friends and mirrors lie to me, A goodlier-looking fellow than this Philip. Pah ! The Queen is ill advised : shall I turn traitor ? They’ve almost talked me into it: yet the word Affrights me somewhat: to be such a one As Harry Bolingbroke hath a lure in it. Good now, my Lady Queen, tho’ by your age, And by your looks you are not worth the having, Yet by your crown you are. [Seeing Elizabeth. The Princess there ? If I tried her and la—she’s amorous. Have we not heard of her in Edward’s time, Her freaks and frolics with the late Lord Admiral ? I do believe she’d yield. I should be still A party in the state; and then, who knows— Elizabeth. What are you musing on, my Lord of Devon ? Courtenay. Has not the Queen— Elizabeth. Done what, Sir ? Courtenay. —made you follow The Lady Suffolk and the Lady Lennox ?— You, The heir presumptive. Elizabeth. Why do you ask? you know it. Courtenay. You needs must bear it hardly. Elizabeth. No, indeed 1 I am utterly submissive to the Queen. Courtenay. Well, I was musing upon that; the Queen Is both my foe and yours: we should be friends. SCENE IV. QUEEN MARY. 471 Elizabeth. My Lord, the hatred of another to us Is no true bond of friendship. Courtenay. Might it not Be the rough preface of some closer bond ? Elizabeth. My Lord, you late were loosed from out the Tower, Where, like a butterfly in a chrysalis, You spent your life ; that broken, out you flutter Thro’ the new world, go zigzag, now would settle Upon this flower, now that; but all things here At court are known ; you have solicited The Queen, and been rejected. Courtenay . Flower, she ! Half faded ! but you, cousin, are fresh and sweet As the first flower no bee has ever tried. Elizabeth. Are you the bee to try me ? why, but now I called you butterfly. Courtenay. You did me wrong, I love not to be called a butterfly: Why do you call me butterfly ? Elizabeth. Why do you go so gay then ? Courtenay. Velvet and gold. This dress was made me as the Earl of Devon To take my seat in ; looks it not right royal ? Elizabeth. So royal that the Queen forbad you wearing it. Courtenay. I wear it then to spite her. Elizabeth. My Lord, my Lord ; I see you in the Tower again. Her Majesty Hears you affect the Prince—prelates kneel to you.— Courtenay. I am the noblest blood in Europe, Madam, A Courtenay of Devon, and her cousin. Elizabeth. She hears you make your boast that after all She means to wed you. Folly, my good Lord. Courtenay. How folly ? a great party in the state Wills me to wed her. Elizabeth. Failing her, my Lord, Doth not as great a party in the state Will you to wed me ? Courtenay. Even so, fair lady. Elizabeth. You know to flatter ladies. Courtenay. Nay, I meant True matters of the heart. Elizabeth. My heart, my Lord, Is no great party in the state as yet. Courtenay. Great, said you ? nay, you shall be great. I love you, Lay my life in your hands. Can you be close ? Elizabeth. Can you, my Lord ? Courtenay. Close as a miser’s casket. Listen : The King of France, Noailles the Am¬ bassador, The Duke of Suffolk and Sir Peter Carew, Sir Thomas Wyatt, I myself, some others, Have sworn this Spanish marriage shall not be. If Mary will not hear us—well—conjec¬ ture— Were I in Devon with my wedded bride, The people there so worship me—Your ear; You shall be Queen. Elizabeth. You speak too low, my Lord ; I cannot hear you. Courtenay. I’ll repeat it. Elizabeth. No ! Stand further off, or you may lose your head. Courtenay. I have a head to lose for your sweet sake. Elizabeth. Have you, my Lord ? Best keep it for your own. Nay, pout not, cousin. Not many friends are mine, except indeed Among the many. I believe you mine ; And so you may continue mine, farewell, And that at once. Enter Mary, behind. Mary. Whispering—leagued together To bar me from my Philip. Courtenay. Pray—consider— 472 QUEEN MARY. ACT I. Elizabeth {seeing the Queen). Well, that’s a noble horse of yours, my Lord. I trust that he will carry you well to-day, And heal your headache. Courtenay. You are wild ; what head¬ ache ? Heartache, perchance ; not headache. Elizabeth {aside to Courtenay). Are you blind ? [Courtenay sees the Queen and exit. Exit Mary. Enter Lord William Howard. Howard. Was that my Lord of Devon ? do not you Be seen in corners with my Lord of Devon. He hath fallen out of favour with the Queen. She fears the Lords may side with you and him Against her marriage ; therefore is he dangerous. And if this Prince of fluff and feather come To woo you, niece, he is dangerous every¬ way. Elizabeth. Not very dangerous that way, my good uncle. Howard. But your own state is full of danger here. The disaffected, heretics, reformers, Look to you as the one to crown their ends. Mix not yourself with any plot I pray you; Nay, if by chance you hear of any such, Speak not thereof—no, not to your best friend, Lest you should be confounded with it. Still— Perinde ac cadaver—as the priest says, You know your Latin—quiet as a dead body. What was my Lord of Devon telling you ? Elizabeth. Whether he told me any¬ thing or not, I follow your good counsel, gracious uncle. Quiet as a dead body. Hozvard. You do right weli. I do not care to know ; but this I charge you, Tell Courtenay nothing. The Lord Chancellor (I count it as a kind of virtue in him, He hath not many), as a mastiff dog May love a puppy cur for no more reason Than that the twain have been tied up together, Thus Gardiner—for the two were fellow- prisoners So many years in yon accursed Tower— Hath taken to this Courtenay. Look to it, niece, He hath no fence when Gardiner ques¬ tions him ; All oozes out; yet him—because they know him The last White Rose, the last Plantagenet (Nay, there is Cardinal Pole, too), the people Claim as their natural leader—ay, some say, That you shall marry him, make him King belike. Elizabeth. Do they say so, good uncle ? Howard. Ay, good niece ! You should be plain and open with me, niece. You should not play upon me. Elizabeth. No, good uncle. Enter Gardiner. Gardiner. The Queen would see your Grace upon the moment. Elizabeth. Why, my lord Bishop ? Gardiner. I think she means to coun¬ sel your withdrawing To Ashridge, or some other country house. Elizabeth. Why, my lord Bishop ? Gardiner. I do but bring the message, know no more. Your Grace will hear her reasons from herself. Elizabeth. ’Tis mine own wish fulfill’d before the word Was spoken, for in truth I had meant to crave SCENE V. QUEEN MARY. 473 Permission of her Highness to retire To Ashridge, and pursue my studies there. Gardiner. Madam, to have the wish before the word Is man’s good Fairy—and the Queen is yours. I left her with rich jewels in her hand, Whereof ’tis like enough she means to make A farewell present to your Grace. Elizabeth. My Lord, I have the jewel of a loyal heart. Gardiner. I doubt it not, Madam, most loyal. [ Bows low and exit. Howard. See, This comes of parleying with my Lord of Devon. Well, well, you must obey; and I myself Believe it will be better for your welfare. Your time will come. Elizabeth. I think my time will come. Uncle, I am of sovereign nature, that I know, Not to be quell’d ; and I have felt within me Stirrings of some great doom when God’s just hour Peals—but this fierce old Gardiner—his big baldness, That irritable forelock which he rubs, His buzzard beak and deep - incavern’d eyes Half fright me. Howard. You’ve a bold heart; keep it so. He cannot touch you save that you turn traitor; And so take heed I pray you—you are one Who love that men should smile upon you, niece. They’d smile you into treason—some of them. Elizabeth. I spy the rock beneath the smiling sea. But if this Philip, the proud Catholic prince, And this bald priest, and she that hates me, seek In that lone house, to practise on my life, By poison, fire, shot, stab— Howard. They will not, niece. Mine is the fleet and all the power at sea— Or will be in a moment. If they dared To harm you, I would blow this Philip and all Your trouble to the dogstar and the devil. Elizabeth. To the Pleiads, uncle; they have lost a sister. Howard. But why say that ? what have you done to lose her ? Come, come, I will go with you to the Queen. [ Exeunt. SCENE V. A Room in the Palace. Mary with Philip’s miniature. Alice. Mary (kissing the miniature ). Most goodly, Kinglikeand an Emperor’s son,— A king to be,—is he not noble, girl ? Alice. Goodly enough, your Grace, and yet, methinks, I have seen goodlier. Mary. Ay ; some waxen doll Thy baby eyes have rested on, belike ; All red and white, the fashion of our land. But my good mother came (God rest her soul) Of Spain, and I am Spanish in myself, And in my likings. Alice. By your Grace’s leave Your royal mother came of Spain, but took To the English red and white. Your royal father (For so they say) was all pure lily and rose In his youth, and like a lady. Mary. O, just God ! Sweet mother, you had time and cause enough To sicken of his lilies and his roses. Cast off, betray’d, defamed, divorced, forlorn ! And then the King—that traitor past forgiveness, The false archbishop fawning on him, married 474 QUEEN MARY. ACT T. The mother of Elizabeth—a heretic Ev’n as she is; but God hath sent me here To take such order with all heretics That it shall be, before I die, as tho’ My father and my brother had not lived. What wast thou saying of this Lady Jane, Now in the Tower ? Alice. Why, Madam, she was passing Some chapel down in Essex, and with her Lady Anne Wharton, and the Lady Anne Bow’d to the Pyx ; but Lady Jane stood up Stiff as the very backbone of heresy. And wherefore bow ye not, says Lady Anne, To him within there who made Heaven and Earth ? I cannot, and I dare not, tell your Grace What Lady Jane replied. Mary. But I will have it. Alice. She said—pray pardon me, and pity her— She hath harken’d evil counsel—ah ! she said, The baker made him. Mary. Monstrous ! blasphemous ! She ought to burn. Hence, thou {Exit Alice). No—being traitor Her head will fall: shall it ? she is but a child. We do not kill the child for doing that His father whipt him into doing—a head So full of grace and beauty ! would that mine Were half as gracious ! O, my lord to be, My love, for thy sake only. I am eleven years older than he is. But will he care for that ? No, by the holy Virgin, being noble, But love me only: then the bastard sprout, My sister, is far fairer than myself. Will he be drawn to her ? No, being of the true faith with myself. Paget is for him—for to wed with Spain Would treble England — Gardiner is against him ; The Council, people, Parliament against him ; But I will have him ! My hard father hated me; My brother rather hated me than loved ; My sister cowers and hates me. Holy Virgin, Plead with thy blessed Son ; grant me my prayer: Give me my Philip ; and we two will lead The living waters of the Faith again Back thro’ their widow’d channel here, and watch The parch’d banks rolling incense, as of old, To heaven, and kindled with the palms of Christ ! Enter Usher. Who waits, sir ? Usher. Madam, the Lord Chancellor. Alary. Bid him come in. {Enter Gardiner.) Good morning, my good Lord. \Exit Usher. Gardiner. That every morning of your Majesty May be most good, is every morning’s prayer Of your most loyal subject, Stephen Gardiner. Mary. Come you to tell me this, my Lord ? Gardiner. And more. Your people have begun to learn your worth. Your pious wish to pay King Edward’s debts, Your lavish household curb’d, and the remission Of half that subsidy levied on the people, Make all tongues praise and all hearts beat for you. I’d have you yet more loved : the realm is poor, The exchequer at neap-tide: we might withdraw Part of our garrison at Calais. Mary. Calais ! Our one point on the main, the gate of France ! I am Queen of England; take mine eyes, mine heart, But do not lose me Calais. SCENE V. QUEEN MARY. 475 Gardiner. Do not fear it. Of that hereafter. I say your Grace is loved. That I may keep you thus, who am your friend And ever faithful counsellor, might I speak ? Mary. I can forespeak your speaking. Would I marry Prince Philip, if all England hate him ? That is Your question, and I front it with another: Is it England, or a party? Now, your answer. Gardiner. My answer is, I wear be¬ neath my dress A shirt of mail: my house hath been assaulted, And when I walk abroad, the populace, With fingers pointed like so many daggers, Stab me in fancy, hissing Spain and Philip ; And when I sleep, a hundred men-at- arms Guard my poor dreams for England. Men would murder me, Because they think me favourer of this marriage. Mary. And that were hard upon you, my Lord Chancellor. Gardiner. But our young Earl of Devon— Mary. Earl of Devon ? I freed him from the Tower, placed him at Court; I made him Earl of Devon, and—the fool— He wrecks his health and wealth on courtesans, And rolls himself in carrion like a dog. Gardiner. More like a school-boy that hath broken bounds, Sickening himself with sweets. Mary. I will not hear of him. Good, then, they will revolt: but I am Tudor, And shall control them. Gardiner. I will help you, Madam, Even to the utmost. All the church is grateful. You have ousted the mock priest, re- pulpited The shepherd of St. Peter, raised the rood again, And brought us back the mass. I am all thanks To God and to your Grace : yet I know well, Your people, and I go with them so far, Will brook nor Pope nor Spaniard here to play The tyrant, or in commonwealth or church. Mary {showing the picture). Is this the face of one who plays the tyrant ? Peruse it; is it not goodly, ay, and gentle? Gardiner. Madam, methinks a cold face and a haughty. And when your Highness talks of Cour¬ tenay— Ay, true—a goodly one. I would his life Were half as goodly {aside). Mary. What is that you mutter ? Gardiner. Oh, Madam, take it bluntly; marry Philip, And be stepmother of a score of sons ! The prince is known in Spain, in Flanders, ha ! For Philip— Mary. You offend us ; you may leave us. You see thro’ warping glasses. Gardiner. If your Majesty— Mary. I have sworn upon the body and blood of Christ I’ll none but Philip. Gardiner. Hath your Grace so sworn ? Mary. Ay, Simon Renard knows it. Gardiner. News to me ! It then remains for your poor Gardiner, So you still care to trust him somewhat less Than Simon Renard, to compose the event In some such form as least may harm your Grace. Mary. I’ll have the scandal sounded to the mud. I know it a scandal. 476 QUEEN MARY. ACT I. Gardiner. All my hope is now It may be found a scandal. Mary. You offend us. Gardiner (aside). These princes are like children, must be physick’d, The bitter in the sweet. I have lost mine office, It may be, thro’ mine honesty, like a fool. [Exit. Enter Usher. Mary. Who waits ? Usher. The Ambassador from France, your Grace. Mary (sits down). Bid him come in. Good morning, Sir de Noailles. [Exit Usher. Noailles (entering). A happy morning to your Majesty. Alary. And I should some time have a happy morning ; I have had none yet. What says the King your master ? Noailles. Madam, my master hears with much alarm, That you may marry Philip, Prince of Spain— Foreseeing, with whate’er unwillingness, That if this Philip be the titular king Of England, and at war with him, your Grace And kingdom will be suck’d into the war, Ay, tho’ you long for peace ; wherefore, my master, If but to prove your Majesty’s goodwill, Would fain have some fresh treaty drawn between you. Mary. Why some fresh treaty? where¬ fore should I do it ? Sir, if we marry, we shall still maintain All former treaties with his Majesty. Our royal word for that ! and your good master, Pray God he do not be the first to break them, Must be content with that; and so, fare¬ well. Noailles (going, returns). I would your answer had been other, Madam, For I foresee dark days. Alary. And so do I, sir ; Your master works against me in the dark. I do believe he holp Northumberland Against me. Noailles. Nay, pure phantasy, your Grace. Why should he move against you ? Mary. Will you hear why ? Mary of Scotland,—for I have not own’d My sister, and I will not,—after me Is heir of England ; and my royal father, To make the crown of Scotland one with ours, Had mark’d her for my brother Edward’s bride ; Ay, but your king stole her a babe from Scotland In order to betroth her to your Dauphin. See then : Mary of Scotland, married to your Dauphin, Would make our England, France ; Mary of England, joining hands with Spain, Would be too strong for France. Yea, were there issue born to her, Spain and we, One crown, might rule the world. There lies your fear. That is your drift. You play at hide and seek. Show me your faces ! Noailles. Madam, I am amazed : French, I must needs wish all good things for France. That must be pardon’d me ; but I protest Your Grace’s policy hath a farther flight Than mine into the future. We but seek Some settled ground for peace to stand upon. Alary. Well, we will leave all this, sir, to our council. Have you seen Philip ever ? Noailles. Only once. Mary. Is this like Philip ? Noailles. Ay, but nobler-looking. Mary. Hath he the large ability of the Emperor? Noailles. No, surely. SCENE V. QUEEN MARY. 4 77 Mary. I can make allowance for thee, Thou speakest of the enemy of thy king. Noailles. Make no allowance for the naked truth. He is everyway a lesser man than Charles; Stone-hard, ice-cold—no dash of daring in him. Mary. If cold, his life is pure. Noailles. Why [smiling), no, indeed. Mary. Sayst thou ? Noailles. A very wanton life indeed [smiling). Mary. Your audience is concluded, sir. [Exit Noailles. You cannot Learn a man’s nature from his natural foe. Enter Usher. Who waits ? Usher. The Ambassador of Spain, your Grace. [Exit. Enter Simon Renard. Mary [rising to meet him). Thou art ever welcome, Simon Renard. Hast thou Brought me the letter which thine Emperor promised Long since, a formal offer of the hand Of Philip ? Renard. Nay, your Grace, it hath not reach’d me. I know not wherefore—some mischance of flood, And broken bridge, or spavin’d horse, or wave And wind at their old battle: he must have written. Mary. But Philip never writes me one poor word, Which in his absence had been all my wealth. Strange in a wooer ! Renard. Yet I know the Prince, So your king-parliament suffer him to land, Yearns to set foot upon your island shore. Mary. God change the pebble which his kingly foot First presses into some more costly stone Than ever blinded eye. I’ll have one mark it And bring it me. I’ll have it burnish’d firelike; I’ll set it round with gold, with pearl, with diamond. Let the great angel of the church come with him ; Stand on the deck and spread his wings for sail! God lay the waves and strow the storms at sea, And here at land among the people ! O Renard, I am much beset, I am almost in despair. Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance is ours; But for our heretic Parliament— Renard. O Madam, You fly your thoughts like kites. My master, Charles, Bad you go softly with your heretics here, Until your throne had ceased to tremble. Then Spit them like larks for aught I care. Besides, When Henry broke the carcase of your church To pieces, there were many wolves among you Who dragg’d the scatter’d limbs into their den. The Pope would have you make them render these; So would your cousin, Cardinal Pole ; ill counsel ! These let them keep at present; stir not yet This matter of the Church lands. At his coming Your star will rise. Mary. My star ! a baleful one. I see but the black night, and hear the wolf. What star ? Renard. Y our star will be your princely son, Heir of this England and the Netherlands ! And if your wolf the while should howl for more, 478 QUEEN MARY. ACT T. We’ll dust him from a bag of Spanish gold. I do believe, I have dusted some already, That, soon or late, your Parl iament is ours. Mary. Why do they talk so foully of your Prince, Renard ? Renard. The lot of Princes. To sit high Is to be lied about. Mary. They call him cold, Haughty, ay, worse. Renard. Why, doubtless, Philip shows Some of the bearing of your blue blood— still All within measure—nay, it well becomes him. Mary. Hath he the large ability of his father ? Renard. Nay, some believe that he will go beyond him. Mary. Is this like him ? Renard. Ay, somewhat; but your Philip Is the most princelike Prince beneath the sun. This is a daub to Philip. Mary. Of a pure life ? Renard. As an angel among angels. Yea, by Heaven, The text—Your Highness knows it, ‘ Whosoever Looketh after a woman,’ would not graze The Prince of Spain. You are happy in him there, Chaste as your Grace ! Mary. I am happy in him there. Renard. And would be altogether happy, Madam, So that your sister were but look’d to closer. You have sent her from the court, but then she goes, I warrant, not to hear the nightingales, But hatch you some new treason in the woods. Mary. We have our spies abroad to catch her tripping, And then if caught, to the Tower. Renard. The Tower ! the block ! The word has turn’d your Highness pale ; the thing Was no such scarecrow in your father’s time. I have heard, the tongue yet quiver’d with the jest When the head leapt—so common ! I do think To save your crown that it must come to this. Mary. No, Renard; it must never come to this. Renard. Not yet ; but your old Traitors of the Tower— Why, when you put Northumberland to death, The sentence having past upon them all, Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, Guild¬ ford Dudley, Ev’n that young girl who dared to wear your crown ? Mary. Dared ? nay, not so ; the child obey’d her father. Spite of her tears her father forced it on her. Renard. Good Madam, when the Roman wish’d to reign, He slew not him alone who wore the purple, But his assessor in the throne, perchance A child more innocent than Lady Jane. Mary. I am English Queen, not Roman Emperor. Renard. Yet too much mercy is a want of mercy, And wastes more life. Stamp out the fire, or this Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn the throne Where you should sit with Philip: he will not come Till she be gone. Mary. Indeed, if that were true— For Philip comes, one hand in mine, and one Steadying the tremulous pillars of the Church— But no, no, no. Farewell. I am some¬ what faint SCENE Y. QUEEN MARY. 479 With our long talk. Tho’ Queen, I am not Queen Of mine own heart, which every now and then Beats me half dead : yet stay, this golden chain— My father on a birthday gave it me, And I have broken with my father—take And wear it as memorial of a morning Which found me full of foolish doubts, and leaves me As hopeful. Renard (aside). Whew—the folly of all follies Is to be love-sick for a shadow. (Aloud) Madam, This chains me to your service, not with gold, But dearest links of love. Farewell, and trust me, Philip is yours. [Exit. Mary. Mine—but not yet all mine. Enter Usher. Usher. Your Council is in Session, please your Majesty. Mary. Sir, let them sit. I must have time to breathe. No, say I come. (Exit Usher.) I won by boldness once. The Emperor counsell’d me to fly to Flanders. I would not; but a hundred miles I rode, Sent out my letters, call’d my friends together, Struck home and won. And when the Council would not crown me—thought To bind me first by oaths I could not keep, And keep with Christ and conscience— was it boldness Or weakness that won there? when I, their Queen, Cast myself down upon my knees before them, And those hard men brake into woman- tears, Ev’n Gardiner, all amazed, and in that passion Gave me my Crown. Enter Alice. Girl; hast thou ever heard Slanders against Prince Philip in our Court ? Alice. What slanders ? I, your Grace ; no, never. Mary. Nothing ? Alice. Never, your Grace. Mary. See that you neither hear them nor repeat! Alice (aside). Good Lord ! but I have heard a thousand such. Ay, and repeated them as often—mum ! Why comes that old fox-Fleming back again ? Enter Renard. Renard. Madam, I scarce had left your Grace’s presence Before I chanced upon the messenger Who brings that letter which we waited for—- The formal offer of Prince Philip’s hand. It craves an instant answer, Ay or No. Mary. An instant Ay or No ! the Council sits. Give it me quick. Alice (steppingbefore her). Your High¬ ness is all trembling. Mary. Make way. [Exit into the Council Chamber. Alice. O, Master Renard, Master Renard, If you have falsely painted your fine Prince; Praised, where you should have blamed him, I pray God No woman ever love you, Master Renard. It breaks my heart to hear her moan at night As tho’ the nightmare never left her bed. Renard. My pretty maiden, tell me, did you ever Sigh for a beard ? Alice. That’s not a pretty question. Renard. Not prettily put ? I mean, my pretty maiden, A pretty man for such a pretty maiden. 480 QUEEN MARY. ACT II. Alice. My Lord of Devon is a pretty man. I hate him. Well, but if I have, what then ? Renard. Then, pretty maiden, you should know that whether A wind be warm or cold, it serves to fan A kindled fire. Alice. According to the song. His friends would praise him, I believed ’em. His foes would blame him, and I scorn’d ’em, His friends—as Angels I received ’em, His foes—the Devil had suborn’d ’em. Renard. Peace, pretty maiden. I hear them stirring in the Council Chamber. Lord Paget’s ‘Ay’ is sure—who else? and yet, They are all too much at odds to close at once In one full-throated No ! Her Highness comes. Enter Mary. Alice. How deathly pale !—a chair, your Highness. [Bringing one to the Queen. Renard. Madam, The Council? Mary. Ay ! My Philip is all mine. [Sinks into chair , half fainting. ACT II. SCENE I. — Alington Castle. Sir Thomas Wyatt. I do not hear from Carew or the Duke Of Suffolk, and till then I should not move. The Duke hath gone to Leicester ; Carew stirs In Devon : that fine porcelain Courtenay, Save that he fears he might be crack’d in using, (I have known a semi-madman in my time So fancy - ridd’n) should be in Devon too. Enter William. News abroad, William? William. None so new, Sir Thomas, and none so old, Sir Thomas. No new news that Philip comes to wed Mary, no old news that all men hate it. Old Sir Thomas would have hated it. The bells are ringing at Maidstone. Doesn’t your worship hear? Wyatt. Ay, for the Saints are come to reign again. Most like it is a Saint’s-day. There’s no call As yet for me ; so in this pause, before The mine be fired, it were a pious work To string my father’s sonnets, left about Like loosely-scatter’d jewels, in fair order, And head them with a lamer rhyme of mine, To grace his memory. William. Ay, why not, Sir Thomas ? He was a fine courtier, he ; Queen Anne loved him. All the women loved him. I loved him, I was in Spain with him. I couldn’t eat in Spain, I couldn’t sleep in Spain. I hate Spain, Sir Thomas. Wyatt. But thou could’st drink in Spain if I remember. William. Sir Thomas, we may grant the wine. Old Sir Thomas always granted the wine. Wyatt. Hand me the casket with my father’s sonnets. William. Ay—sonnets—a fine courtier of the old Court, old Sir Thomas. [Exit. Wyatt. Courtier of many courts, he loved the more His own gray towers, plain life and letter’d peace, To read and rhyme in solitary fields, The lark above, the nightingale below, And answer them in song. The sire begets Not half his likeness in the son. I fail Where he was fullest: yet—to write it down. \He writes. Re-enter William. William. There is news, there is news, SCENE I. QUEEN MARY. 481 and no call for sonnet-sorting now, nor for sonnet-making either, but ten thousand men on Penenden Heath all calling after your worship, and your worship’s name heard into Maidstone market, and your worship the first man in Kent and Chris¬ tendom, for the Queen’s down, and the world’s up, and your worship a-top of it. Wyatt. Inverted iEsop — mountain out of mouse. Say for ten thousand ten—and pothouse knaves, Brain-dizzied with a draught of morning ale. Enter Antony Knyvett. William. Here’s Antony Knyvett. Knyvett. Look you, Master Wyatt, Tear up that woman’s work there. Wyatt. No ; not these, Dumb children of my father, that will speak When I and thou and all rebellions lie Dead bodies without- voice. Song flies you know For ages. Knyvett. Tut, your sonnet’s a flying ant, Wing’d for a moment. Wyatt. Well, for mine own work, [ Tearing the paper. It lies there in six pieces at your feet; For all that I can carry it in my head. Knyvett. If you can carry your head upon your shoulders. Wyatt. I fear you come to carry it off my shoulders, And sonnet-making’s safer. Knyvett. Why, good Lord, Write you as many sonnets as you will. Ay, but not now ; what, have you eyes, ears, brains ? This Philip and the black-faced swarms of Spain, The hardest, cruellest people in the world, Come locusting upon us, eat us up, Confiscate lands, goods, money—Wyatt, Wyatt, Wake, or the stout old island will become A rotten limb of Spain. They roar for you On Penenden Heath, a thousand of them —more— All arm’d, waiting a leader ; there’s no glory Like his who saves his country : and you sit Sing-songing here ; but, if I’m any judge, By God, you are as poor a poet, Wyatt, As a good soldier. Wyatt. You as poor a critic As an honest friend : you stroke me on one cheek, Buffet the other. Come, you bluster, Antony ! You know I know all this. I must not move Until I hear from Carew and the Duke. I fear the mine is fired before the time. Knyvett {showing a paper) . But h ere’s some Hebrew. Faith, I half forgot it. Look ; can you make it English ? A strange youth Suddenly thrust it on me, whisper’d, ‘ Wyatt,’ And whisking round a corner, show’d his back Before I read his face. Wyatt. Ha ! Courtenay’s cipher. [Reads. * Sir Peter Carew fled to France : it is thought the Duke will be taken. I am with you still; but, for appearance sake, stay with the Queen. Gardiner knows, but the Council are all at odds, and the Queen hath no force for resistance. Move, if you move, at once.’ Is Peter Carew fled ? Is the Duke taken ? Down scabbard, and out sword ! and let Rebellion Roar till throne rock, and crown fall. No ; not that; But we will teach Queen Mary how to reign. Who are those that shout below there ? Knyvett. Why, some fifty That follow’d me from Penenden Heath in hope To hear you speak. 482 QUEEN MARY. ACT IT. Wyatt. Open the window, Knyvett ; The mine is fired, and I will speak to them. Men of Kent; England of England; you that have kept your old customs upright, while all the rest of England bow’d theirs to the Norman, the cause that hath brought us together is not the cause of a county or a shire, but of this England, in whose crown our Kent is the fairest jewel. Philip shall not wed Mary; and ye have called me to be your leader. I know Spain. I have been there with my father ; I have seen them in their own land; have marked the haughtiness of their nobles ; the cruelty of their priests. If this man marry our Queen, however the Council and the Commons may fence round his power with restriction, he will be King, King of England, my masters ; and the Queen, and the laws, and the people, his slaves. What ? shall we have Spain on the throne and in the parlia¬ ment ; Spain in the pulpit and on the law-bench ; Spain in all the great offices of state ; Spain in our ships, in our forts, in our houses, in our beds ? Crowd. No ! no ! no Spain ! William. No Spain in our beds—that were worse than all. I have been there with old Sir Thomas, and the beds I know. I hate Spain. A Peasant. But, Sir Thomas, must we levy war against the Queen’s Grace ? Wyatt. No, my friend ; war for the Queen’s Grace—to save her from herself and Philip — war against Spain. And think not we shall be alone—thousands will flock to us. The Council, the Court itself, is on our side. The Lord Chancel¬ lor himself is on our side. The King of France is with us ; the King of Denmark is with us ; the world is with us—war against Spain! And if we move not now, yet it will be known that we have moved; and if Philip come to be King, O, my God ! the rope, the rack, the thumbscrew, the stake, the fire. If we move not now, Spain moves, bribes our nobles with her gold, and creeps, creeps snake-like about our legs till we cannot move at all; and ye know, my masters, that wherever Spain hath ruled she hath wither’d all beneath her. Look at the New World— a paradise made hell; the red man, that good helpless creature, starved, maim’d, flogg’d, flay’d, burn’d, boil’d, buried alive, worried by dogs ; and here, nearer home, the Netherlands, Sicily, Naples, Lombardy. I say no more—only this, their lot is yours. Forward to London with me ! forward to London ! If ye love your liberties or your skins, forward to London ! Croxvd. Forward to London ! A Wyatt! a Wyatt ! Wyatt. But first to Rochester, to take the guns From out the vessels lying in the river. Then on. A Peasant. Ay, but I fear we be too few, Sir Thomas. Wyatt. Not many yet. The world as yet, my friend, Is not half - waked ; but every parish tower Shall clang and clash alarum as we pass, And pour along the land, and swoll’n and fed With indraughts and side-currents, in full force Roll upon London. Crowd. A Wyatt! aWyatt! Forward ! Knyvett. Wyatt, shall we proclaim Elizabeth ? Wyatt. I’ll think upon it, Knyvett. Knyvett. Or Lady Jane ? Wyatt. No, poor soul; no. Ah, gray old castle of Alington, green field Beside the brimming Medway, it may chance That I shall never look upon you more. Knyvett. Come, now, you’re sonnet- ting again. Wyatt. Not I. I’ll have my head set higher in the state; Or—if the Lord God will it—on the stake. [Exeunt. SCENE II. QUEEN MARY. 483 SCENE II.— Guildhall. Sir Thomas White (The Lord Mayor), Lord William Howard, Sir Ralph Bagenhall, Aldermen and Citizens. While. I trust the Queen comes hither with her guards. Howard. Ay, all in arms. {Several of the citizens move hastily out of the hall. Why do they hurry out there? White. My Lord, cut out the rotten from your apple, Your apple eats the better. Let them go. They go like those old Pharisees in John Convicted by their conscience, arrant cowards, Or tamperers with that treason out of Kent. When will her Grace be here ? Howard. In some few minutes. She will address your guilds and com¬ panies. I have striven in vain to raise a man for her. But help her in this exigency, make Your city loyal, and be the mightiest man This day in England. White. I am Thomas White. Few things have fail’d to which I set my will. I do my most and best. Howard. You know that after The Captain Brett, who went with your train bands To fight with Wyatt, had gone over to him With all his men, the Queen in that distress Sent Cornwallis and Hastings to the traitor, Feigning to treat with him about her marriage— Know too what Wyatt said. White. He’d sooner be, While this same marriage question was being argued, Trusted than trust—the scoundrel—and demanded Possession of her person and the Tower. Howard. And four of her poor Coun¬ cil too, my Lord, As hostages. White. I know it. What do and say Your Council at this hour ? Howard. I will trust you. We fling ourselves on you, my Lord. The Council, The Parliament as well, are troubled waters ; And yet like waters of the fen they know not Which way to flow. All hangs on her address, And upon you, Lord Mayor. White. How look’d the city When now you past it ? Quiet ? Howard. Like our Council, Your city is divided. As we past, Some hail’d, some hiss’d us. There were citizens Stood each before his shut-up booth, and look’d As grim and grave as from a funeral. And here a knot of ruffians all in rags, With execrating execrable eyes, Glai*ed at the citizen. Here was a young mother, Her face on flame, her red hair all blown back, She shrilling ‘Wyatt,’ while the boy she held Mimick’d and piped her ‘Wyatt,’ as red as she In hair and cheek ; and almost elbowing her, So close they stood, another, mute as death, And white as her own milk ; her babe in arms Had felt the faltering of his mother’s heart, And look’d as bloodless. Here a pious Catholic, Mumbling and mixing up in his scared prayers Heaven and earth’s Maries; over his bow’d shoulder Scowl’d that world-hated and world- hating beast, 4«4 QUEEN MANY. ACT TT. A haggard Anabaptist. Many such groups. The names of Wyatt, Elizabeth, Cour¬ tenay, Nay the Queen’s right to reign—’fore God, the rogues— Were freely buzzed among them. So I say Your city is divided, and I fear One scruple, this or that way, of success Would turn it thither. Wherefore now the Queen In this low pulse and palsy of the state, Bad me to tell you that she counts on you And on myself as her two hands ; on you, In your own city, as her right, my Lord, For you are loyal. White. Am I Thomas White ? One word before she comes. Elizabeth— Her name is much abused among these traitors. Where is she ? She is loved by all of us. I scarce have heart to mingle in this matter, If she should be mishandled. Howard. No ; she shall not. The Queen had written her word to come to court : Methought I smelt out Renard in the letter, And fearing for her, sent a secret missive, Which told her to be sick. Happily or not, It found her sick indeed. White. God send her well; Here comes her Royal Grace. Enter Guards, Mary, and Gardiner. Sir Thomas White leads her to a raised seat on the dais. White. I, the Lord Mayor, and these our companies And guilds of London, gathered here, beseech Your Highness to accept our lowliest thanks For your most princely presence ; and we pray That we, your true and loyal citizens, From your own royal lips, at once may know The wherefore of this coming, and so learn Your royal will, and do it.—I, Lord Mayor Of London, and our guilds and companies. Mary. In mine own person am I come to you, To tell you what indeed ye see and know, How traitorously these rebels out of Kent Have made strong head against ourselves and you. They would not have me wed the Prince of Spain; That was their pretext—so they spake at first— But we sent divers of our Council to them, And by their answers to the question ask’d, It doth appear this marriage is the least Of all their quarrel. They have betrayed the treason of their hearts : Seek to possess our person, hold our Tower, Place and displace our councillors, and use Both us and them according as they will. Now what I am ye know right well—your Queen ; To whom, when I was wedded to the realm And the realm’s laws (the spousal ring whereof, Not ever to be laid aside, I wear Upon this finger), ye did promise full Allegiance and obedience to the death. Ye know my father was the rightful heir Of England, and his right came down to me, Corroborate by your acts of Parliament: And as ye were most loving unto him, So doubtless will ye show yourselves to me. Wherefore, ye will not brook that anyone Should seize our person, occupy our state, More specially a traitor so presumptuous As this same Wyatt, who hath tamper’d with A public ignorance, and, under colour Of such a cause as hath no colour, seeks To bend the laws to his own will, and yield Full scope to persons rascal and forlorn, To make free spoil and havock of your goods. SCENE 11. QUEEN MARY. 485 Now as your Prince, I say, I, that was never mother, cannot tell How mothers love their children ; yet, methinks, A prince as naturally may love his people As these their children ; and be sure your Queen So loves you, and so loving, needs must deem This love by you return’d as heartily ; And thro’ this common knot and bond of love, Doubt not they will be speedily over¬ thrown. As to this marriage, ye shall understand We made thereto no treaty of ourselves, And set no foot theretoward unadvised Of all our Privy Council; furthermore, This marriage had the assent of those to whom The king, my father, did commit his trust; Who not alone esteem’d it honourable, But for the wealth and glory of our realm, And all our loving subjects, most ex¬ pedient. As to myself, I am not so set on wedlock as to choose But where I list, nor yet so amorous That I must needs be husbanded; I thank God, I have lived a virgin, and I noway doubt But that with God’s grace, I can live so still. Yet if it might please God that I should leave Some fruit of mine own body after me, To be your king, ye would rejoice thereat, And it would be your comfort, as I trust; And truly, if I either thought or knew This marriage should bring loss or danger to you, My subjects, or impair in any way This royal state of England, I would never Consent thereto, nor marry while I live ; Moreover, if this marriage should not seem, Before our own High Court of Parliament, To be of rich advantage to our realm, We will refrain, and not alone from this, Likewise from any other, out of which Looms the least chance of peril to our realm. Wherefore be bold, and with your lawful Prince Stand fast against our enemies and yours, And fear them not. I fear them not. My Lord, I leave Lord William Howard in your city, To guard and keep you whole and safe from all The spoil and sackage aim’d at by these rebels, Who mouth and foam against the Prince of Spain. Voices. Long live Queen Mary ! Down with Wyatt! The Queen ! White. Three voices from our guilds and companies ! You are shy and proud like Englishmen, my masters, And will not trust your voices. Under¬ stand : Your lawful Prince hath come to cast herself On loyal hearts and bosoms, hoped to fall Into the wide-spread arms of fealty, And finds you statues. Speak at once— and all! For whom ? Our sovereign Lady by King Harry’s will; The Queen of England—or the Kentish Squire ? I know you loyal. Speak ! in the name of God ! The Queen of England or the rabble of Kent? The reeking dungfork master of the mace! Your havings wasted by the scythe and spade— Your rights and charters hobnail’d into slush— Your houses fired—your gutters bubbling blood- Acclamation. No! No! The Queen! the Queen ! White. Your Highness hears This burst and bass of loyal harmony, And how we each and all of us abhor The venomous, bestial, devilish revolt 486 QUEEN MARY. ACT II. Of Thomas Wyatt. Hear us now make oath To raise your Highness thirty thousand men, And arm and strike as with one hand, and brush This Wyatt from our shoulders, like a flea That might have leapt upon us unawares. Swear with me, noble fellow-citizens, all, With all your trades, and guilds, and companies. Citizens. We swear! Mary. We thank your Lordship and your loyal city. [Exit Mary attended. White. I trust this day, thro’ God, I have saved the crown. First Alderman. Ay, so my Lord of Pembroke in command Of all her force be safe; but there are doubts. Second Alderman. I hear that Gar¬ diner, coming with the Queen, And meeting Pembroke, bent to his saddle-bow, As if to win the man by flattering him. Is he so safe to fight upon her side ? First Alderman. If not, there’s no man safe. White. Yes, Thomas White. I am safe enough ; no man need flatter me. Second Alderman. Nay, no man need; but did you mark our Queen ? The colour freely play’d into her face, And the half sight which makes her look so stern, Seem’d thro’ that dim dilated world of hers, To read our faces ; I have never seen her So queenly or so goodly. White. Courage, sir, That makes or man or woman look their goodliest. Die like the torn fox dumb, but never whine Like that poor heart, Northumberland, at the block. Bagenhall. The man had children, and he whined for those. Methinks most men are but poor-hearted, else Should we so doat on courage, were it commoner ? The Queen stands up, and speaks for her own self; And all men cry, She is. queenly, she is goodly. Yet she’s no goodlier ; tho’ my Lord Mayor here, By his own rule, he hath been so bold to-day, Should look more goodly than the rest of us. White. Goodly ? I feel most goodly heart and hand, And strong to throw ten Wyatts and all Kent. Ha ! ha ! sir ; but you jest; I love it: a jest In time of danger shows the pulses even. Be merry ! yet, Sir Ralph, you look but sad. I dare avouch you’d stand up for yourself, Tho’ all the world should bay like winter wolves. Bagenhall. Who knows ? the man is proven by the hour. White. The man should make the hour, not this the man ; And Thomas White will prove this Thomas Wyatt, And he will prove an Iden to this Cade, And he will play the Walworth to this Wat; Come, sirs, we prate ; hence all—gather your men— Myself must bustle. Wyatt comes to Southwark ; I’ll have the drawbridge hewn into the Thames, And see the citizens arm’d. Good day ; good day. [Exit White. Bagenhall. One of much outdoor bluster. Howard. For all that, Most honest, brave, and skilful; and his wealth A fountain of perennial alms—his fault So thoroughly to believe in his own self. SCENE III. QUEEN MAR Y 487 Bagenhall. Yet thoroughly to believe in one’s own self, So one’s own self be thorough, were to do Great things, my Lord. Howard. It may be. Bagenhall. I have heard One of your Council fleer and jeer at him. Howard. The nursery-cocker’d child will jeer at aught That may seem strange beyond his nursery. The statesman that shall jeer and fleer at men, Makes enemies for himself and for his king; And if he jeer not seeing the true man Behind his folly, he is thrice the fool; And if he see the man and still will jeer, He is child and fool, and traitor to the State. Who is he ? let me shun him. Bagenhall. Nay, my Lord, He is damn’d enough already. Howard. I must set The guard at Ludgate. Fare you well, Sir Ralph. Bagenhall. ‘ Who knows? ’ I am for England. But who knows, That knows the Queen, the Spaniard, and the Pope, Whether I be for Wyatt, or the Queen ? \Exeunt. SCENE III.— London Bridge. Enter Sir Thomas Wyatt and Brett. Wyatt. Brett, when the Duke of Norfolk moved against us Thou cried’st ‘ A Wyatt ! ’ and flying to our side Left his all bare, for which I love thee, Brett. Have for thine asking aught that I can give, For thro’ thine help we are come to London Bridge ; But how to cross it balks me. I fear we cannot. Brett. Nay, hardly, save by boat, swimming, or wings. Wyatt. Last night I climb’d into the gate-house, Brett, And scared the gray old porter and his wife. And then I crept along the gloom and saw They had hewn the drawbridge down into the river. It roll’d as black as death ; and that same tide Which, coming with our coming, seem’d to smile And sparkle like our fortune as thou saidest, Ran sunless down, and moan’d against the piers. But o’er the chasm I saw Lord William Howard By torchlight, and his guard; four guns gaped at me, Black, silent mouths : had Howard spied me there And made them speak, as well he might have done, Their voice had left me none to tell you this. What shall we do ? Brett. On somehow. To go back Were to lose all. Wyatt. On over London Bridge We cannot: stay we cannot; there is ordnance On the White Tower and on the Devil’s Tower, And pointed full at Southwark ; we must round By Kingston Bridge. Brett. Ten miles about. Wyatt. Ev’n so. But I have notice from our partisans Within the city that they will stand by us If Ludgate can be reach’d by dawn to¬ morrow. Enter one of Wyatt’s men. Man. Sir Thomas, I’ve found this' paper ; pray your worship read it; I know not my letters; the old priests taught me nothing. Wyatt {reads). ‘Whosoever will ap¬ prehend the traitor Thomas Wyatt shall have a hundred pounds for reward.’ Man. Is that it ? That’s a big lot of money. 488 QUEEN MARY. ACT II. Wyatt. Ay, ay, my friend ; not read it ? *tis not written Half plain enough. Give me a piece of paper ! [ Writes ‘ Thomas Wyatt ’ large. There, any man can read that. [.Sticks it in his cap. Brett. But that’s foolhardy. Wyatt. No ! boldness, which will give my followers boldness. Enter Man with a prisoner. Man. We found him, your worship, a plundering o’ Bishop Winchester’s house ; he says he’s a poor gentleman. Wyatt. Gentleman ! a thief! Go hang him. Shall we make Those that we come to serve our sharpest foes? • Brett. Sir Thomas— Wyatt. Hang him, I say. Brett. Wyatt, but now you promised me a boon. Wyatt. Ay, and I warrant this fine fellow’s life. Brett. Ev’n so ; he was my neighbour once in Kent. He’s poor enough, has drunk and gambled out All that he had, and gentleman he Was. We have been glad together ; let him live. Wyatt. He has gambled for his life, and lost, he hangs. No, no, my word’s my word. Take thy poor gentleman ! Gamble thyself at once out of my sight, Or I will dig thee with my dagger. Away ! Women and children ! Enter a Crowd ^Women and Children. First Woman. O Sir Thomas, Sir Thomas, pray you go away, Sir Thomas, or you’ll make the White Tower a black ’un for us this blessed day. He’ll be the death on us ; and you’ll set the Divil’s Tower a-spitting, and he’ll smash all our bits o’ things worse than Philip o’ Spain. Second Woman. Don’t ye now go to think that we be for Philip o’ Spain. Third Woman. N o, we know that ye be come to kill the Queen, and we’ll pray for you all on our bended knees. But o’ God’s mercy don’t ye kill the Queen here, Sir Thomas ; look ye, here’s little Dickon, and little Robin, and little Jenny—though she’s but a side-cousin— and all on our knees, we pray you to kill the Queen further off, Sir Thomas. Wyatt. My friends, I have not come to kill the Queen Or here or there : I come to save you all, And I’ll go further off. Crowd. Thanks, Sir Thomas, we be beholden to you, and we’ll pray for you on our bended knees till our lives’ end. Wyatt. Be happy, I am your friend. To Kingston, forward ! [Exeunt. SCENE IV.— Room in the Gate¬ house of Westminster Palace. Mary, Alice, Gardiner, Renard, Ladies. Gardiner. Their cry is, Philip never shall be king. Mary. Lord Pembroke in command of all our force Will front their cry and shatter them into dust. Alice. Was not Lord Pembroke with Northumberland ? O madam, if this Pembroke should be false ? Mary. No, girl; most brave and loyal, brave and loyal. His breaking with Northumberland broke N or thumberland. At the park gate he hovers with our guards. These Kentish ploughmen cannot break the guards. Enter Messenger. Messenger. Wyatt, your Grace, hath broken thro’ the guards And gone to Ludgate. Gardiner. Madam, I much fear That all is lost; but we can save your Grace. SCENE IV. QUEEN MARY. 489 The river still is free. I do beseech you, There yet is time, take boat and pass to Windsor. Mary. I pass to Windsor and I lose my crown. Gardiner. Pass, then, I pray your Highness, to the Tower. Mary. I shall but be their prisoner in the Tower. Cries without. The traitor ! treason ! Pembroke ! Ladies. Treason J treason ! Mary. Peace. False to Northumberland, is he false to me ? Bear witness, Renard, that I live and die The true and faithful bride of Philip—A sound Of feet and voices thickening hither— blows— Hark, there is battle at the palace gates, And I will out upon the gallery. Ladies. No, no, your Grace; see there the arrows flying. Mary. I am Harry’s daughter, Tudor, and not Fear. [Goes out on the gallery. The guards are all driven in, skulk into corners Like rabbits to their holes. A gracious guard Truly ; shame on them ! they have shut the gates ! Enter Sir Robert Southwell. Southwell. The porter, please your Grace, hath shut the gates On friend and foe. Your gentlemen-at- arms, If this be not your Grace’s order, cry To have the gates set wide again, and they With their good battleaxes will do you right Against all traitors. Mary. They are the flower of England ; set the gates wide. [Exit Southwell. Enter Courtenay. Courtenay. All lost, all lost, all yielded ! A barge, a barge ! The Queen must to the Tower. Mary. Whence come you, sir ? Courtenay. From Charing Cross ; the rebels broke us there, And I sped hither with what haste I might To save my royal cousin. Mary. Where is Pembroke ? Courtenay. I left him somewhere in the thick of it. Mary. Left him and fled ; and thou that would’st be King, And hast nor heart nor honour. I myself Will down into the battle and there bide The upshot of my quarrel, or die with those That are no cowards and no Courtenays. Courtenay. I do not love your Grace. should call me coward. Enter another Messenger. Alessenger. Over, your Grace, all crush’d ; the brave Lord William Thrust him from Ludgate, and the traitor flying To Temple Bar, there by Sir Maurice Berkeley Was taken prisoner. Mary. To the Tower with him ! Messenger. ‘Tis said he told Sir Maurice there was one Cognisant of this, and party thereunto, My Lord of Devon. Mary. To the Tower with him ! Courtenay. O la, the Tower, the Tower, always the Tower, I shall grow into it—I shall be the Tower. +Mary. Your Lordship may not have so long to wait. Remove him ! Courtenay. La, to whistle out my life, And carve my coat upon the walls again ! [Exit Courtenay guarded. Messenger. Also this Wyatt did con¬ fess the Princess Cognisant thereof, and party thereunto. Mary. What? whom—whom did you say? 490 QUEEN MARY. ACT III. Messenger. Elizabeth, Your Royal sister. Mary. To the Tower with her ! My foes are at my feet and I am Queen. [Gardiner and her Ladies kneel to her. Gardiner {rising). There let them lie, your footstool ! {Aside.) Can I strike Elizabeth ?—not now and save the life Of Devon : if I save him, he and his Are bound to me—may strike hereafter. {Aloud.) Madam, What Wyatt said, or what they said he said, Cries of the moment and the street— Mary. He said it. Gardiner. Your courts of justice will determine that. Renard {advancing). I trust by this your Highness will allow Some spice of wisdom in my telling you, When last we talk’d, that Philip would not come Till Guildford Dudley and the Duke of Suffolk, And Lady Jane had left us. Mary. They shall die. Renard. And your so loving sister ? Mary. She shall die. My foes are at my feet, and Philip King. [ Exeunt. ACT III. SCENE I.— The Conduit in Grace- church, Painted with the Nine Worthies, among them King Henry VIII. holding a book , on it inscribed ‘ Verbum Dei.’ Enter Sir Ralph Bagenhall and Sir Thomas Stafford. Bagenhall. A hundred here and hundreds hang’d in Kent. The tigress had unsheath’d her nails at last, And Renard and the Chancellor sharpen’d them. In eveiy London street a gibbet stood. They are down to-day. Here by this house was one; The traitor husband dangled at the door, And when the traitor wife came out for bread To still the petty treason therewithin, Her cap would brush his heels. Stafford. It is Sir Ralph, And muttering to himself as heretofore. Sir, see you aught up yonder ? Bagenhall. I miss something. The tree that only bears dead fruit is gone. Stafford. What tree, sir ? Bagenhall. Well, the tree in Virgil, sir, That bears not its own apples. Stafford. What ! the gallows ? Bagenhall. Sir, this dead fruit was ripening overmuch, And had to be removed lest living Spain Should sicken at dead England. Stafford. Not so dead, But that a shock may rouse her. Bagenhall. I believe Sir Thomas Stafford ? Stafford. I am ill disguised. Bagenhall. Well, are you not in peril here ? Stafford. I think so. I came to feel the pulse of England, whether It beats hard at this marriage. Did you see it ? Bagenhall. Stafford, I am a sad man and a serious. Far liefer had I in my country hall Been reading some old book, with mine old hound Couch’d at my hearth, and mine old flask of wine Beside me, than have seen it: yet I saw it. Stafford. Good, was it splendid ? Bagenhall. Ay, if Dukes, and Earls, And Counts, and sixty Spanish cavaliers, Some six or seven Bishops, diamonds, pearls, That royal commonplace too, cloth of gold, Could make it so. Stafford. And what was Mary’s dress? Bagenhall. Good faith, I was too sorry for the woman : b To mark the dress. She wore red shoes! SCENE I. QUEEN MARY. 491 Stafford. Red shoes ! Bagenhall. Scarlet, as if her feet were wash’d in blood, As if she had waded in it. Stafford. Were your eyes So bashful that you look’d no higher ? Bagenhall. A diamond, And Philip’s gift, as proof of Philip’s love, Who hath not any for any,—tho’ a true one, Blazed false upon her heart. Stafford. But this proud Prince— Bagenhall. Nay, he is King, you know, the King of Naples. The father ceded Naples, that the son Being a King, might wed a Queen—O he Flamed in brocade—white satin his trunk- hose. Inwrought with silver,—on his neck a collar, Gold, thick with diamonds; hanging down from this The Golden Fleece—and round his knee, misplaced, Our English Garter, studded with great emeralds, Rubies, I know not what. Have you had enough Of all this gear ? Stafford. Ay, since you hate the tell¬ ing it. How look’d the Queen? Bagenhall. No fairer for her jewels. And I could see that as the new-made couple Came from the Minster, moving side by side Beneath one canopy, ever and anon She cast on him a vassal smile of love, Which Philip with a glance of some dis¬ taste, Or so methought, return’d. I may be wrong, sir. This marriage will not hold. Stafford. I think with you. The King of France will help to break it. Bagenhall. France ! We once had half of France, and hurl’d our battles Into the heart of Spain ; but England now Is but a ball chuck’d between France and Spain, His in whose hand she drops ; Harry of Bolingbroke Had holpen Richard’s tottering throne to stand, Could Harry have foreseen that all our nobles Would perish on the civil slaughter-field, And leave the people naked to the crown, And the crown naked to the people ; the crown Female, too ! Sir, no woman’s regimen Can save us. We are fallen, and as I think, Never to rise again. Stafford. You are too black-blooded. I’d make a move myself to hinder that: I know some lusty fellows there in France. Bagenhall. You would but make us weaker, Thomas Stafford. Wyatt was a good soldier, yet he fail’d, And strengthen’d Philip. Stafford. Did not his last breath Clear Courtenay and the Princess from the charge Of being his co-rebels ? Bagenhall. Ay, but then What such a one as Wyatt says is nothing: We have no men among us. The new Lords Are quieted with their sop of Abbeylands, And ev’n before the Queen’s face Gardiner buys them With Philip’s gold. All greed, no faith, no courage ! Why, ev’n the haughty prince, Northum¬ berland, The leader of our Reformation, knelt And blubber’d like a lad, and on the scaffold Recanted, and resold himself to Rome. Stafford. I swear you do your country wrong, Sir Ralph. I know a set of exiles over there, Dare-devils, that would eat fire and spit it out At Philip’s beard: they pillage Spain already. 492 QUEEN MARY. ACT III. The French King winks at it. An hour will come When they will sweep her from the seas. No men ? Did not Lord Suffolk die like a true man? Is not Lord William Howard a true man ? Yea, you yourself, altho’ you are black- blooded : And I, by God, believe myself a man. Ay, even in the church there is a man— Cranmer. Fly would he not, when all men bad him fly. And what a letter he wrote against the Popfe ! There’s a brave man, if any. Bagenhall. Ay ; if it hold. Crowd [coming on). God save their Graces ! Stafford. Bagenhall, I see The Tudor green and white. ( Trumpets .) They are coming now. And here’s a crowd as thick as herring- shoals. Bagenhall. Be limpets to this pillar, or we are torn Down the strong wave of brawlers. Crowd. God save their Graces ! [.Procession of Trumpeters , Javeli'n- nten , etc. ; then Spanish and Flemish Nobles intermingled. . Stafford. Worth seeing, Bagenhall! These black dog-Dons Garb themselves bravely. Who’s the long-face there, Looks very Spain of very Spain ? Bagenhall. The Duke Of Alva, an iron soldier. Stafford. And the Dutchman, Now laughing at some jest? Bagenhall. William of Orange, William the Silent. Stafford. Why do they call him so ? Bagenhall. He keeps, they say, some secret that may cost Philip his life. Stafford. But then he looks so merry. Bagenhall. I cannot tell you why they call him so. [ The King and Queen pass , attended by Peers of the Realm , Officers of State, etc. Cannon shot of. Crowd. Philip and Maiy, Philip and Mary ! Long live the King and Queen, Philip and Mary ! Stafford. They smile as if content with one another. Bagenhall. A smile abroad is oft a scowl at home. [King and Queen pass on. Procession. First Citizen. I thought this Philip had been one of those black devils of Spain, but he hath a yellow beard. Second Citizen. Not red like Iscariot’s. First Citizen. Like a carrot’s, as thou say’st, and English carrot’s better than Spanish licorice ; but I thought he was a beast. Third Citizen. Certain I had heard that every Spaniard carries a tail like a devil under his trunk-hose. Tailor. Ay, but see what trunk-hoses! Lord ! they be fine ; I never stitch’d none such. They make amends for the tails. Fourth Citizen. Tut ! every Spanish priest will tell you that all English heretics have tails. Fifth Citizen. Death and the Devil— if he find I have one— Fourth Citizen. Lo ! thou hast call’d them up ! here they come—a pale horse for Death and Gardiner for the Devil. Enter Gardiner [turning back from the procession). Gardiner. Knave, wilt thou wear thy cap before the Queen ? Man. My Lord, I stand so squeezed among the crowd I cannot lift my hands unto my head. Gardiner. Knock off his cap there, „ some of you about him ! See there be others that can use their hands. Thou art one of Wyatt’s men ? Man. No, my Lord, no. Gardiner. Thy name, thou knave ? Man. I am nobody, my Lord. Gardiner [shouting). God’s passion ! knave, thy name ? SCENE I. QUEEN MARY. 493 Man. I have ears to hear. Gardiner. Ay, rascal, if I leave thee ears to hear. Find out his name and bring it me (to Attendant). Attendant. Ay, my Lord. Gardiner. Knave, thou shalt lose thine ears and find thy tongue, And shalt be thankful if I leave thee that. [Coming before the Conduit. The conduit painted—the nine worthies —ay ! But then what’s here ? King Harry with a scroll. Ha—Verbum Dei—verbum—word of God ! God’s passion ! do you know the knave that painted it ? Attendant. I do, my Lord. Gardiner. Tell him to paint it out, And put some fresh device in lieu of it— A pair of gloves, a pair of gloves, sir; ha? There is no heresy there. Attendant. I will, my Lord ; The man shall paint a pair of gloves. I am sure (Knowing the man) he wrought it igno¬ rantly, And not from any malice. Gardiner. Word of God In English ! over this the brainless loons That cannot spell Esai'as from St. Paul, Make themselves drunk and mad, fly out and flare Into rebellions. I’ll have their bibles burnt. The bible is the priest’s. Ay ! fellow, what ! Stand staring at me ! shout, you gaping rogue ! Man. I have, my Lord, shouted till I am hoarse. Gardiner. What hast thou shouted, knave ? Man. Long live Queen Mary! Gardiner. Knave, there be two. There be both King and Queen, Philip and Mary. Shout! Man. Nay, but, my Lord, The Queen comes first, Mary and Philip. Gardiner. Shout, then, Mary and Philip ! Man. Mary and Philip ! Gardiner. Now, Thou hast shouted for thy pleasure, shout for mine ! Philip and Mary ! Man. Must it be so, my Lord ? Gardiner. Ay, knave. Man. Philip and Mary ! Gardiner. I distrust thee. Thine is a half voice and a lean assent. What is thy name ? Man. Sanders. Gardiner. What else ? Man. Zerubbabel. Gardiner. Where dost thou live ? Man. In Cornhill. Gardiner. Where, knave, where? Man. Sign of the Talbot. Gardiner. Come to me to-morrow.— Rascal !—this land is like a hill of fire, One crater opens when another shuts. But so I get the laws against the heretic, Spite of Lord Paget and Lord William Howard, And others of our Parliament, revived, I will show fire on my side—stake and fire— Sharp work and short. The knaves are easily cow’d. Follow their Majesties. [Exit. The crowd following. Bagenhall. As proud as Becket. Stafford. You would not have him murder’d as Becket was ? Bagenhall. No—murder fathers mur¬ der : but I say There is no man—there was one woman with us— It was a sin to love her married, dead I cannot choose but love her. Stafford. Lady Jane ? Crowd (going off). God save their Graces ! Stafford. Did you see her die ? Bagenhall. No, no; her innocent blood had blinded me. 494 QUEEN MARY. ACT III. You call me too black - blooded — true enough Her dark dead blood is in my heart with mine. If ever I cry out against the Pope Her dark dead blood that ever moves with mine Will stir the living tongue and make the cry. Stafford. Yet doubtless you can tell me how she died? Bagenhall. Seventeen — and knew eight languages—in music Peerless—her needle perfect, and her learning Beyond the churchmen ; yet so meek, so modest. So wife-like humble to the trivial boy Mismatch’d with her for policy ! I have heard She would not take a last farewell of him, She fear’d it might unman him for his end. She could not be unmann’d—no, nor outwoman’d— Seventeen—a rose of grace ! Girl never breathed to rival such a rose; Rose never blew that equall’d such a bud. Stafford. Pray you go on. Bagenhall. She came upon the scaffold, And said she was condemn’d to die for treason ; She had but follow’d the device of those Her nearest kin : she thought they knew the laws. But for herself, she knew but little law, And nothing of the titles to the crown ; She had no desire for that, and wrung her hands, And trusted God would save her thro’ the blood Of Jesus Christ alone. Stafford. Pray you go on. Bagenhall. Then knelt and said the Miserere Mei— But all in English, mark you; rose again, And, when the headsman pray’d to be forgiven, Said ‘You will give me my true crown at last, But do it quickly;’ then all wept but she, Who changed not colour when she saw the block, But ask’d him, childlike : ‘ Will you take it off Before I lay me down?’ ‘ No, madam,’ he said, Gasping; and when her innocent eyes were bound, She, with her poor blind hands feeling— ‘ where is it ? Where is it?’—You must fancy that which follow’d, If you have heart to do it! Crowd (in the distance ). God save their Graces 1 Stafford. Their Graces, our disgraces! God confound them ! Why, she’s grown bloodier! when I last was here, This was against her conscience—would be murder ! Bagenhall. The * Thou shalt do no murder,’ which God’s hand Wrote on her conscience, Mary rubb’d out pale— She could not make it white—and over that. Traced in the blackest text of Hell— ‘ Thou shalt! ’ And sign’d it—Mary ! Stafford. Philip and the Pope Must have sign’d too. I hear this Legate’s coming To bring us absolution from the Pope. The Lords and Commons will bow down before him— You are of the house ? what will you do. Sir Ralph? Bagenhall. And why should I be bolder than the rest, Or honester than all ? Stafford. But, sir, if I— And oversea they say this state of yours Hath no more mortice than a tower of cards ; And that a puff would do it—then if I And others made that move I touch’d upon, SCENE II. QUEEN MARY. 495 Back’d by the power of France, and landing here, Came with a sudden splendour, shout, and show, And dazzled men and deafen’d by some bright Loud venture, and the people so unquiet— And I the race of murder’d Buckingham— Not for myself, but for the kingdom— Sir, I trust that you would fight along with us. Bagenhall. No; you would fling your lives into the gulf. Stafford. But if this Philip, as he’s like to do, Left Mary a wife-widow here alone, Set up a viceroy, sent his myriads hither To seize upon the forts and fleet, and make us A Spanish province ; would you not fight then ? Bagenhall. I think I should fight then. Stafford. I am sure of it. Hist ! there’s the face coming on here of one Who knows me. I must leave you. Fare you well, You’ll hear of me again. Bagenhall. Upon the scaffold. [ Exeunt. SCENE II.— Room in Whitehall Palace. Mary. Enter Philip and Cardinal Pole. Pole. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Bene- dicta tu in mulieribus. Mary. Loyal and royal cousin, humblest thanks. Had you a pleasant voyage up the river ? Pole. We had your royal barge, and that same chair, Or rather throne of purple, on the deck. Our silver cross sparkled before the prow, The ripples twinkled at their diamond- dance, The boats that follow’d, were as glowing- gay As regal gardens; and your flocks of swans, As fair and white as angels; and your shores Wore in mine eyes the green of Paradise. My foreign friends, who dream’d us blanketed In ever-closing fog, were much amazed To find as fair a sun as might have flash’d Upon their lake of Garda, fire the Thames ; Our voyage by sea was all but miracle ; And here the river flowing from the sea, Not toward it (for they thought not of our tides), Seem’d as a happy miracle to make glide— In quiet—home your banish’d country¬ man. Mary. We heard that you were sick in Flanders, cousin. Pole. A dizziness. Mary. And how came you round again ? Pole. The scarlet thread of Rahab saved her life ; And mine, a little letting of the blood. Mary. Well? now? Pole. Ay, cousin, as the heathen giant Had but to touch the ground, his force return’d— Thus, after twenty years of banishment, Feeling my native land beneath my foot, I said thereto : ‘ Ah, native land of mine, Thou art much beholden to this foot of mine, That hastes with full commission from the Pope To absolve thee from thy guilt of heresy. Thou hast disgraced me and attainted me, And mark’d me ev’n as Cain, and I return As Peter, but to bless thee: make me well.’ Methinks the good land heard me, for to¬ day My heart beats twenty, when I see you, cousin. Ah, gentle cousin, since your Herod’s death, How oft hath Peter knock’d at Mary’s gate! 496 QUEEN MARY. ACT III. And Mary would have risen and let him in, But, Mary, there were those within the house Who would not have it. Mary. True, good cousin Pole ; And there were also those without the house Who would not have it. Pole. I believe so, cousin. State-policy and church-policy are con¬ joint, But Janus-faces looking diverse ways. I fear the Emperor much misvalued me. But all is well; ’twas ev’n the will of God, Who, waiting till the time had ripen’d, now, Makes me his mouth of holy greeting. ‘ Hail, Daughter of God, and saver of the faith. Sit benedictus fructus ventris tui 1 ’ Mary. Ah, heaven ! Pole. Unwell, your Grace? Mary. No, cousin, happy—- Happy to see you ; never yet so happy Since I was crown’d. Pole. Sweet cousin, you forget That long low minster where you gave your hand To this great Catholic King. Philip. Well said, Lord Legate. Mary. Nay, not well said ; I thought of you, my liege, Ev’n as I spoke. Philip. Ay, Madam ; my Lord Paget Waits to present our Council to the Legate. Sit down here, all; Madam, between us you. Pole. Lo, now you are enclosed with boards of cedar, Our little sister of the Song of Songs ! You are doubly fenced and shielded sitting here Between the two most high-set thrones on earth, The Emperor’s highness happily symboll’d by The King your husband, the Pope’s Holiness By mine own self. Mary. True, cousin, I am happy. When will you that we summon both our houses To take this absolution from your lips, And be regather’d to the Papal fold ? Pole. In Britain’s calendar the bright¬ est day Beheld our rough forefathers break their Gods, And clasp the faith in Christ; but after that Might not St. Andrew’s be her happiest day? Mary. Then these shall meet upon St. Andrew’s day. Enter Paget, who presents the Council. Dumb show. Pole. I am an old man wearied with my journey, Ev’n with my joy. Permit me to with¬ draw. To Lambeth? Philip. Ay, Lambeth has ousted Cranmer. It was not meet the heretic swine should live In Lambeth. Mary. There or anywhere, or at all. Philip. We have had it swept and garnish’d after him. Pole. Not for the seven devils to enter in ? Philip. No, for we trust they parted in the swine. Pole. True, and I am the Angel of the Pope. Farewell, your Graces. Philip. Nay, not here—to me ; I will go with you to the waterside. Pole. Not be my Charon to the counter side ? Philip. No, my Lord Legate, the Lord Chancellor goes. Pole. And unto no dead world ; but Lambeth palace, Henceforth a centre of the living faith. [Exeunt Philip, Pole, Paget, etc. Manet Mary. Mary. He hath awaked ! he hath awaked ! SCENE III. QUEEN MARY. 497 He stirs within the darkness ! Oh, Philip, husband ! now thy love to mine Will cling more close, and those bleak manners thaw, That make me shamed and tongue-tied in my love. The second Prince of Peace— The great unborn defender of the Faith, Who will avenge me of mine enemies— He comes, and my star rises. The stormy Wyatts andNorthumberlands, The proud ambitions of Elizabeth, And all her fieriest partisans—are pale Before my star ! The light of this new learning wanes and dies: The ghosts of Luther and Zuinglius fade Into the deathless hell which is their doom Before my star ! His sceptre shall go forth from Ind to Ind ! His sword shall hew the heretic peoples down ! His faith shall clothe the world that will be his, Like universal air and sunshine ! Open, Ye everlasting gates! The King is here!— My star, my son ! Enter Philip, Duke of Alva, etc. Oh, Philip, come with me ; Good news have I to tell you, news to make Both of us happy—ay, the Kingdom too. Nay come with me—one moment! Philip (to Alva). More than that : There was one here of late—William the Silent They call him—he is free enough in talk, But tells me nothing. You will be, we trust, Sometime the viceroy of those provinces— He must deserve his surname better. Alva. Ay, sir; Inherit the Great Silence. Philip. True ; the provinces Are hard to rule and must be hardly ruled ; Most fruitful, yet, indeed, an empty rind, All hollow’d out with stinging heresies; And for their heresies, Alva, they will fight; You must break them or they break you. Alva (proudly). The first. Philip. Good ! Well, Madam, this new happiness of mine? [ Exeunt. Enter Three Pages. First Page. News, mates ! a miracle, a miracle ! news ! The bells must ring; Te Deums must be sung; The Queen hath felt the motion of her babe ! Second Page. Ay ; but see here ! First Page. See what ? Second Page. This paper, Dickon. I found it fluttering at the palace gates :— ‘ The Queen of England is delivered of a dead dog!’ Third Page. These are the things that madden her. Fie upon it! First Page. Ay ; but I hear she hath a dropsy, lad, Or a high-dropsy, as the doctors call it. Third Page. Fie on her dropsy, so she have a dropsy ! I know that she was ever sweet to me. First Page. For thou and thine are Roman to the core. Third Page. So thou and thine must be. Take heed ! First Page. Not I, And whether this flash of news be false or true, So the wine run, and there be revelry, Content am I. Let all the steeples clash, Till the sun dance, as upon Easter Day. [ Exeunt. SCENE III.— Great Hall in Whitehall. At the far end a dais. On this three chairs , two under one canopy for Mary and Philip, another on the right of these for Pole. Under the dais on Pole’s side , ranged along the wall , sit all the Spiritual Peers , and along the wall opposite , all the Temporal. The Commons on cross benches in front , a line of approach to the dais between 2 K 498 QUEEN MARY. ACT III. them. In the foreground , Sir Ralph Bagenhall and other Members of the Commons. First Member. St. Andrew’s day ; sit close, sit close, we are friends. Is reconciled the.word? the Pope again? It must be thus ; and yet, cocksbody ! how strange That Gardiner, once so one with all of us Against this foreign marriage, should have yielded So utterly !—strange ! but stranger still that he, So fierce against the Headship of the Pope, Should play the second actor in this pageant That brings him in ; such a cameleon he ! Second Member. This Gardiner turn’d his coat in Henry’s time ; The serpent that hath slough’d will slough again. Third Member. Tut, then we all are serpents. Second Member. Speak for yourself. Third Member. Ay, and for Gardiner! being English citizen, How should he bear a bridegroom out of Spain ? The Queen would have him! being English churchman How should he bear the headship of the Pope ? The Queen would have it! Statesmen that are wise Shape a necessity, as a sculptor clay, To their own model. Second Member. Statesmen that are wise Take truth herself for model. What say you? [To Sir Ralph Bagenhall. Bagenhall. We talk and talk. First Member. Ay, and what use to talk ? Philip’s no sudden alien—the Queen’s husband, He’s here, and king, or will be—yet cocksbody ! So hated here ! I watch’d a hive of late ; My seven-years’ friend was with me, my young boy; Out crept a wasp, with half the swarm behind. * Philip ! ’ says he. I had to cuff the rogue For infant treason. Third Member. But they say that bees, If any creeping life invade their hive Too gross to be thrust out, will build him round, And bind him in from harming of their combs. And Philip by these articles is bound From stirring hand or foot to wrong the realm. Second Member. By bonds of beeswax, like your creeping thing j But your wise bees had stung him first to death. Third Me?nber. Hush, hush ! You wrong the Chancellor: the clauses added To that same treaty which the emperor sent us Were mainly Gardiner’s: that no foreigner Hold office in the household, fleet, forts, army ; That if the Queen should die without a child, The bond between the kingdoms be dissolved ; That Philip should not mix us any way With his French wars— Second Member. Ay, ay, but what security, Good sir, for this, if Philip- Third Member. Peace—the Queen, Philip, and Pole. [All rise , and stand. Enter Mary, Philip, and Pole. [Gardiner conducts them to the three chairs of state. Philip sits on the Queen’s left, Pole on her right. Gardiner. Our short-lived sun, before his winter plunge, Laughs at the last red leaf, and Andrew’s Day. Mary. Should not this day be held in after years More solemn than of old ? SCENE III. QUEEN MARY. 499 Philip. Madam, my wish Echoes your Majesty’s. Pole. It shall be so. Gardiner. Mine echoes both your Graces’; {aside) but the Pope— Can we not have the Catholic church as well Without as with the Italian? if we cannot, Why then the Pope. My lords of the upper house, And ye, my masters, of the lower house, Do ye stand fast by that which ye resolved? Voices. We do. Gardiner. And be you all one mind to supplicate The Legate here for pardon, and acknow¬ ledge The primacy of the Pope ? Voices. We are all one mind. Gardiner. Then must I play the vassal to this Pole. [Aside. [He draws a paper froi7i under his robes and presents it to the King and Queen, who look through it and return it to him; then ascends a tribune , and reads. We, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, And Commons here in Parliament as¬ sembled, Presenting the whole body of this realm Of England, and dominions of the same, Do make most humble suit unto your Majesties, In our own name and that of all the state, That by your gracious means and inter¬ cession Our supplication be exhibited To the Lord Cardinal Pole, sent here as Legate From our most Holy Father Julius, Pope, And from the Apostolic see of Rome ; And do declare our penitence and grief For our long schism and disobedience, Either in making laws and ordinances Against the Holy Father’s primacy, Or else by doing or by speaking aught Which might impugn or prejudice the same; By this our supplication promising, As well for our own selves as all the realm, That now we be and ever shall be quick, Under and with your Majesties’ autho¬ rities, To do to the utmost all that in us lies Towards the abrogation and repeal Of all such laws and ordinances made ; Whereon we humbly pray your Majesties, As persons undefiled with our offence, So to set forth this humble suit of ours That we the rather by your intercession May from the Apostolic see obtain, Thro’ this most reverend Father, absolu¬ tion, And full release from danger of all censures Of Holy Church that we be fall’n into, So that we may, as children penitent, Be once again received into the bosom And unity of Universal Church ; And that this noble realm thro’ after years May in this unity and obedience Unto the holy see and reigning Pope Serve God and both your Majesties. Voices. Amen. [All sit. [He again presents the petition to the King and Queen, who hand it reverentially to Pole. Pole {sitting). This is the loveliest day that ever smiled On England. All her breath should, incenselike, Rise to the heavens in grateful praise of Him Who now recalls her to His ancient fold. Lo ! once again God to this realm hath given A token of His more especial Grace; For as this people were the first of all The islands call’d into the dawning church Out of the dead, deep night of heathen¬ dom, So now are these the first whom God hath given Grace to repent and sorrow for their schism; And if your penitence be not mockery, Oh how the blessed angels who rejoice Over one saved do triumph at this hour In the reborn salvation of a land So noble. [A pause. 500 QUEEN MARY. ACT III. For ourselves we do protest That our commission is to heal, not harm; We come not to condemn, but reconcile; We come not to compel, but call again; We come not to destroy, but edify; Nor yet to question things already done ; These are forgiven'—matters of the past— And range with jetsam and with offal thrown Into the blind sea of forgetfulness. [Apause. Ye have reversed the attainder laid on us By him who sack’d the house of God; and we, Amplier than any field on our poor earth Can render thanks in fruit for being sown, Do here and now repay you sixty-fold, A hundred, yea, a thousand thousand-fold, With heaven for earth. [Rising and stretchingforth his hands. All kneel but Sir Ralph Bagenhall, who rises and remains standing. The Lord who hath redeem’d us With His own blood, and wash’d us from our sins, To purchase for Himself a stainless bride; He, whom the Father hath appointed Head Of all his church, He by His mercy absolve you ! [A pause. And we by that authority Apostolic Given unto us, his Legate, by the Pope, Our Lord and Holy Father, Julius, God’s Vicar and Vicegerent upon earth, Do here absolve you and deliver you And every one of you, and all the realm And its dominions from all heresy, All schism, and from all and every cen¬ sure. Judgment, and pain accruing thereupon ; And also we restore you to the bosom And unity of Universal Church. [ Turning to Gardiner. Our letters of commission will declare this plainlier. [Queen heard sobbing. Cries of Amen ! Amen ! Some of the Members embrace one another. All but Sir Ralph Bagenhall pass out into the neighbouring chapel , whence is heard the Te Deum. Bagenhall. We strove against the papacy from the first, In William’s time, in our first Edward’s time, And in my master Henry’s time; but now, The unity of Universal Church, Mary would have it; and this Gardiner follows ; The unity of Universal Hell, Philip would have it; and this Gardiner follows ! A Parliament of imitative apes ! Sheep at the gap which Gardiner takes, who not Believes the Pope, nor any of them believe— These spaniel - Spaniard English of the time, Who rub their fawning noses in the dust, For that is Philip’s gold-dust, and adore This Vicar of their Vicar. Would I had been Born Spaniard ! I had held my head up then. I am ashamed that I am Bagenhall, English. Enter Officer. Officer. Sir Ralph Bagenhall ! Bagenhall. What of that? Officer. You were the one sole man in either house Who stood upright when both the houses fell. Bagenhall. The houses fell ! Officer. I mean the houses knelt Before the Legate. Bagenhall. Do not scrimp your phrase, But stretch it wider; say when England fell. Officer. I say you were the one sole man who stood. Bagenhall. I am the one sole man in either house, Perchance in England, loves her like a son. Officer. Well, you one man, because you stood upright, Her Grace the Queen commands you to the Tower. SCENE IV. QUEEN MARY. 5oi Bagenhall. As traitor, or as heretic, or for what ? Officer. If any man in any way would be The one man, he shall be so to his cost. Bagenhall. What ! will she have my' head ? Officer. A round fine likelier. Your pardon. [ Calling to Attendant. By the river to the Tower. [ Exeunt. SCENE IV.— Whitehall. A Room in the Palace. Mary, Gardiner, Pole, Paget, Bonner, etc. Mary. The King and I, my Lords, now that all traitors Against our royal state have lost the heads Wherewith they plotted in their treason¬ ous malice, Have talk’d together, and are well agreed That those old statutes touching Lollard- ism To bring the heretic to the stake, should be No longer a dead letter, but requicken’d. One of the Council. Why, what hath fluster’d Gardiner ? how he rubs His forelock ! Paget. I have changed a word with him In coming, and may change a word again. Gardiner. Madam, your Highness is our sun, the King And you together our two suns in one ; And so the beams of both may shine upon us, The faith that seem’d to droop will feel your light, Lift head, and flourish ; yet not light alone, There must be heat—there must be heat enough To scorch and wither heresy to the root. For what saith Christ? ‘Compel them to come in.’ And what saith Paul ? ‘ I would they were cut off That trouble you.’ Let the dead letter live! Trace it in fire, that all the louts to whom Their A B C is darkness, clowns and grooms May read it ! so you quash rebellion too, For heretic and traitor are all one : Two vipers of one breed—an amphisbsena, Each end a sting: Let the dead letter burn ! Paget. Yet there be some disloyal Catholics, And many heretics loyal; heretic throats Cried no God-bless-her to the Lady Jane, But shouted in Queen Mary. So there be Some traitor-heretic, there is axe and cord. To take the lives of others that are loyal. And by the churchman’s pitiless doom of fire, Were but a thankless policy in the crown, Ay, and against itself; for there are many. Mary. If we could burn out heresy, my Lord Paget, We reck not tho’ we lost this crown of England— Ay ! tho’ it were ten Englands ! Gardiner. Right, your Grace. Paget, you are all for this poor life of ours, And care but little for the life to be. Paget. I have some time, for curious¬ ness, my Lord, Watch’d children playing at their life to be, And cruel at it, killing helpless flies ; Such is our time—all times for aught I know. Gardiner. We kill the heretics that sting the soul— They, with right reason, flies that prick the flesh. Paget. They had not reach’d right reason ; little children ! They kill’d but for their pleasure and the power They felt in killing. Gardiner. A spice of Satan, ha ! Why, good ! what then ? granted !—we are fallen creatures ; Look to your Bible, Paget! we are fallen. Paget. I am but of the laity, my Lord Bishop, And may not read your Bible, yet I found 502 QUEEN MARY. ACT III, One day, a wholesome scripture, ‘ Little children, Love one another.’ Gardiner. Did you find a scripture, ‘ I come not to bring peace but a sword ’ ? The sword Is in her Grace’s hand to smite with. Paget, You stand up here to fight for heresy, You are more than guess’d at as a heretic, And on the steep-up track of the true faith Your lapses are far seen. Paget. The faultless Gardiner ! Mary. You brawl beyond the ques¬ tion ; speak, Lord Legate ! Pole. Indeed, I cannot follow with your Grace : Rather would say—the shepherd doth not kill The sheep that wander from his flock, but sends His careful dog to bring them to the fold. Look to the Netherlands, wherein have been Such holocausts of heresy ! to what end ? For yet the faith is not established there. Gardiner. The end’s not come. Pole. No—nor this way will come, Seeing there lie two ways to eveiy end, A better and a worse—the worse is hei’e To persecute, because to persecute Makes a faith hated, and is furthermore No perfect witness of a perfect faith In him who persecutes: when men are tost On tides of strange opinion, and not sure Of their own selves, they are wroth with their own selves, And thence with others ; then, who lights the faggot ? Not the full faith, no, but the lurking doubt. Old Rome, that first made martyrs in the Church, Trembled for her own gods, for these were trembling— But when did our Rome tremble ? Paget. Did she not In Henry’s time and Edward’s ? Pole. What, my Lord ! The Church on Peter’s rock ? never ! I have seen A pine in Italy that cast its shadow Athwart a cataract; firm stood the pine— The cataract shook the shadow. To my mind, The cataract typed the headlong plunge and fall Of heresy to the pit: the pine was Rome. You see, my Lords, It was the shadow of the Church that trembled ; Your church was but the shadow of a church, Wanting the Papal mitre. Gardiner (muttering). Here be tropes. Pole. And tropes are good to clothe a naked truth, And make it look more seemly. Gardiner. Tropes again ! Pole. You are hard to please. Then without tropes, my Lord, An overmuch severeness, I repeat, When faith is wavering makes the waverer pass Into more settled hatred of the doctrines Of those who rule, which hatred by and by Involves the ruler (thus there springs to light That Centaur of a monstrous Common¬ weal, The traitor-heretic) then tho’ some may quail, Yet others are that dare the stake and fire, And their strong torment bravely borne, begets An admiration and an indignation, And hot desire to imitate ; so the plague Of schism spreads ; were there but three or four Of these misleaders, yet I would not say Burn ! and we cannot burn whole towns; they are many, As my Lord Paget says. Gardiner. Yet my Lord Cardinal— Pole. I am your Legate ; please you let me finish. Methinks that under our Queen’s regimen We might go softlier than with crimson rowel SCENE IV. QUEEN MARY. 503 And streaming lash. When Herod- Henry first Began to batter at your English Church, This was the cause, and hence the judg¬ ment on her. She seethed with such adulteries, and the lives Of many among your churchmen were so foul That heaven wept and earth blush’d. I would advise That we should thoroughly cleanse the Church within Before these bitter statutes be requicken’d. So after that when she once more is seen White as the light, the spotless bride of Christ, Like Christ himself on Tabor, possibly The Lutheran may be won to her again; Till when, my Lords, I counsel tolerance. Gardiner. What, if a mad dog bit your hand, my Lord, Would you not chop the bitten finger off, Lest your whole body should madden with the poison ? I would not, were I Queen, tolerate the heretic, No, not an hour. The ruler of a land Is bounden by his power and place to see His people be not poison’d. Tolerate them ! Why ? do they tolerate you ? Nay, many of them Would burn—have burnt each other ; call they not The one true faith, a loathsome idol- worship ? Beware, Lord Legate, of a heavier crime Than heresy is itself; beware, I say, Lest men accuse you of indifference To all faiths, all religion ; for you know Right well that you yourself have been supposed Tainted with Lutheranism in Italy. Pole (angered). But you, my Lord, beyond all supposition, In clear and open day were congruent With that vile Cranmer in the accursed lie Of good Queen Catharine’s divorce—the spring Of all those evils that have flow’d upon us ; For you yourself have truckled to the tyrant, And done your best to bastardise our Queen, For which God’s righteous judgment fell upon you In your five years of imprisonment, my Lord, Under young Edward. Who so bolster’d up The gross King’s headship of the Church, or more Denied the Holy Father ! Gardiner. Ha ! what! eh ? But you, my Lord, a polish’d gentleman, A bookman, flying from the heat and tussle, You lived among your vines and oranges, In your soft Italy yonder ! You were sent for, You were appeal’d to, but you still preferr’d Your learned leisure. As for what I did I suffer’d and repented. You, Lord Legate And Cardinal-Deacon, have not now to learn That ev’n St. Peter in his time of fear Denied his Master, ay, and thrice, my Lord. Pole. But not for five - and - twenty years, my Lord. Gardiner. Ha ! good ! it seems then I was summon’d hither But to be mock’d and baited. Speak, friend Bonner, And tell this learned Legate he lacks zeal. The Church’s evil is not as the King’s, Cannot be heal’d by stroking. The mad bite Must have the cautery—tell him—and at once. What would’st thou do hadst thou his power, thou That layest so long in heretic bonds with me; Would’st thou not burn and blast them root and branch? 504 QUEEN MARY. ACT III. Bonner. Ay, after you, my Lord. Gardiner. Nay, God’s passion, before me ! speak ! Bonner. I am on fire until I see them flame. Gardiner. Ay, the psalm - singing weavers, cobblers, scum— But this most noble prince Plantagenet, Our good Queen’s cousin—dallying over seas Even when his brother’s, nay, his noble mother’s, Head fell— Pole. Peace, madman ! Thou stirrest up a grief thou canst not fathom. Thou Christian Bishop, thou Lord Chan¬ cellor Of England ! no more rein upon thine anger Than any child ! Thou mak’st me much ashamed That I was for a moment wroth at thee. Mary. I come for counsel and ye give me feuds, Like dogs that set to watch their master’s gate, Fall, when the thief is ev’n within the walls, To worrying one another. My Lord Chancellor, You have an old trick of offending us ; And but that you are art and part with us In purging heresy, well we might, for this Your violence and much roughness to the Legate, Have shut you from our counsels. Cousin Pole, You are fresh from brighter lands. Re¬ tire with me. His Highness and myself (so you allow us) Will let you learn in peace and privacy What power this cooler sun of England hath In breeding godless vermin. And pray Heaven That you may see according to our sight. Come, cousin. [.Exeunt Queen and Pole, etc. Gardiner. Pole has the Plantagenet face, But not the force made them our mightiest kings. Fine eyes—but melancholy, irresolute— A fine beard, Bonner, a very full fine beard. But a weak mouth, an indeterminate—ha? Bonner. Well, a weak mouth, per¬ chance. Gardiner. And not like thine To gorge a heretic whole, roasted or raw. Bonner . I’d do my best, my Lord ; but yet the Legate Is here as Pope and Master of the Church, And if he go not with you— Gardiner. Tut, Master Bishop, Our bashful Legate, saw’st not how he flush’d ? Touch him upon his old heretical talk, He’ll burn a diocese to prove his ortho¬ doxy. And let him call me truckler. In those times, Thou knowest we had to dodge, or duck, or die ; I kept my head for use of Holy Church ; And see you, we shall have to dodge again, And let the Pope trample our rights, and plunge His foreign fist into our island Church To plump the leaner pouch of Italy. For a time, for a time. Why ? that these statutes may be put in force, And that his fan may thoroughly purge his floor. Bonner. So then you hold the Pope— Gardiner. I hold the Pope ! What do I hold him? what do I hold the Pope? Come, come, the morsel stuck—this Cardinal’s fault— I have gulpt it down. I am wholly for the Pope, Utterly and altogether for the Pope, The Eternal Peter of the changeless chair, Crown’d slave of slaves, and mitred king of kings, SCENE V. QUEEN MARY. 505 God upon earth ! what more? what would you have ? Hence, let’s be gone. Enter Usher. Usher. Well that you be not gone, My Lord. The Queen, most wroth at first with you, Is now content to grant you full forgive¬ ness, So that you crave full pardon of the Legate. I am sent to fetch you. Gardiner. Doth Pole yield, sir, ha ! Did you hear ’em ? were you by ? Usher. I cannot tell you, His bearing is so courtly-delicate ; And yet methinks he falters: their two Graces Do so dear-cousin and royal-cousin him, So press on him the duty which as Legate He owes himself, and with such royal smiles— Gardiner. Smiles that burn men. Bonner, it will be carried. He falters, ha? ’fore God, we change and change ; Men now are bow’d and old, the doctors tell you, At three-score years ; then if we change at all We needs must do it quickly ; it is an age Of brief life, and brief purpose, and brief patience, As I have shown to-day. I am sorry for it If Pole be like to turn. Our old friend Cranmer, Your more especial love, hath turn’d so often, He knows not where he stands, which, if this pass, We two shall have to teach him ; let ’em look to it, Cranmer and Hooper, Ridley and Latimer, Rogers and Ferrar, for their time is come, Their hour is hard at hand, their ‘dies Irae,’ Their ‘dies Ilia,’ which will test their sect. I feel it but a duty—you will find in it Pleasure as well as duty, worthy Bonner,— To test their sect. Sir, I attend the Queen To crave most hum ble pardon— of her m ost Royal, Infallible, Papal Legate-cousin. [ Exeunt. SCENE V. —Woodstock. Elizabeth, Lady in Waiting. Elizabeth. So they have sent poor Courtenay over sea. Lady. And banish’d us to Woodstock, and the fields. The colours of our Queen are green and white, These fields are only green, they make me gape. Elizabeth. There’s whitethorn, girl. Lady. Ay, for an hour in May. But court is always May, buds out in masques, Breaks into feather’d merriments, and flowers In silken pageants. Why do they keep us here? Why still suspect your Grace ? Elizabeth. Hard upon both. [ Writes on the windotv with a diamond. Much suspected, of me Nothing proven can be. Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner. Lady. What hath your Highness written ? Elizabeth. A true rhyme. Lady. Cut with a diamond; so to last like truth. Elizabeth. Ay, if truth last. Lady. But truth, they say, will out. So it must last. It is not like a word, That comes and goes in uttering. Elizabeth. Truth, a word ! The very Truth and very Word are one. But truth of story, which I glanced at, girl. Is like a word that comes from olden days. And passes thro’ the peoples: every tongue Alters it passing, till it spells and speaks Quite other than at first. Lady. I do not follow. Elizabeth. How many names in the long sweep of time 5°6 QUEEN MARY. ACT III. That so foreshortens greatness, may but hang On the chance mention of some fool that once Brake bread with us, perhaps: and my poor chronicle Is but of glass. Sir Henry Bedingfield May split it for a spite. Lady. God grant it last, And witness to your Grace’s innocence, Till doomsday melt it. Etizabeth. Ora second fire, Like that which lately crackled underfoot And in this very chamber, fuse the glass, And char us back again into the dust We spring from. Never peacock against rain Scream’d as you did for water. Lady. And I got it. I woke Sir Henry—and he’s true to you— I read his honest horror in his eyes. Elizabeth. Or true to you ? Lady. Sir Henry Bedingfield ! I will have no man true to me, your Grace, But one that pares his nails; to me ? the clown ! Elizabeth. Out, girl ! you wrong a noble gentleman. Lady. For, like his cloak, his man¬ ners want the nap And gloss of court; but of this fire he says, Nay swears, it was no wicked wilfulness, Only a natural chance. Elizabeth. A chance—perchance One of those wicked wilfuls that men make, Nor shame to call it nature. Nay, I know They hunt my blood. Save for my daily range Among the pleasant fields of Holy Writ I might despair. But there hath some one come; The house is all in movement. Hence, and see. [ Exit Lady. Milkmaid (singing without). Shame upon you, Robin, Shame upon you now I Kiss me would you ? with my hands Milking the cow? Daisies grow again, Kingcups blow again, And you came and kiss’d me milking the cow. Robin came behind me, Kiss’d me well I vow; Cuff him could I ? with my hands Milking the cow ? Swallows fly again, Cuckoos cry again, And you came and kiss’d me milking the cow. Come, Robin, Robin, Come and kiss me now ; Help it can I ? with my hands Milking the cow? Ringdoves coo again, All things woo again. Come behind and kiss me milking the cow ! Elizabeth. Right honest and red- cheek’d ; Robin was violent, And she was crafty—a sweet violence, And a sweet craft. I would I were a milkmaid, To sing, love, marry, chum, brew, bake, and die, Then have my simple headstone by the church, And all things lived and ended honestly. I could not if I would. I am Harry’s daughter: Gardiner would have my head. They are not sweet, The violence and the craft that do divide The world of nature ; what is weak must lie ; The lion needs but roar to guard his young; The lapwing lies, says ‘ here ’ when they are there. Threaten the child ; ‘ I’ll scourge you if you did it:’ What weapon hath the child, save his soft tongue, To say‘I did not?’ and my rod’s the block. I never lay my head upon the pillow But that I think, ‘ Wilt thou lie there to¬ morrow ?’ How oft the falling axe, that never fell, Hath shock’d me back into the daylight truth That it may fall to-day 1 Those damp, black, dead SCENE V. QUEEN MARY. 5°7 Nights in the Tower ; dead — with the fear of death Too dead ev’n for a death-watch ! Toll of a bell, Stroke of a clock, the scurrying of a rat Affrighted me, and then delighted me, For there was life—And there was life in death— The little murder’d princes, in a pale light, Rose hand in hand, and whisper’d, ‘ come away ! The civil wars are gone for evermore : Thou last of all the Tudors, come away ! With us is peace !’ The last? It was a dream ; I must not dream, not wink, but watch. She has gone, Maid Marian to her Robin—by and by Both happy! afox may filchahen by night, And make a morning outcry in the yard; But there’s no Renard here to ‘ catch her tripping.’ Catch me who can; yet, sometime I have wish’d That I were caught, and kill’d away at once Out of the flutter. The gray rogue, Gardiner, Went onhisknees, andpray’dme toconfess In Wyatt’s business, and to cast myself Upon the good Queen’s mercy; ay, when; my Lord ? God save the Queen ! My jailor— Enter Sir Henry Bedingfield. Bedingfield. One, whose bolts, That jail you from free life, bar you from death. There haunt some Papist ruffians hereabout Would murder you. Elizabeth. I thank you heartily, sir, But I am royal, tho’ your prisoner, And God hath blest or cursed me with a nose— Your boots are from the horses. Bedingfield. Ay, my Lady. When next there comes a missive from the Queen It shall be all my study for one hour To rose and lavender my horsiness, Before I dare to glance upon your Grace. Elizabeth. A missive from the Queen: last time she wrote, I had like to have lost my life : it takes my breath : O God, sir, do you look upon your boots, Are you so small a man ? Help me : what think you, Is it life or death ? Bedingfield. I thought not on my boots ; The devil take all boots were ever made Since man went barefoot. See, I lay it here, For I will come no nearer to your Grace ; [.Laying down the letter. And, whether it bring you bitter news or sweet, And God hath given your Grace a nose, or not, I’ll help you, if I may. Elizabeth. Your pardon, then ; It is the heat and narrowness of the cage That makes the captive testy; with free wing The world were all one Araby. Leave me now, Will you, companion to myself, sir ? Bedingfield. Will I ? With most exceeding willingness, I will ; You know I never come till I be call’d. [Exit. Elizabeth. It lies there folded : is there venom in it ? A snake—and if I touch it, it may sting. Come, come, the worst ! Best wisdom is to know the worst at once. [Reads: ‘ It is the King’s wish, that you should wed Prince Philibert of Savoy. You are to come to Court on the instant ; and think of this in your coming. ‘ Mary the Queen.’ Think ! I have many thoughts ; I think there may be birdlime here for me; I think they fain would have me from the realm ; I think the Queen may never bear a child ; 5o8 QUEEN MARY. ACT III. I think that I may be some time the Queen, Then, Queen indeed : no foreign prince or priest Should fill my throne, myself upon the steps. I think I will not marry anyone, Specially not this landless Philibert Of Savoy ; but, if Philip menace me, I think that I will play with Philibert,— As once the Holy Father did with mine, Before my father married my good mother,— For fear of Spain. Enter Lady. Lady. O Lord ! your Grace, your Grace, I feel so happy : it seems that we shall fly These bald, blank fields, and dance into the sun That shines on princes. Elizabeth. Yet, a moment since, I wish’d myself the milkmaid singing here, To kiss and cuff among the birds and flowers— A right rough life and healthful. Lady. But the wench Hath her own troubles; she is weeping now ; For the wrong Robin took her at her word. Then the cow kick’d, and all her milk was spilt. Your Highness such a milkmaid ? Elizabeth. I had kept My Robins and my cows in sweeter order Had I been such. Lady (slyly). And had your Grace a Robin ? Elizabeth. Come, come, you are chill here ; you want the sun That shines at court; make ready for the journey. Pray God, we ’scape the sunstroke. Ready at once. [ Exeunt . SCENE VI.— London. A Room in the Palace. Lord Petre and Lord William Howard. Petre. You cannot see the Queen. Renard denied her, Ev’n now to me. Howard. Their Flemish go-between And all-in-all. I came to thank her Majesty For freeing my friend Bagenhall from the Tower; A grace to me ! Mercy, that herb-of-grace, Flowers now but seldom. Petre. Only now perhaps. Because the Queen hath been three days in tears For Philip’s going—like the wild hedge- rose Of a soft winter, possible, not probable, However you have prov’n it. Howard. I must see her. Enter Renard. Renard. My Lords, you cannot see her Majesty. Howard. Why then the King ! for I would have him bring it Home to the leisure wisdom of his Queen, Before he go, that since these statutes past, Gardiner out-Gardiners Gardiner in his heat, Bonner cannot out-Bonner his own self—• Beast !—but they play with fire as chil¬ dren do, And burn the house. I know that these are breeding A fierce resolve and fixt heart-hate in men Against the King, the Queen, the Holy Father, The faith itself. Can I not see him ? Renard. Not now. And in all this, my Lord, her Majesty Is flint of flint, you may strike fire from her, Not hope to melt her. I will give your message. [.Exeunt Petre and Howard. SCENE VI. QUEEN MARY. 5°9 Enter Philip {musing). Philip. She will not have Prince Philibert of Savoy, I talk’d with her in vain—says she will live And die true maid—a goodly creature too. Would she had been the Queen ! yet she must have him; She troubles England : that she breathes in England Is life and lungs to every rebel birth That passes out of embryo. Simon Renard !— This Howard, whom they fear, what was he saying ? Renard. What your imperial father said, my liege, To deal with heresy gentlier. Gardiner burns, And Bonner burns ; and it would seem this people Care more for our brief life in their wet land, Than yours in happier Spain. I told my Lord He should not vex her Highness; she would say These are the means God works with, that His church May flourish. Philip. Ay, sir, but in statesmanship To strike too soon is oft to miss the blow. Thou knowest I bad my chaplain, Castro, preach Against these burnings. Renard. And the Emperor Approved you, and when last he wrote, declared His comfort in your Grace that you were bland And affable to men of all estates, In hope to charm them from their hate of Spain. Philip. In hope to crush all heresy under Spain. But, Renard, I am sicker staying here Than any sea could make me passinghence, Tho’ I be ever deadly sick at sea. So sick am I with biding for this child. Is it the fashion in this clime for women To go twelve months in bearing of a child ? The nurses yawn’d, the cradle gaped, they led Processions, chanted litanies, clash’d their bells, Shot off their lying cannon, and her priests Have preach’d, the fools, of this fair prince to come; Till, by St. James, I find myself the fool. Why do you lift your eyebrow at me thus ? Renard. I never saw your Highness moved till now. Philip. So weary am I of this wet land of theirs, And every soul of man that breathes therein. Renard. My liege, we must not drop the mask before The masquerade is over— Philip. —Have I dropt it ? I have but shown a loathing face to you. Who knew it from the first. Enter Mary. Mary {aside). With Renard. Still Parleying with Renard, all the day with Renard, And scarce a greeting all the day for me— And goes to-morrow. [ Exit Mary. Philip {to Renard, who advances to him). Well, sir, is there more ? Renard {who has perceived the Queen). May Simon Renard speak a single word ? Philip. Ay. Renard. And be forgiven for it ? Philip. Simon Renard Knows me too well to speak a single word That could not be forgiven. Renard. Well, my liege. Your Grace hath a most chaste and loving wife. Philip. Why not? The Queen of Philip should be chaste. Renard. Ay, but, my Lord, you know what Virgil sings, Woman is various and most mutable. QUEEN MAR Y. . ACT III. 5“> Philip. She play the harlot ! never. Renard. No, sire, no, Not dream’d of by the rabidest gospeller. There was a paper thrown into the palace, ‘ The King hath wearied of his barren bride. ’ She came upon it, read it, and then rent it, With all the rage of one who hates a truth He cannot but allow. Sire, I would have you— What should I say, I cannot pick my words— Be somewhat less—majestic to your Queen. Philip. Am I to change my manners, Simon Renard, Because these islanders are brutal beasts ? Or would you have me turn a sonneteer, And warble those brief - sighted eyes of hers ? Renard. Brief - sighted tho’ they be, I have seen them, sire, When you perchance were trifling royally With some fair dame of court, suddenly fill With such fierce fire—had it been fire indeed It would have burnt both speakers. Philip. Ay, and then ? Renard. Sire, might it not be policy in some matter Of small importance now and then to cede A point to her demand ? Philip. Well, I am going. Renard. For should her love when you are gone, my liege, Witness these papers, there will not be wanting Those that will urge her injury—should her love— And I have known such women more than one— Veer to the counterpoint, and jealousy Hath in it an alchemic force to fuse Almost into one metal love and hate,— And she impress her wrongs upon her Council, And these again upon her Parliament— We are not loved here, and would be then perhaps Not so well holpen in our wars with France, As else we might be—here she comes. Enter Mary. Mary. O Philip! Nay, must you go indeed ? Philip. Madam, I must. Mary. The parting of a husband and a wife Is like the cleaving of a heart; one half Will flutter here, one there. Philip. You say true, Madam. Mary. The Holy Virgin will not have me yet Lose the sweet hope that I may bear a prince. If such a prince were born and you not here ! Philip, I should be here if such a prince were born. Mary. But must you go ? Philip. Madam, you know my father, Retiring into cloistral solitude To yield the remnant of his years to heaven, Will shift the yoke and weight of all the world From off his neck to mine. We meet at Brussels. But since mine absence will not be for long, Your Majesty shall go to Dover with me, And wait my coming back. Mary. To Dover? no, I am too feeble. I will go to Greenwich, So you will have me with you ; and there watch All that is gracious in the breath of heaven Draw with your sails from our poor land, and pass And leave me, Philip, with my prayers for you. Philip. And doubtless I shall profit by your prayers. Mary. Methinks that would you tarry one day more SCENE I. QUEEN MARY. 5i (The news was sudden) I could mould myself To bear your going better; will you do it? Philip. Madam, a day may sink or save a realm. Mary. A day may save a heart from breaking too. Philip. Well, Simon Renard, shall we stop a day ? Renard. Your Grace’s business will not suffer, sire, For one day more, so far as I can tell. Philip. Then one day more to please her Majesty. Mary. The sunshine sweeps across my life again. O if I knew you felt this parting, Philip, As I do ! Philip. By St. James I do protest, Upon the faith and honour of a Spaniard, I am vastly grieved to leave your Majesty. Simon, is supper ready ? Renard. Ay, my liege, I saw the covers laying. Philip. Let us have it. [Exeunt. ACT IV. SCENE I. —A Room in the Palace. Mary, Cardinal Pole. Mary. What have you there ? Pole. So please your Majesty, A long petition from the foreign exiles To spare the life of Cranmer. Bishop Thirlby, And my Lord Paget and Lord William Howard, Crave, in the same cause, hearing of your Grace. Hath he not written himself—infatuated— To sue you for his life? Mary. His life ? Oh, no ; Not sued for that—he knows it were in vain. But so much of the anti-papal leaven Works in him yet, he hath pray’d me not to sully Mine own prerogative, and degrade the realm By seeking justice at a stranger’s hand Against my natural subject. King and Queen, To whom he owes his loyalty after God, Shall these accuse him to a foreign prince ? Death would not grieve him more. I cannot be True to this realm of England and the Pope Together, says the heretic. Pole. And there errs ; As he hath ever err’d thro’ vanity. A secular kingdom is but as the body Lacking a soul; and in itself a beast. The Holy Father in a secular kingdom Is as the soul descending out of heaven Into a body generate. Mary. Write to him, then. Pole. I will. Mary. And sharply, Pole. Pole. Here come the Cranmerites ! Enter Thirlby, Lord Paget, Lord William Howard. Howard. Health to your Grace ! Good morrow, my Lord Cardinal; We make our humble prayer unto your Grace That Cranmer may withdraw to foreign parts, Or into private life within the realm. In several bills and declarations, Madam, He hath recanted all his heresies. Paget. Ay, ay ; if Bonner have not forged the bills. [Aside. Mary. Did not More die, and Fisher? he must burn. Howard. He hath recanted, Madam. Mary. The better for him. He burns in Purgatory, not in Hell. Howard. Ay, ay, your Grace ; but it was never seen That any one recanting thus at full, As Cranmer hath, came to the fire on earth. Mary. It will be seen now, then. Thirlby. O Madam, Madam ! I thus implore you, low upon my knees, 512 QUEEN MAE Y. ACT IV. To reach the hand of mercy to my friend. I have err’d with him ; with him I have recanted. What human reason is there why my friend Should meet with lesser mercy than my¬ self? Mary. My Lord of Ely, this. After a riot We hang the leaders, let their following go. Cranmer is head and father of these here¬ sies, New learning as they call it; yea, may God Forget me at mt>st need when I forget Her foul divorce—my sainted mother— No !— Howard. Ay, ay, but mighty doctors doubted there. The Pope himself waver’d; and more than one Row’d in that galley—Gardiner to wit, Whom truly I deny not to have been Your faithful friend and trusty councillor. Hath not your Highness ever read his book, His tractate upon True Obedience, Writ by himself and Bonner? Mary. I will take Such order with all bad, heretical books That none shall hold them in his house and live, Henceforward. No, my Lord. Howard. Then never read it. The truth is here. Your father was a man Of such colossal kinghood, yet so cour¬ teous, Except when wroth, you scarce could meet his eye And hold your own ; and were he wroth indeed, You held it less, or not at all. I say, Your father had a will that beat men down ; Your father had a brain that beat men down— Pole. Not me, my Lord. Hozuard. No, for you were not here ; You sit upon this fallen Cranmer’s throne; And it would more become you, my Lord Legate, To join a voice, so potent with her High¬ ness, To ours in plea for Cranmer than to stand On naked self-assertion. Mary. All your voices Are waves on flint. The heretic must burn. Howard. Yet once he saved your Majesty’s own life ; Stood out against the King in your behalf, At his own peril. Mary. I know not if he did ; And if he did I care not, my Lord Howard. My life is not so happy, no such boon, That I should spare to take a heretic priest’s, Who saved it or not saved. Why do you vex me ? Paget. Yet to save Cranmer were to serve the Church, Your Majesty’s I mean ; he is effaced, Self-blotted out; so wounded in his honour, He can but creep down into some dark hole Like a hurt beast, and hide himself and die ; But if you burn him,—well, your High¬ ness knows The saying, ‘ Martyr’s blood—seed of the Church. ’ Mary. Of the true Church ; but his is none, nor will be. You are too politic for me, my Lord Paget. And if he have to live so loath’d a life, It were more merciful to burn him now. Thirlby. O yet relent. O, Madam, if you knew him As I do, ever gentle, and so gracious, With all his learning— Mary. Yet a heretic still. His learning makes his burning the more just. Thirlby. So worshipt of all those that came across him ; The stranger at his hearth, and all his house— SCENE II. QUEEN MARY. 513 Mary. His children and his concubine, belike. Thirlby. To do him any wrong was to beget A kindness from him, for his heart was rich, Of such fine mould, that if you sow’d therein The seed of Hate, it blossom’d Charity. Pole. ‘After his kind it costs him nothing,’ there’s An old world English adage to the point. These are but natural graces, my good Bishop, Which in the Catholic garden are as flowers, But on the heretic dunghill only weeds. Howard. Such weeds make dunghills gracious. Mary. Enough, my Lords. It is God’s will, the Holy Father’s will, And Philip’s will, and mine, that he should burn. He is pronounced anathema. Howard. Farewell, Madam, God grant you ampler mercy at your call Than you have shown to Cranmer. [Exeunt Lords. Pole. After this, Your Grace will hardly care to overlook This same petition of the foreign exiles For Cranmer’s life. Mary. Make out the writ to-night. [Exeunt. SCENE II.— Oxford. Cranmer in Prison. Cranmer. Last night, I dream’d the faggots were alight, And that myself was fasten’d to the stake, And found it all a visionaiy flame, Cool as the light in old decaying wood ; And then King Harry look’d from out a cloud, And bad me have good courage ; and I heard An angel ciy ‘ There is more joy in Heaven,’— And after that, the trumpet of the dead. [ Trumpets without. Why, there are trumpets blowing now : what is it ? Enter Father Cole. Cole. Cranmer, I come to question you again ; Have you remain’d in the true Catholic faith I left you iri ? Cranmer. In the true Catholic faith, By Heaven’s grace, I am more and more confirm’d. Why are the trumpets blowing, Father Cole? Cole. Cranmer, it is decided by the Council That you to-day should read your recant¬ ation Before the people in St. Mary’s Church. And there be many heretics in the town, Who loathe you for your late return to Rome, And might assail you passing through the street, And tear you piecemeal: so you have a guard. Cranmer. Or seek to rescue me. I thank the Council. Cole. Do you lack any money ? Cranmer. Nay, why should I ? The prison fare is good enough for me. Cole. Ay, but to give the poor, Cranmer. Hand it me, then! I thank you. Cole. For a little space, farewell; Until I see you in St. Mary’s Church. [Exit Cole. Cranmer. It is against all precedent to burn One who recants; they mean to pardon me. To give the poor—they give the poor who die. Well, burn me or not burn me I am fixt; It is but a communion, not a mass : A holy supper, not a sacrifice ; No man can make his Maker—Villa Garcia. 2 L 514 QUEEN MARY. ACT IV. Enter Villa Garcia. Villa Garcia. Pray you write out this paper for me, Cranmer. Cranmer. Have I not writ enough to satisfy you ? Villa Garcia. It is the last. Cranmer. Give it me, then. [He writes. Villa Garcia. Now sign. Cranmer. I have sign’d enough, and I will sign no more. Villa Garcia. It is no more than what you have sign’d already, The public form thereof. Cranmer. It may be so; I sign it with my presence, if I read it. Villa Garcia. But this is idle of you. Well, sir, well, You are to beg the people to pray for you; Exhort them to a pure and virtuous life ; Declare the Queen’s right to the throne; confess Your faith before all hearers ; and retract That Eucharistic doctrine in your book. Will you not sign it now ? Cranmer. No, Villa Garcia, I sign no more. Will they have mercy on me ? Villa Garcia. Have you good hopes of mercy ! So, farewell. [Exit. Cranmer. Good hopes, not theirs, have I that I am fixt, Fixt beyond fall; however, in strange hours, After the long brain-dazing colloquies, And thousand-times recurring argument Of those two friars ever in my prison, When left alone in my despondency, Without a friend, a book, my faith would seem Dead or half - drown’d, or else swam heavily Against the huge corruptions of the Church, Monsters of mistradition, old enough To scare me into dreaming, ‘ what am I, Cranmer, against whole ages?’ was it so, Oram I slandering my most inward friend, To veil the fault of my most outward foe— The soft and tremulous coward in the flesh ? O higher, holier, earlier, purer church, I have found thee and not leave thee any more. It is but a communion, not a mass— No sacrifice, but a life-giving feast! ( Writes.) So, so ; this will I say—thus will I pray. [Puts up the paper. Enter Bonner. Bonner. Good day, old friend ; what, you look somewhat worn ; And yet it is a day to test your health Ev’n at the best: I scarce have spoken with you Since when?—your degradation. At your trial Never stood up a bolder man than you ; You would not cap the Pope’s commis¬ sioner— Your learning, and your stoutness, and your heresy, Dumbfounded half of us. So, after that, We had to dis-archbishop and unlord, And make you simple Cranmer once again. The common barber dipt your hair, and I Scraped from your finger-points the holy oil; And worse than all, you had to kneel to me; Which was not pleasant for you, Master Cranmer. Now you, that would not recognise the Pope, And you, that would not own the Real Presence, Have found a real presence in the stake, Which frights you back into the ancient faith ; And so you have recanted to the Pope. How are the mighty fallen. Master Cranmer ! Cranmer. You have been more fierce against the Pope than I; But why fling back the stone he strikes me with ? [Aside. O Bonner, if I ever did you kindness— Power hath been given you to try faith by fire— SCENE III. QUEEN- MARY. 515 Pray you, remembering how yourself have changed, Be somewhat pitiful, after I have gone, To the poor flock — to women and to children— That when I was archbishop held with me. Bonner. Ay—gentle as they call you —live or die ! Pitiful to this pitiful heresy ? I must obey the Queen and Council, man. Win thro’ this day with honour to your¬ self, And I’ll say something for you—so— good-bye. \Exit. Cranmer. This hard coarse man of old hath crouch’d to me Till I myself was half ashamed for him. Enter Thirlby. Weep not, good Thirlby. Thirlby. Oh, my Lord, my Lord ! My heart is no such block as Bonner’s is: Who would not weep ? Cranmer. Why do you so my-lord me, Who am disgraced ? Thirlby. On earth; but saved in heaven By your recanting. Cranmer. Will they burn me, Thirlby ? Thirlby. Alas, they will; these burn¬ ings will not help The purpose of the faith ; but my poor voice Against them is a whisper to the roar Of a spring-tide. Cranmer. And they will surely burn me ? Thirlby. Ay ; and besides, will have you in the church Repeat your recantation in the ears Of all men, to the saving of their souls, Before your execution. May God help you Thro’ that hard hour ! Cranmer. And may God bless you, Thirlby ! Well, they shall hear my recantation there. [Exit Thirlby. Disgraced, dishonour’d !—not by them, indeed. By mine own self—by mine own hand ! O thin-skinn’d hand and jutting veins, ’twas you That sign’d the burning of poor Joan of Kent; But then she was a witch. You have written much, But you were never raised to plead for Frith, Whose dogmas I have reach’d : he was deliver’d To the secular arm to burn ; and there was Lambert; Who can foresee himself? truly these burnings, As Thirlby says, are profitless to the burners, And help the other side. You shall burn too, Burn first when I am burnt. Fire—inch by inch to die in agony ! Latimer Had a brief end—not Ridley. Hooper burn’d Three-quarters of an hour. Will my faggots Be wet as his were ? It is a day of rain. I will not muse upon it. My fancy takes the burner’s part, and makes The fire seem even crueller than it is. No, I not doubt that God will give me strength, Albeit I have denied him. Enter Soto and Villa Garcia. Villa Garcia. We are ready To take you to St. Mary’s, Master Cranmer. Cranmer. And I : lead on ; ye loose me from my bonds. [ Exeunt. SCENE III.—St. Mary’s Church. Cole in the Pulpit, Lord Williams of Thame presiding. Lord William Howard, Lord Paget, and others. Cranmer enters betzveen Soto and 5i6 QUEEN MARY. ACT IV. Villa Garcia, and the whole Choir strike up ‘ Nunc Dimitris.’ Cranmer is set upon a Scaffold before the people. Cole. Behold him— [A pause: people in the foreground. People. Oh, unhappy sight ! First Protestant. See how the tears run down his fatherly face. Second Protestant. James, didst thou ever see a carrion crow Stand watching a sick beast before he dies ? First Protestant. Him perch’d up there ? I wish some thunderbolt Would make this Cole a cinder, pulpit and all. Cole. Behold him, brethren : he hath cause to weep !— So have we all : weep with him if ye will, Yet— It is expedient for one man to die, Yea, for the people, lest the people die. Yet wherefore should he die that hath return’d To the one Catholic Universal Church, Repentant of his errors ? Protestant murmurs. Ay, tell us that. Cole. Those of the wrong side will despise the man, Deeming him one that thro’ the fear of death Gave up his cause, except he seal his faith In sight of all with flaming martyrdom. Cranmer. Ay. Cole. Ye hear him, and albeit there may seem According to the canons pardon due To him that so repents, yet are there causes Wherefore our Queen and Council at this time Adjudge him to the death. He hath been a traitor, A shaker and confounder of the realm ; And when the King’s divorce was sued at Rome, He here, this heretic metropolitan, As if he had been the Holy Father, sat And judged it. Did I call him heretic ? A huge heresiarch ! never was it known That any man so writing, preaching so, So poisoning the Church, so long con¬ tinuing, Hath found his pardon ; therefore he must die, For warning and example. Other reasons There be for this man’s ending, which our Queen And Council at this present deem it not Expedient to be known. Protestant murmurs. I warrant you. Cole. Take therefore, all, example by this man, For if our Holy Queen not pardon him, Much less shall others in like cause escape, That all of you, the highest as the lowest, May learn there is no power against the Lord. There stands a man, once of so high degree, Chief prelate of our Church, archbishop, first In Council, second person in the realm, Friend for so long time of a mighty King; And now ye see downfallen and debased From councillor to caitiff—fallen so low, The leprous flutterings of the byway, scum And offal of the city would not change Estates with him ; in brief, so miserable, There is no hope of better left for him, No place for worse. Yet, Cranmer, be thou glad. This is the work of God. He is glorified In thy conversion : lo ! thou art reclaim’d; He brings thee home : nor fear but that to-day Thou shalt receive the penitent thiefs award, And be with Christ the Lord in Paradise. Remember how God made the fierce fire seem To those three children like a pleasant dew. Remember, too, The triumph of St. Andrew on his cross, The patience of St. Lawrence in the fire. SCENE III. QUEEN MARY. 517 Thus, if thou call on God and all the saints, God will beat down the fury of the flame, Or give thee saintly strength to undergo. And for thy soul shall masses here be sung By every priest in Oxford. Pray for him. Cranmer. Ay, one and all, dear brothers, pray for me; Pray with one breath, one heart, one soul for me. Cole. And now, lest anyone among you doubt The man’s conversion and remorse of heart, Yourselves shall hear him speak. Speak, Master Cranmer, Fulfil your promise made me, and pro¬ claim Your true undoubted faith, that all may hear. Cranmer. And that I will. O God, Father of Heaven ! O Son of God, Redeemer of the world ! O Holy Ghost ! proceeding from them both, Three persons and one God, have mercy on me, Most miserable sinner, wretched man. I have offended against heaven and earth More grievously than any tongue can tell. Then whither should I flee for any help ? I am ashamed to lift my eyes to heaven, And I can find no refuge upon earth. Shall I despair then ?—God forbid ! O God, For thou art merciful, refusing none That come to Thee for succour, unto Thee, Therefore, I come; humble myself to Thee; Saying, O Lord God, although my sins be great, For thy great mercy have mercy 1 O God the Son, Not for slight faults alone, when thou becamest Man in the Flesh, was the great mystery wrought; O God the Father, not for little sins Didst thou yield up thy Son to human death ; But for the greatest sin that can be sinn’d, Yea, even such as mine, incalculable, Unpardonable,—sin against the light, The truth of God, which I had proven and known. Thy mercy must be greater than all sin. Forgive me, Father, for no merit of mine, But that Thy name by man be glorified, And Thy most blessed Son’s, who died for man. Good people, every man at time of death Would fain set forth some saying that may live After his death and better humankind ; For death gives life’s last word a power to live. And, like the stone-cut epitaph, remain After the vanish’d voice, and speak to men. God grant me grace to glorify my God ! And first I say it is a grievous case, Many so dote upon this bubble world, Whose colours in a moment break and fly, They care for nothing else. What saith St. John ‘ Love of this world is hatred against God.’ Again, I pray you all that, next to God, You do unmurmuringly and willingly Obey your King and Queen, and not for dread Of these alone, but from the fear of Him Whose ministers they be to govern you. Thirdly, I pray you all to live together Like brethren ; yet what hatred Christian men Bear to each other, seeming not as brethren, But mortal foes ! But do you good to all As much as in you lieth. Hurt no man more Than you would harm your loving natural brother Of the same roof, same breast. If any do, Albeit he think himself at home with God, Of this be sure, he is whole worlds away. 5 i8 QUEEN MAR V. ACT IV. Protestant murmurs. What sort of brothers then be those that lust To burn each other ? Williams. Peace among you, there ! Cranmer. Fourthly, to those that own exceeding wealth, Remember that sore saying spoken once By Him that was the truth, ‘ How hard it is For the rich man to enter into Heaven ;’ Let all rich men remember that hard word. I have not time for more : if ever, now Let them flow forth in charity, seeing now The poor so many, and all food so dear. Long have I lain in prison, yet have heard Of all their wretchedness. Give to the poor, Ye give to God. He is with us in the poor. And now, and forasmuch as I have come To the last end of life, and thereupon Hangs all my past, and all my life to be, Either to live with Christ in Heaven with joy, Or to be still in pain with devils in hell; And, seeing in a moment, I shall find [.Pointing upwards. Heaven or else hell ready to swallow me, [Pointing downwards. I shall declare to you my very faith Without all colour. Cole. Hear him, my good brethren. Cranmer. I do believe in God, Father of all; In every article of the Catholic faith, And every syllable taught us by our Lord, His prophets, and apostles, in the Testa¬ ments, Both Old and New. Cole. Be plainer, Master Cranmer. Cranmer. And now I come to the great cause that weighs Upon my conscience more than anything Or said or done in all my life by me ; For there be writings I have set abroad Against the truth I knew within my heart, Written for fear of death, to save my life, If that might be ; the papers by my hand Sign’d since my degradation—by this hand [.Holding out his right hand. Written and sign’d—I here renounce them all; And, since my hand offended, having written Against my heart, my hand shall first be burnt, So I may come to the fire. [Dead silence. Protestant murmurs. First Protestant. I knew it would be so. Second Protestant. Our prayers are heard ! Third Protestant. God bless him ! Catholic murmurs. Out upon him ! out upon him ! Liar ! dissembler ! traitor ! to the fire ! Williams (raising his voice). You know that you recanted all you said Touching the sacrament in that same book You wrote against my Lord of Winches¬ ter ; Dissemble not; play the plain Christian man. Cranmer. Alas, my Lord, I have been a man loved plainness all my life ; I did dissemble, but the hour has come For utter truth and plainness; wherefore, I say, I hold by all I wrote within that book. Moreover, As for the Pope I count him Antichrist, With all his devil’s doctrines; and refuse, Reject him, and abhor him. I have said. [Cries on all sides , ‘ Pull him down ! Away with him !’ Cole. Ay, stop the heretic’s mouth ! Hale him away ! Williams. Harm him not, harm him not ! have him to the fire ! [Cranmer goes out between Two Friars , smiling; hands are reached to him from the crowd. Lord William Howard and Lord Paget are left alone in the church . SCENE III. QUEEN MARY. Paget. The nave and aisles all empty as a fool’s jest! No, here’s Lord William Howard. What, my Lord, You have not gone to see the burning? Howard. Fie ! To stand at ease, and stare as at a show, And watch a good man burn. Never again. I saw the deaths of Latimer and Ridley. Moreover, tho’ a Catholic, I would not, For the pure honour of our common nature, Hear what I might—another recantation Of Cranmer at the stake. Paget. You’d not hear that. He pass’d out smiling, and he walk’d upright ; His eye was like a soldier’s, whom the general He looks to and he leans on as his God, Hath rated for some backwardness and bidd’n him Charge one against a thousand, and the man Hurls his soil’d life against the pikes and dies. Howard. Yet that he might not after all those papers Of recantation yield again, who knows ? Paget. Papers of recantation ! Think you then That Cranmer read all papers that he sign’d ? Or sign’d all those they tell us that he sign’d ? Nay, I trow not: and you shall see, my Lord, That howsoever hero-like the man Dies in the fire, this Bonner or another Will in some lying fashion misreport His ending to the glory of their church. And you saw Latimer and Ridley die ? Latimer was eighty, was he not ? his best Of life was over then. Howard. His eighty years Look’d somewhat crooked on him in his frieze; But after they had stript him to his shroud, He stood upright, a lad of twenty-one, 519 And gather’d with his hands the starting flame, And wash’d his hands and all his face therein, Until the powder suddenly blew him dead. Ridley was longer burning ; but he died As manfully and boldly, and, ’fore God, I know them heretics, but right English ones. If ever, as heaven grant, we clash with Spain, Our Ridley-soldiers and our Latimer- sailors Will teach her something. Paget. Your mild Legate Pole Will tell you that the devil helpt them thro’ it. [A murmur of the Crowd in the distance. Hark, how those Roman wolfdogs howl and bay him ! Howard. Might it not be the other side rejoicing In his brave end ? Paget. They are too crush’d, too broken, They can but weep in silence. Howard. Ay, ay, Paget, They have brought it in large measure on themselves. Have I not heard them mock the blessed Host In songs so lewd, the beast might roar his claim To being in God’s image, more than they? Have I not seen the gamekeeper, the groom, Gardener, and huntsman, in the parson’s place, The parson from his own spire swung out dead, And Ignorance crying in the streets, and all men Regarding her ? I say they have drawn the fire On their own heads: yet, Paget, I do hold The Catholic, if he have the greater right, Hath been the crueller. 5 20 QUEEN MARY. ACT IV. Paget. Action and re-action, The miserable see-saw of our child-world, Make us despise it at odd hours, my Lord. Heaven help that this re-action not re-act Yet fiercelier under Queen Elizabeth, So that she come to rule us. Howard. The world’s mad. Paget. My Lord, the world is like a drunken man, WhQ cannot move straight to his end— but reels Now to the right, then as far to the left, Push’d by the crowd beside—and under¬ foot An earthquake ; for since Henry for a doubt— Which a young lust had clapt upon the back, Crying, ‘ Forward !’—set our old church rocking, men Have hardly known what to believe, or whether They should believe in anything; the currents So shift and change, they see not how they are borne, Nor whither. I conclude the King a beast ; Verily a lion if you will—the world A most obedient beast and fool—myself Half beast and fool as appertaining to it; Altho’ your Lordship hath as little of each Cleaving to your original Adam-clay, As may be consonant with mortality. Howard. We talk and Cranmer suffers. The kindliest man I ever knew ; see, see, I speak of him in the past. Unhappy land ! Hard-natured Queen, half-Spanish in herself, And grafted on the hard-grain’d stock of Spain— Her life, since Philip left her, and she lost Her fierce desire of bearing him a child, Hath, like a brief and bitter winter’s day, Gone narrowing down and darkening to a close. There will be more conspiracies, I fear. Paget. Ay, ay, beware of France. Howard. O Paget, Paget ! I have seen heretics of the poorer sort, Expectant of the rack from day to day, To whom the fire were welcome, lying chain’d In breathless dungeons over steaming sewers, Fed with rank bread that crawl’d upon the tongue, And putrid water, every drop a worm, Until they died of rotted limbs ; and then Cast on the dunghill naked, and become Hideously alive again from head to heel, Made even the carrion-nosing mongrel vomit With hate and horror. Paget. Nay, you sicken vie To hear you. Howard. Fancy-sick ; these things are done, Done right against the promise of this Queen Twice given. Paget. No faith with heretics, my Lord ! Hist! there be two old gossips—gospel¬ lers, I take it; stand behind the pillar here ; I warrant you they talk about the burning. Enter Two Old Women. Joan, and after her Tib. Joan. Why, it be Tib ! Tibi I cum behind tha, gall, and couldn’t make tha hear. Eh, the wind and the wet! What a day, what a day ! nigh upo’ judgement daay loike. Pwoaps be pretty things, Joan, but they wunt set i’ the Lord’s cheer o’ that daay. Joan. I must set down myself, Tib; it be a var waay vor my owld legs up vro’ Islip. Eh, my rheumatizy be that bad howiver be I to win to the burnin’. Tib. I should saay ’twur ower by now. I’d ha’ been here avore, but Dumble wur blow’d wi’ the wind, and Dumble’s the best milcher in Islip. Joan. Our Daisy’s as good ’z her. lib. Noa, Joan. SCENE III. QUEEN MARY. 521 Joan. Our Daisy’s butter’s as good ’z hern. Tib. Noa, Joan. Joan. Our Daisy’s cheeses be better. Tib. Noa, Joan. Joan. Eh, then ha’ thy waay wi’ me, Tib ; ez thou hast wi’ thy owld man. Tib. Ay, Joan, and my owld man wur up and awaay betimes wi’ dree hard eggs for a good pleace at the burnin’; and barrin’ the wet, Hodge ’ud ha’ been a-harrowin’ o’ white peasen i’ the outfield —and barrin’ the wind, Dumble wur blow’d wi’ the wind, so ’z we was forced to stick her, but we fetched her round at last. Thank the Lord therevore. Dum- ble’s the best milcher in Islip. Joan. Thou’s thy way wi’ man and beast, Tib. I wonder at tha’, it beats me ! Eh, but I do know ez Pwoaps and vires be bad things ; tell ’ee now, I heerd summat as summun towld summun o’ owld Bishop Gardiner’s end; there wur an owld lord a-cum to dine wi’ un, and a wur so owld a couldn’t bide vor his dinner, but a had to bide howsomiver, vor * I wunt dine,’ says my Lord Bishop, says he, ‘ not till I hears ez Latimer and Ridley be a-vire ; ’ and so they bided on and on till vour o’ the clock, till his man cum in post vro’ here, and tells un ez the vire has tuk holt. ‘Now,’ says the Bishop, says he, ‘ we’ll gwo to dinner ; ’ and the owld lord fell to’s meat wi’ a will, God bless un ! but Gardiner wur struck down like by the hand o’ God avore a could taste a mossel, and a set un all a-vire, so ’z the tongue on un cum a-lolluping out o’ ’is mouth as black as a rat. Thank the Lord, therevore. Paget. The fools ! Tib. Ay, Joan; and Queen Mary gwoes on a-burnin’ and a-burnin’, to get her baaby born ; but all her bumins’ ’ill never burn out the hypocrisy that makes the water in her. There’s nought but the vire of God’s hell ez can bum out that. Joan. Thank the Lord, therevore. Paget. The . fools ! Tib. A-burnin’, and a-burnin’, and a-makin’ o’ volk madder and madder; but tek thou my word vor’t, Joan,—and I bean’t wrong not twice i’ ten year—the burnin’ o’ the owld archbishop ’ll burn the Pwoap out o’ this ’ere land vor iver and iver. Howard. Out of the church, you brace of cursed crones, Or I will have you duck’d ! ( Women hurry out.) Said I not right ? For how should reverend prelate or throned prince Brook for an hour such brute malignity ? Ah, what an acrid winehas Luther brew’d ! Paget. Pooh, pooh, my Lord ! poor garrulous country-wives. Buy you their cheeses, and they’ll side with you ; You cannot judge the liquor from the lees. Howard. I think that in some sort we may. But see, Enter Peters. Peters, my gentleman, an honest Catholic, Who follow’d with the crowd to Cran- mer’s fire. One that would neither misreport nor lie, Not to gain paradise : no, nor if the Pope, Charged him to do it—he is white as death. Peters, how pale you look! you bring the smoke Of Cranmer’s burning with you. Peters. Twice or thrice The smoke of Cranmer’s burning wrapt me round. Howard. Peters, you know me Catholic, but English. Did he die bravely? Tell me that, or leave All else untold. Peters. My Lord, he died most bravely. Howard. Then tell me all. Paget. Ay, Master Peters, tell us. Peters. You saw him how he past among the crowd ; And ever as he walk’d the Spanish friars Still plied him with entreaty and reproach : ButCranmer, as the helmsman nt the helm 522 QUEEN MARY. ACT V. Steers, ever looking to the happy haven Where he shall rest at night, moved to his death ; And I could see that many silent hands Came from the crowd and met his own; and thus, When we had come where Ridley burnt with Latimer, He, with a cheerful smile, as one whose mind Is all made up, in haste put off the rags They had mock’d his misery with, and all in white, His long white beard, which he had never shaven Since Henry’s death, down-sweeping to the chain, Wherewith they bound him to the stake, he stood More like an ancient father of the Church, Than heretic of these times; and still the friars Plied him, but Cranmer only shook his head, Or answer’d them in smiling negatives; Whereat Lord Williams gave a sudden cry :— ‘ Make short ! make short ! ’ and so they lit the wood. • Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to heaven, And thrust his right into the bitter flame; And crying, in his deep voice, more than once, ‘ This hath offended — this unworthy hand !’ So held it till it all was burn’d, before The flame had reach’d his body ; I stood near— Mark’d him—he never uttered moan of pain : He never stirr’d or writhed, but, like a statue, Unmoving in the greatness of the flame, Gave up the ghost; and so past martyr¬ like— Martyr I may not call him—past—but whither ? Paget. To purgatory, man, to purga¬ tory. Peters. Nay, but, my Lord, he denied purgatory. Paget. Why then to heaven, and God ha’ mercy on him. Howard. Paget, despite his fearful heresies, I loved the man, and needs must moan for him ; O Cranmer ! Paget. But your moan is useless now: Come out, my Lord, it is a world of fools. [Exeunt. ACT V. SCENE I.---London. Hall in the Palace. Queen, Sir Nicholas Heath. Heath. Madam, I do assure you, that it must be look’d to: Calais is but ill-garrison’d, in Guisnes Are scarce two hundred men, and the French fleet Rule in the narrow seas. It must be look’d to, If war should fall between yourself and France ; Or you will lose your Calais. Mary. It shall be look’d to ; I wish you a good morning, good Sir Nicholas : Here is the King. [Exit Heath. Enter Philip. Philip. Sir Nicholas tells you true, And you must look to Calais when I go. Mary. Go? must you go, indeed— again—so soon ? Why, nature’s licensed vagabond, the swallow, That might live always in the sun’s warm heart, Stays longer here in our poor north than you:— Knows where he nested—ever comes again. Philip. And, Madam, so shall I. SCENE I. QUEEN MARY. 523 Mary. O, will you ? will you ? I am faint with fear that you will come no more. Philip. Ay, ay; but many voices call me hence. Mary . Voices—I hear unhappy ru¬ mours—nay, I say not, I believe. What voices call you Dearer than mine that should be dearest to you ? Alas, my Lord ! what voices and how many? Philip. The voices of Castille and Aragon, Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan,— The voices of Franche-Comte, and the Netherlands, The voices of Peru and Mexico, Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines, And all the fair spice - islands of the East. Mary (admiringly ). You are the mightiest monarch upon earth, I but a little Queen : and, so indeed, Need you the more. Philip. A little Queen ! but when I came to wed your majesty, Lord Howard, Sending an insolent shot that dash’d the seas Upon us, made us lower our kingly flag To yours of England. Alary. Howard is all English ! There is no king, not were he ten times king, Ten times our husband, but must lower his flag To that of England in the seas of England. Philip. Is that your answer ? Mary. Being Queen of England, I have none other. Philip. So. Mary. But wherefore not Helm the huge vessel of your state, my liege, Here by the side of her who loves you most ? Philip. No, Madam, no ! a candle in the sun Is all but smoke—a star beside the moon Is all but lost; your people will not crown me— Your people are as cheerless as your clime ; Hate me ai d mine : witness the brawls, the gibbets. Here swings a Spaniard—there an Eng¬ lishman ; The peoples are unlike as their com¬ plexion ; Yet will I be your swallow and re¬ turn— But now I cannot bide. Mary. Not to help me ? They hate me also for my love to you, My Philip ; and these judgments on the land— Harvestless autumns, horrible agues, plague— Philip. The blood and sweat of heretics at the stake Is God’s best dew upon the barren field. Burn more! Mary. I will, I will; and you will stay? Philip. Have I not said ? Madam, I came to sue Your Council and yourself to declare war. Mary. Sir, there are many English in your ranks To help your battle. Philip. So far, good. I say I came to sue your Council and your¬ self To declare war against the King of France. Mary. Not to see me ? Philip. Ay, Madam, to see you. Unalterably and pesteringly fond ! [. Aside. But, soon or late you must have war with France ; King Henry warms your traitors at his hearth. Carew is there, and Thomas Stafford there. Courtenay, belike— Mary. A fool and featherhead 1 524 QUEEN MARY. ACT V. Philip. Ay, but they use his name. In brief, this Henry Stirs up your land against you to the intent That you may lose your English heritage. And then, your Scottish namesake marry¬ ing The Dauphin, he would weld France, England, Scotland, Into one sword to hack at Spain and me. Mary. And yet the Pope is now colleagued with France ; You make your wars upon him down in Italy :— Philip, can that be well ? Philip. Content you, Madam ; You must abide my judgment, and my father’s, Who deems it a most just and holy war. The Pope would cast the Spaniard out of Naples : He calls us worse than Jews, Moors, Saracens. The Pope has pushed his horns beyond his mitre— Beyond his province. Now, Duke Alva will but touch him on the horns, And he withdraws ; and of his holy head— For Alva is true son of the true church— No hair is harm’d. Will you not help me here ? Mary. Alas! the Council will not hear of war. They say your wars are not the wars of England. They will not lay more taxes on a land So hunger-nipt and wretched ; and you know The crown is poor. We have given the church-lands back : The nobles would not; nay, they clapt their hands Upon their swords when ask’d; and therefore God Is hard upon the people. What’s to be done ? Sir, I will move them in your cause again, And we will raise us loans and subsidies Among the merchants ; and Sir Thomas Gresham Will aid us. There is Antwerp and the Jews. Philip. Madam, my thanks. Mary. And you will stay your going ? Philip. And further to discourage and lay lame The plots of France, altho’ you love her not, You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir. She stands between you and the Queen of Scots. Mary. The Queen of Scots at least is Catholic. Philip. Ay, Madam, Catholic; but I will not have The King of France the King of England too. Mary. But she’s a heretic, and, when I am gone, Brings the new learning back. Philip. It must be done. You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir. Mary. Then it is done ; but you will stay your going Somewhat beyond your settled purpose ? Philip . No ! Mary. What, not one day? Philip. You beat upon the rock. Mary. And I am broken there. Philip. Is this a place To wail in, Madam? what! a public hall. Go in, I pray you. Mary. Do not seem so changed. Say go ; but only say it lovingly. Philip. You do mistake. I am not one to change. I never loved you more. Mary. Sire, I obey you. Come quickly. Philip. Ay. [ Exit Mary. Enter Count de Feria. Feria [aside). The Queen in tears ! Philip. Feria ! Hast thou not mark’d—come closer to mine ear— SCENE II. QUEEN MARY. 525 How doubly aged this Queen of ours hath grown Since she lost hope of bearing us a child ? Feria. Sire, if your Grace hath mark’d it, so have I. Philip. Hast thou not likewise mark’d Elizabeth, How fair and royal—like a Queen, in¬ deed ? Feria. Allow me the same answer as before— That if your Grace hath mark’d her, so have I. Philip. Good, now; methinks my Queen is like enough To leave me by and by. Feria. To leave you, sire ? Philip. I mean not like to live. Elizabeth— To Philibert of Savoy, as you know, We meant to wed her ; but I am not sure She will not serve me better—so my Queen Would leave me—as—my wife. Feria. Sire, even so. Philip. She will not have Prince Philibert of Savoy. Feria. No, sire. Philip. I have to pray you, some odd time, To sound the Princess carelessly on this ; Not as from me, but as your phantasy ; And tell me how she takes it. Feria. Sire, I will. Philip. I am not certain but that Philibert Shall be the man ; and I shall urge his suit Upon the Queen, because I am not certain: You understand, Feria. Feria. Sire, I do. Philip. And if you be not secret in this matter, You understand me there, too? Fe?ia. Sire, I do. Philip. Y ou must be sweet and supple, like a Frenchman. She is none of those who loathe the honeycomb. [Exit Feria. Enter Renard. Renard. My liege, I bring you goodly tidings. Philip. Well ? Renard. There will be war with France, at last, my liege ; Sir Thomas Stafford, a bull-headed ass, Sailing from France, with thirty English¬ men, Hath taken Scarboro’ Castle, north of York ; Proclaims himself protector, and affirms The Queen has forfeited her right to reign By marriage with an alien—other things As idle ; a weak Wyatt! Little doubt This buzz will soon be silenced ; but the Council (I have talk’d with some already) are for war. This is the fifth conspiracy hatch’d in France ; They show their teeth upon it; and your Grace, So you will take advice of mine, should stay Yet for awhile, to shape and guide the event. Philip. Good! Renard, I will stay then. Renard. Also, sire, Might I not say—to please your wife, the Queen ? Philip. Ay, Renard, if you care to put it so. [Exeunt. SCENE II.—A Room in the Palace. Mary, sitting: a rose in her hand. Lady Clarence. Alice in the background. Mary. Look ! I have play’d with this poor rose so long I have broken off the head. Lady Clarence. Your Grace hath been More merciful to many a rebel head That should have fallen, and may rise again. 526 QUEEN MARY. ACT V. Mary. There were not many hang’d for Wyatt’s rising. Lady Clarence. Nay, not two hundred. Mary. I could weep for them And her, and mine own self and all the world. Lady Clarence. ■ For her ? for whom, your Grace ? Enter Usher. Usher. The Cardinal. Enter Cardinal Pole. (Mary rises.) Mary. Reginald Pole, what news hath plagued thy heart ? What makes thy favour like the bloodless head Fall’n on the block, and held up by the hair ? Philip ?— Pole. No, Philip is as warm in life As ever. Mary. Ay, and then as cold as ever. Is Calais taken ? Pole. Cousin, there hath chanced A sharper harm to England and to Rome, Than Calais taken. Julius the Third Was ever just, and mild, and father-like ; But this new Pope Caraffa, Paul the Fourth, Not only reft me of that legateship Which Julius gave me, and the legate¬ ship Annex’d to Canterbury—nay, but worse— And yet I must obey the Holy Father, And so must you, good cousin ;—worse than all, A passing bell toll’d in a dying ear— He hath cited me to Rome, for heresy, Before his Inquisition. Mary. I knew it, cousin, But held from you all papers sent by Rome, That you might rest among us, till the Pope, To compass which I wrote myself to Rome, Reversed his doom, and that you might not seem To disobey his Holiness. Pole. He hates Philip ; He is all Italian, and he hates the Spaniard ; He cannot dream that /advised the war ; He strikes thro’ me at Philip and your¬ self. Nay, but I know it of old, he hates me too; So brands me in the stare of Christendom A heretic ! Now, even now, when bow’d before my time, The house half-ruin’d ere the lease be out; When I should guide the Church in peace at home, After my twenty years of banishment, And all my lifelong labour to uphold The primacy—a heretic. Long ago, When I was ruler in the patrimony, I was too lenient to the Lutheran, And I and learned friends among our¬ selves Would freely canvass certain Lutheran - isms. What then, he knew I was no Lutheran. A heretic ! He drew this shaft against me to the head, When it was thought I might be chosen Pope, But then withdrew it. In full consistory, When I was made Archbishop, he approved me. And how should he have sent me Legate hither, Deeming me heretic? and what heresy since ? But he was evermore mine enemy, And hates the Spaniard—fieiy-choleric, A drinker of black, strong, volcanic wines, That ever make him fierier. I, a heretic? Your Highness knows that in pursuing heresy I have gone beyond your late Lord Chancellor,— He cried Enough ! enough ! before his death.— Gone beyond him and mine own natural man SCENE II. QUEEN MARY. 527 (It was God’s cause); so far they call me now, The scourge and butcher of their English church. Mary. Have courage, your reward is Heaven itself. Pole. They groan amen ; they swarm into the fire Like flies—for what ? no dogma. They know nothing; They burn for nothing. Mary. You have done your best. Pole. Have done my best, and as a faithful son, That all day long hath wrought his father’s work, When back he comes at evening hath the door .Shut on him by the father whom he loved, His early follies cast into his teeth, And the poor son turn’d oiff into the street To sleep, to die—I shall die of it, cousin. Mary. I pray you be not so dis¬ consolate ; I still will do mine utmost with the Pope. Poor cousin ! Have not I been the fast friend of your life Since mine began, and it was thought we two Might make one flesh, and cleave unto each other As man and wife ? Pole. Ah, cousin, I remember How I would dandle you upon my knee At lisping-age. I watch’d you dancing once With your huge father; he look’d the Great Harry, You but his cockboat; prettily you did it, And innocently. No—we were not made One flesh in happiness, no happiness here ; But now we are made one flesh in misery ; Our bridemaids are not lovely—Dis¬ appointment, Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue, Labour-in-vain. Mary. Surely, not all in vain. Peace, cousin, peace ! I am sad at heart myself. Pole. Our altar is a mound of dead men’s clay, Dug from the grave that yawns for us beyond ; And there is one Death stands behind the Groom, And there is one Death stands behind the Bride— Mary. Have you been looking at the ‘ Dance of Death ’ ? Pole. No ; but these libellous papers which I found Strewn in your palace. Look you here— the Pope Pointing at me with ‘ Pole, the heretic, Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn thyself, Or I will burn thee ; ’ and this other ; see !— ‘ We pray continually for the death Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal Pole.’ This last—I dare not read it her. [Aside. Mary. Away ! Why do you bring me these ? I thought you knew me better. I never read, I tear them ; they come back upon my dreams. The hands that write them should be burnt clean off As Cranmer’s, and the fiends that utter them Tongue-torn with pincers, lash’d to death, or lie Famishing in black cells, while famish’d rats Eat them alive. Why do they bring me these ? Do you mean to drive me mad ? Pole. I had forgotten How these poor libels trouble you. Your pardon, 528 QUEEN MARY. ACT V. Sweet cousin, and farewell! * O bubble world, Whose colours in a moment break and fly ! ’ Why, who said that ? I know not— true enough ! [Puts up the papers , all but the last , which falls. Exit Pole. Alice. If Cranmer’s spirit were a mocking one, And heard these two, there might be sport for him. [Aside. Mary. Clarence, they hate me ; even while I speak There lurks a silent dagger, listening In some dark closet, some long gallery, drawn, And panting for my blood as I go by. Lady Clarence. Nay, Madam, there be loyal papers too, And I have often found them. Mary. Find me one ! Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam ; but Sir Nicholas Heath, the Chancellor, Would see your Highness. Mary. Wherefore should I see him ? Lady Clarence. Well, Madam, he may bring you news from Philip. Mary. So, Clarence. Lady Clarence. Let me first put up your hair; It tumbles all abroad. Mary. And the gray dawn Of an old age that never will be mine Is all the clearer seen. No, no ; what matters ? Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn. Enter Sir Nicholas Heath. Heath. I bring your Majesty such grievous news I grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais is taken. Mary. What traitor spoke? Here, let my cousin Pole Seize him and burn him for a Lutheran. Heath. Her Highness is unwell. I will retire. Lady Clarence. Madam, your Chan¬ cellor, Sir Nicholas Heath. Mary. Sir Nicholas ! I am stunn’d —Nicholas Heath ? Methought some traitor smote me on the head. What said you, my good Lord, that our brave English Had sallied out from Calais and driven back The Frenchmen from their trenches? Heath. Alas ! no. That gateway to the mainland over which Our flag hath floated for two hundred years Is France again. Mary. So ; but it is not lost— Not yet. Send out: let England as of old Rise lionlike, strike hard and deep into The prey they are rending from her—ay, and rend The renders too. Send out, send out, and make Musters in all the counties ; gather all From sixteen years to sixty; collect the fleet; Let every craft that carries sail and gun Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not taken yet ? Heath. Guisnes is not taken yet. Mary. There yet is hope. Heath. Ah, Madam, but your people are so cold ; I do much fear that England will not care. Methinks there is no manhood left among us. Mary. Send out; I am too weak to stir abroad : Tell my mind to the Council—to the Parliament: Proclaim it to the winds. Thou art cold thyself To babble of their coldness. O would I were My father for an hour ! Away now— Quick ! [Exit Heath. I hoped I had served God with all my might ! It seems I have not. Ah ! much heresy Shelter’d in Calais. Saints, I have rebuilt SCENE II. QUEEN MARY. 529 Your shrines, set up your broken images; Be comfortable to me. Suffer not That my brief reign in England be de¬ famed Thro’ all her angry chronicles hereafter By loss of Calais. Grant me Calais. Philip, We have made war upon the Holy Father All for your sake : what good could come of that ? Lady Clarence. No, Madam, not against the Holy Father ; You did but help King Philip’s war with France, Your troops were never down in Italy. Mary. I am a byword. Heretic and rebel Point at me and make merry. Philip gone ! And Calais gone ! Time that I were gone too ! Lady Clarence. Nay, if the fetid gutter had a voice And cried I was not clean, what should I care ? Or you, for heretic cries? And I believe, Spite of your melancholy Sir Nicholas, Your England is as loyal as myself. Mary (seeing the paper dr opt by Pole). There ! there! another paper! Said you not Many of these were loyal ? Shall I try If this be one of such ? Lady Clarence. Let it be, let it be. God pardon me ! I have never yet found one. [Aside. Mary [reads). 1 Your people hate you as your husband hates you.’ Clarence, Clarence, what have I done ? what sin Beyond all grace, all pardon? Mother of God, Thou knowest never woman meant so well, And fared so ill in this disastrous world. My people hate me and desire my death. Lady Clarence. No, Madam, no. Mary. My husband hates me, and desires my death. Lady Clarence. No, Madam ; these are libels. Mary. I hate myself, and I desire my death. Lady Clarence. Long live your Majesty ! Shall Alice sing you One of her pleasant songs? Alice, my child, Bring us your lute (Alice goes). They say the gloom of Saul Was lighten’d by young David’s harp. Alary. Too young ! And never knew a Philip. Re-enter Alice. Give me the lute. He hates me ! (She sings.) Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing ! Beauty passes like a breath and love is lost in loathing: Low, my lute; speak low, my lute, but say the world is nothing— Low, lute, low ! Love will hover round the flowers when they first awaken ; Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be over- . taken; Low, my lute ! oh low, my lute ! we fade and are forsaken— Low, dear lute, low ! Take it away ! not low enough for me ! Alice. Your Grace hath a low voice. Mary. Plow dare you say it ? Even for that he hates me. A low voice Lost in a wilderness where none can hear! A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless sea ! A low voice from the dust and from the grave (Sitting on the ground). There, am I low enough now ? Alice. Good Lord ! how grim and ghastly looks her Grace, With both her knees drawn upward to her chin. There was an old-world tomb beside my father's, 2 M 53 ° QUEEN MARY. ACT V. And this was open’d, and the dead were found Sitting, and in this fashion; she looks a corpse. Enter Lady Magdalen Dacres. Lady Magdalen: Madam, the Count de Feria waits without, In hopes to see your Highness. Lady Clarence (pointing to Mary). Wait he must— Her trance again. She neither sees nor hears, And may not speak for hours. Lady Magdalen. Unhappiest Of Queens and wives and women ! Alice [in the foreground with Lady Magdalen). And all along Of Philip. Lady Magdalen. Not so loud ! Our Clarence there Sees ever such an aureole round the Queen, It gilds the greatest wronger of her peace, Who stands the nearest to her. Alice. Ay, this Philip ; I used to love the Queen with all my heart— God help me, but methinks I love her less For such a dotage upon such a man. I would I were as tall and strong as you. Lady Magdalen. I seem half-shamed at times to be so tall. Alice. You are the stateliest deer in all the herd — Beyond his aim — but I am small and scandalous, And love to hear bad tales of Philip. Lady Magdalen. Why ? I never heard him utter worse of you Than that you were low-statured. Alice. Does he think Low stature is low nature, or all women’s Low as his own ? Lady Magdalen. There you strike in the nail. This coarseness is a want of phantasy. It is the low man thinks the woman low; Sin is too dull to see beyond himself. Alice. Ah, Magdalen, sin is bold as well as dull. How dared he ? Lady Magdalen. Stupid soldiers oft are bold. Poor lads, they see not what the general sees, A risk of utter ruin. I am not Beyond his aim, or was not. Alice. Who ? Not you ? Tell, tell me ; save my credit with myself. Lady Magdalen. I never breathed it to a bird in the eaves, Would not for all the stars and maiden moon Our drooping Queen should know ! In Hampton Court My window look’d upon the corridor ; And I was robing;—this poor throat of mine, Barer than I should wish a man to see it,— When he we speak of drove the window back, And, like a thief, push’d in his royal hand ; But by God’s providence a good stout staff Lay near me ; and you know me strong of arm ; I do believe I lamed his Majesty’s For a day or two, tho’, give the Devil his due, I never found he bore me any spite. Alice. I would she could have wedded that poor youth, My Lord of Devon—light enough, God knows, And mixt with Wyatt’s rising—and the boy Not out of him—but neither cold, coarse, cruel, And more than all—no Spaniard. Lady Clarence. Not so loud. Lord Devon, girls ! what are you whis¬ pering here ? Alice. Probing an old state-secret— how it chanced That this young Earl was sent on foreign travel, Not lost his head. SCENE II. QUEEN MARY. 531 Lady Clarence. There was no proof against him. Alice. Nay, Madam; did not Gardiner intercept A letter which the Count de Noailles wrote To that dead traitor Wyatt, with full proof Of Courtenay’s treason ? What became of that ? Lady Clarence. Some say that Gardi¬ ner, out of love for him, Burnt it, and some relate that it was lost When Wyatt sack’d the Chancellor’s house in Southwark. Let dead things rest. Alice. Ay, and with him who died Alone in Italy. Lady Clarence. Much changed, I hear, Had put off levity and put graveness on. The foreign courts report him in his manner Noble as his young person and old shield. It might be so—but all is over now ; He caught a chill in the lagoons of Venice, And died in Padua. Mary (looking up suddenly ). Died in the true faith ? Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam, happily. Mary. Happier he than I. Lady Magdalen. It seems her Highness hath awaken’d. Think you That I might dare to tell her that the Count- Mary. I will see no man hence for evermore, Saving my confessor and my cousin Pole. Lady Magdalen. It is the Count de Feria, my dear lady. Mary. What Count ? Lady Magdalen. The Count de Feria, from his Majesty King Philip. Mary. Philip ! quick ! loop up my hair! Throw cushions on that seat, and make it throne-like. Arrange my dress—the gorgeous Indian shawl That Philip brought me in our happy days !— That covers all. So—am I somewhat Queenlike, Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon earth ? Lady Clarence. Ay, so your Grace would bide a moment yet. Mary. No, no, he brings a letter. I may die Before I read it. Let me see him at once. Enter Count de Feria [kneels). Feria. I trust your Grace is well. (Aside) How her hand burns ! Mary. I am not well, but it will better me, Sir Count, to read the letter which you bring. Feria. Madam, I bring no letter. Mary. How ! no letter? Feria. His Highness is so vex’d with strange affairs— Mary. That his own wife is no affair of his. Feria. Nay, Madam, nay ! he sends his veriest love, And says, he will come quickly. Mary. Doth he, indeed ? You, sir, do you remember what you said When last you came to England ? Feria. Madam, I brought My King’s congratulations ; it was hoped Your Highness was once more in happy state To give him an heir male. Mary. Sir, you said more ; You said he would come quickly. I had horses On all the road from Dover, day and night; On all the road from Harwich, night and day ; But the child came not, and the husband came not; And yet he will come quickly. . . Thou hast learnt Thy lesson, and I mine. There is no need For Philip so to shame himself again. Return, And tell him that I know he comes no more. 532 QUEEN MARY. act y. Tell him at last I know his love is dead, And that I am in state to bring forth death— Thou art commission’d to Elizabeth, And not to me ! Feria. Mere compliments and wishes. But shall I take some message from your Grace ? Mary. Tell her to come and close my dying eyes, And wear my crown, and dance upon my grave. Feria. Then I may say your Grace will see your sister ? Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air and sunshine. I would we had you, Madam, in our warm Spain. You droop in your dim London. Mary. Have him away ! I sicken of his readiness. Lady Clarence. My Lord Count, Her Highness is too ill for colloquy. Feria ( kneels , and kisses her hand). I wish her Highness better. {Aside) How her hand burns ! [Exeunt. SCENE III.—A House near London. Elizabeth, Steward of the House¬ hold, Attendants. Elizabeth. There’s half an angel wrong’d in your account ; Methinks I am all angel, that I bear it Without more ruffling. Cast it o’er again. Steward. I were whole devil if I wrong’d you, Madam. [Exit Steward. Attendant. The Count de Feria, from the King of Spain. Elizabeth. Ah!—let him enter. Nay, you need not go : [To her Ladies. Remain within the chamber, but apart. We’ll have no private conference. Wel¬ come to England ! Enter Feria. Feria. Fair island star ! Elizabeth. I shine ! What else, Sir Count? Feria. As far as France, and into Philip’s heart. My King would know if you be fairly served, And lodged, and treated. Elizabeth. You see the lodging, sir, I am well-served, and am in everything Mpst loyal and most grateful to the Queen. Feria. You should be grateful to my master, too. He spoke of this ; and unto him you owe That Mary hath acknowledged you her heir. Elizabeth. No, not to her nor him ; but to the people, Who know my right, and love me, as I love The people! whom God aid ! Feria. You will be Queen, And, were I Philip— Elizabeth. Wherefore pause you— what? Feria. Nay, but I speak from mine own self, not him ; Your royal sister cannot last ; your hand Will be much coveted ! What a delicate one ! Our Spanish ladies have none such—and there, Were you in Spain, this fine fair gossamer gold— Like sun-gilt breathings on a frosty dawn— That hovers round your shoulder— Elizabeth. Is it so fine ? Troth, some have said so. Feria. —would be deemed a miracle. Elizabeth. Your Philip hath gold hair and golden beard ; There must be ladies many with hair like mine. Feria. Some few of Gothic blood have golden hair, Bin none like yours. SCENE TV. QUEEN MARY. 533 Elizabeth. I am happy you approve it. Feria. But as to Philip and your Grace—consider,— If such a one as you should match with Spain, What hinders but that Spain and England join’d, Should make the mightiest empire earth has known. Spain would be England on her seas, and England Mistress of the Indies. Elizabeth. It may chance, that England Will be the Mistress of the Indies yet, Without the help of Spain. Feria. Impossible; Except you put Spain down. Wide of the mark ev’n for a madman’s dream. Elizabeth. Perhaps; but we have seamen. Count de Feria, I take it that the King hath spoken to you; But is Don Carlos such a goodly match ? Feria. Don Carlos, Madam, is but twelve years old. Elizabeth. Ay, tell the King that I will muse upon it ; He is my good friend, and I would keep him so; But—he would have me Catholic of Rome, And that I scarce can be ; and, sir, till now My sister’s marriage, and my father’s marriages, Make me full fain to live and die a maid. But I am much beholden to your King. Have you aught else to tell me ? Feria. Nothing, Madam, Save that methought I gather’d from the Queen That she would see your Grace before she —died. Elizabeth. God’s death ! and where¬ fore spake you not before ? We dally with our lazy moments here, And hers are number’d. Horses there, without ! I am much beholden to the King, your master. Why did you keep me prating ? Horses, there ! [Exit Elizabeth, etc. Feria. So from a clear sky falls the thunderbolt! Don Carlos ? Madam, if you marry Philip, Then I and he will snaffle your ‘ God’s death,’ And break your paces in, and make you tame ; God’s death, forsooth—you do not know King Philip. [Exit. SCENE IV.— London. Before the Palace. A light burning within. Voices of the night passing. First. Is not yon light in the Queen’s chamber ? Second. Ay, They say she’s dying. First. So is Cardinal Pole. May the great angels join their wings, and make Down for their heads to heaven ! Second. Amen. Come on. [Exeunt. Two Others. First. There’s the Queen’s light. I hear she cannot live. Second. God curse her and her Legate! Gardiner burns Already; but to pay them full in kind, The hottest hold in all the devil’s den Were but a sort of winter ; sir, in Guern¬ sey, I watch’d a woman burn ; and in her agony The mother came upon her—a child was born— And, sir, they hurl’d it back into the fire, That, being but baptized in fire, the babe Might be in fire for ever. Ah, good neighbour, There should be something fierier than fire To yield them their deserts. First. Amen to all Your wish, and further. 534 QUEEN MARY. act y. A Third Voice. Deserts ! Amen to what? Whose deserts? Yours? You have a gold ring on your finger, and soft raiment about your body ; and is not the woman up yonder sleeping after all she has done, in peace and quietness, on a soft bed, in a closed room, with light, fire, physic, tendance; and I have seen the true men of Christ lying famine-dead by scores, and under no ceiling but the cloud that wept on them, not for them. First. Friend, tho’ so late, it is not safe to preach. You had best go home. What are you? Third. What am I ? One who cries continually with sweat and tears to the Lord God that it would please Him out of His infinite love to break down all kingship and queenship, all priesthood and prelacy; to cancel and abolish all bonds of human allegiance, all the magis¬ tracy, all the nobles, and all the wealthy; and to send us again, according to His promise, the one King, the Christ, and all things in common, as in the day of the first church, when Christ Jesus was King. First. If ever I heard a madman,— let’s away ! Why, you long-winded- Sir, you go beyond me. I pride myself on being moderate. Good night ! Go home. Besides, you curse so loud, The watch will hear you. Get you home at once. [Exeunt. SCENE V.— London. A Room in the Palace. A Gallery on one side. The moonlight streaming through a range of windows on the wall opposite. Mary, Lady Clarence, Lady Magdalen D acres, Alice. Queen pacing the Gallery. A writing-table in front. Queen comes to the table and writes and goes again , pacing the Gallery. Lady Clarence. Mine eyes are dim : what hath she written ? read. Alice. ‘ I am dying, Philip ; come to me.’ Lady Magdalen. There—up and down, poor lady, up and down. Alice. And how her shadow crosses one by one The moonlight casements pattern’d on the wall, Following her like her sorrow. She turns again. [Queen sits and writes , and goes again. Lady Clarence. What hath she written now ? Alice. Nothing ; but ‘ come, come, come,’ and all awry, And blotted by her tears. This cannot last. [Queen returns. Mary. I whistle to the bird has broken cage, And all in vain. [Sitting down. Calais gone—Guisnes gone, too—and Philip gone! Lady Clarence. Dear Madam, Philip is but at the wars ; I cannot doubt but that he comes again ; And he is with you in a measure still. I never look’d upon so fair a likeness As your great King in armour there, his hand Upon his helmet. [Pointing to the portrait 0/" Philip on the wall. Mary. Doth he not look noble ? I had heard of him in battle over seas. And I would have my warrior all in arms. He said it was not courtly to stand helmeted Before the Queen. He had his gracious moment, Altho’ you’ll not believe me. How he smiles As if he loved me yet ! Lady Clarence. And so he does. Mary. He never loved me—nay, he could not love me. It was his father’s policy against France. I am eleven years older than he, Poor boy ! [Weeps. Alice. That was a lusty boy of twenty- seven j [Aside. SCENE V. QUEEN MARY. 535 Poor enough in God’s grace! Mary. —And all in vain ! The Queen of Scots is married to the Dauphin, And Charles, the lord of this low world, is gone; And all his wars and wisdoms past away; And in a moment I shall follow him. Lady Clarence. Nay, dearest Lady, see your good physician. Mary. Drugs—but he knows they cannot help me—says That rest is all — tells me I must not think— That I must rest—I shall rest by and by. Catch the wild cat, cage him, and when he springs And maims himself against the bars, say ‘ rest *: Why, you must kill him if you would have him rest— Dead or alive you cannot make him happy. Lady Clarence. Your Majesty has lived so pure a life, And done such mighty things by Holy Church, I trust that God will make you happy yet. Mary. What is the strange thing happiness ? Sit down here : Tell me thine happiest hour. Lady Clarence. I will, if that May make your Grace forget yourself a little. There runs a shallow brook across our field For twenty miles, where the black crow flies five, And doth so bound and babble all the way As if itself were happy. It was May-time, And I was walking with the man I loved. I loved him, but I thought I was not loved. And both were silent, letting the wild brook Speak for us—till he stoop’d and gather’d one From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots, Look’d hard and sweet at me, and gave it me. I took it, tho’ I did not know I took it, And put it in my bosom, and all at once I felt his arms about me, and his lips- Mary. O God ! I have been too slack, too slack ; There are Hot Gospellers even among our guards— Nobles we dared not touch. We have but burnt The heretic priest, workmen, and women and children. Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck, wrath,— We have so play’d the coward ; but by God’s grace, We’ll follow Philip’s leading, and set up The Holy Office here—garner the wheat, And burn the tares with unquenchable fire ! Burn !— Fie, what a savour! tell the cooks to close The doors of all the offices below. Latimer ! Sir, we are private with our women here— Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fel¬ low— Thou light a torch that never will go out! ’Tis out—mine flames. Women, the Holy Father Has ta’en the legateship from our cousin Pole— Was that well done ? and poor Pole pines of it, As I do, to the death. I am but a woman, I have no power.—Ah, weak and meek old man, Seven-fold dishonour’d even in the sight Of thine own sectaries—No, no. No pardon !— Why that was false : there is the right hand still Beckons me hence. Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for treason, Remember that! ’twas I and Bonner did it, And Pole ; we are three to one—Have you found mercy there, Grant it me here : and see, he smiles and goes, Gentle as in life. Alice. Madam, who goes? King Philip ? 536 QUEEN MARY. act v. Mary. No, Philip comes and goes, but never goes. Women, when I am dead, Open my heart, and there you will find written Two names, Philip and Calais; open his,— So that he have one,— You will find Philip only, policy, policy,— Ay, worse than that—not one hour true to me ! Foul maggots crawling in a fester’d vice! Adulterous to the very heart of Hell. Hast thou a knife ? Alice. Ay, Madam, but o’ God’s mercy— Mary. Fool, think’st thou I would peril mine own soul By slaughter of the body ? I could not, girl. Not this way — callous with a constant stripe, Unwoundable. The knife ! Alice. Take heed, take heed ! The blade is keen as death. Mary. This Philip shall not Stare in upon me in my haggardness ; Old, miserable, diseased, Incapable of children. Come thou down. [Cuts out the picture and throws it down. Lie there. ( Wails) O God, I have kill’d my Philip ! Alice. No, Madam, you have but cut the canvas out; We can replace it. Mary. All is well then ; rest— I will to rest; he said, I must have rest. [Cries of ‘ Elizabeth ’ in the street. A cry ! What’s that ? Elizabeth ? revolt ? A new Northumberland, another Wyatt? I’ll fight it on the threshold of the grave. Lady Clarence. Madam, your royal sister comes to see you. Mary. I will not see her. Who knows if Boleyn’s daughter be my sister ? I will see none except the priest. Your arm. [To Lady Clarence. O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn smile Among thy patient wrinkles—Help me hence. [Exeunt. The Priest passes. Enter Elizabeth and Sir William Cecil. Elizabeth. Good counsel yours— No one in waiting? still, As if the chamberlain were Death himself! The room she sleeps in—is not this the way ? No, that way there are voices. Am I too late ? Cecil . . . God guide me lest I lose the way. [Exit Elizabeth. Cecil. Many points weather’d, many perilous ones, At last a harbour opens ; but therein Sunk rocks—they heed fine steering— much it is To be nor mad, nor bigot—have a mind— Nor let Priests’ talk, or dream of worlds to be, Miscolour things about her—sudden touches For him, or him—sunk rocks; no pas¬ sionate faith— But—if let be—balance and compromise; Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her—a Tudor School’d by the shadow of death—-a Boleyn, too, Glancing across the Tudor—not so well. Enter Alice. How is the good Queen now ? Alice. Away from Philip. Back in her childhood—prattling to her mother Of her betrothal to the Emperor Charles, And childlike-jealous of him again—and once She thank’d her father sweetly for his book Against that godless German. Ah, those days Were happy. It was never merry world In England, since the Bible came among us. SCENE V. QUEEN MARY. 537 Cecil. And who says that ? Alice. It is a saying among the Catholics. Cecil. It never will be merry world in England, Till all men have their Bible, rich and poor. Alice. The Queen is dying, or you dare not say it. Enter Elizabeth. Elizabeth. The Queen is dead. Cecil. Then here she stands ! my homage. Elizabeth. She knew me, and ac¬ knowledged me her heir, Pray’d me to pay her debts, and keep the Faith; Then claspt the cross, and pass’d away in peace. I left her lying still and beautiful, More beautiful than in life. Why would you vex yourself, Poor sister ? Sir, I swear I have no heart To be your Queen. To reign is restless fence, Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is with the dead. Her life was winter, for her spring was nipt: And she loved much : pray God she be forgiven. Cecil. Peace with the dead, who never were at peace ! Yet she loved one so much—I needs must say— That never English monarch dying left England so little. Elizabeth. But with Cecil’s aid And others, if our person be secured From traitor stabs—we will make England great. Enter Paget, and other Lords of the Council, Sir Ralph Bagenhall, etc. Lords. God save Elizabeth, the Queen of England ! Bagenhall. God save the Crown ! the Papacy is no more. Paget (aside). Are we so sure of that? Acclamation. God save the Queen ! HAROLD: A DRAMA. To His Excellency THE RIGHT HON. LORD LYTTON, Viceroy and Governor-General of India. My dear Lord Lytton, —After old-world records—such as the Bayeux tapestry and the Roman de Rou,—Edward Freeman’s History of the Norman Conquest, and your father’s Historical Romance treating of the same times, have been mainly helpful to me in writing this Drama. Your father dedicated his ‘ Harold ’ to my father’s brother ; allow me to dedicate my ‘ Harold ’ to yourself. _ A. TENNYSON. SHOW-DAY AT BATTLE ABBEY, 1876. A garden here—May breath and bloom of spring— The cuckoo yonder from an English elm Crying ‘ with my false egg I overwhelm The native nest: ’ and fancy hears the ring Of harness, and that deathful arrow sing, And Saxon battleaxe clang on Norman helm. Here rose the dragon-banner of our realm : Here fought, here fell, our Norman-slander’d king. O Garden blossoming out of English blood ! O strange hate-healer Time ! We stroll and stare Where might made right eight hundred years ago ; Might, right ? ay good, so all things make for good— But he and he, if soul be soul, are where Each stands full face with all he did below. DRAMA TIS PERSONA!. King Edward the Confessor. Stigand, created Archbishop of Canterbury by the A 7 itipope Benedict. Aldred, Archbishop of York. The Norman Bishop of London. Harold, Earl of Wessex, afterwards King of England Tostig, Earl of Northumbria Gurth, Earl of East Anglia Leofwin, Earl of Kent and Essex Wulfnoth Count William of Normandy. William Malet, a Norman Noble . 1 Edwin, Earl of Mercia 1 Sons of A If gar of Morcar, Earl of Northumbria after Tostig ) Mercia. Gamel, a Northumbrian Thane. Guy, Count of Ponthieu. Rolf, a Ponthieu Fisherman. Hugh Margot, a Norman Monk. Osgod and Athelric, Canons from Waltham. The Queen, Edward the Confessor's Wife, Daughter of Godwin. Aldwyth, Daughter of Alfgar and Widow of Griffyth, King of Wales. Edith, Ward of King Edward. Courtiers, Earls and Thanes, Men-at-Arms, Canons of Waltham, Fishermen, etc. I Sons of f Godwin. William Rufus. 1 . . . quidam partim Normannus et Anglus Compater Heraldi. (Guy of Amiens, 587.) SCENE I. HAROLD. 539 ACT I. SCENE I.— London. The King’s Palace. {A comet seen through the open window .) Aldwyth, Gamel, Courtiers talking together. First Courtier. Lo ! there once more —this is the seventh night ! Yon grimly - glaring, treble - brandish’d scourge Of England ! Second Courtier. Horrible ! First Courtier. Look you, there’s a star That dances in it as mad with agony ! Third Courtier. Ay, like a spirit in Hell who skips and flies To right and left, and cannot scape the flame. Second Courtier. Steam’d upward from the undescendible Abysm. First Courtier. Or floated downward from the throne Of God Almighty. Aldwyth. Gamel, son of Orm, What thinkest thou this means ? Gamel. War, my dear lady ! Aldwyth. Doth this affright thee ? Gamel. Mightily, my dear lady ! Aldwyth. Stand by me then, and look upon my face, Not on the comet. {Enter Morcar.) Brother ! why so pale ? Morcar. It glares in heaven, it flares upon the Thames, The people are as thick as bees below, They hum like bees,—they cannot speak —for awe; Look to the skies, then to the river, strike Their hearts, and hold their babies up to it. I think that they would Molochize them too, To have the heavens clear. Aldwyth. They fright not me. [Enter Leofwin, after him Gurth.) Ask thou Lord Leofwin what he thinks of this ! Morcar. Lord Leofwin, dost thou believe, that these Three rods of blood-red fire up yonder mean The doom of England and the wrath of Heaven ? Bishop of London [passing ). Did ye not cast with bestial violence Our holy Norman bishops down from all Their thrones in England ? I alone remain. Why should not Heaven be wroth ? Leofwin. With us, or thee ? Bishop of London. Did ye not outlaw your archbishop Robert, Robert of Jumieges—well-nigh murder him too? Is there no reason for the wrath of Heaven? Leofwin. Why then the wrath of Heaven hath three tails, The devil only one. [Exit Bishop of London. [Enter Archbishop Stigand.) Ask our Archbishop. Stigand should know the purposes of Heaven. Stigand. Not I. I cannot read the face of heaven ; Perhaps our vines will grow the better for it. Leofwin [laughing). He can but read the king’s face on his coins. Stigand. Ay, ay, young lord, there the king’s face is power. Gurth. O father, mock not at a public fear, But tell us, is this pendent hell in heaven A harm to England ? Stigand. Ask it of King Edward ! And he may tell thee, / am a harm to England. Old uncanonical Stigand—ask of me Who had my pallium from an Antipope ! Not he the man—for in our windy world What’s up is faith, what’s down is heresy. 540 HAROLD. ACT I. Our friends, the Normans, holp to shake his chair. I have a Norman fever on me, son, And cannot answer sanely . . . What it means ? Ask our broad Earl. [Pointing to Harold, who enters. Harold {seeing Gamel). Hail, Gamel, son of Orm ! Albeit no rolling stone, my good friend Gamel, Thou hast rounded since we met. Thy life at home Is easier than mine here. Look ! am I not Work-wan, flesh-fallen ? Gamel. Art thou sick, good Earl ? Harold. Sick as an autumn swallow for a voyage, Sick for an idle week of hawk and hound Beyond the seas — a change ! When earnest thou hither ? Gamel. To-day, good Earl. Harold. Is the North quiet, Gamel ? Gamel. Nay, there be murmurs, for thy brother breaks us With over-taxing—quiet, ay, as yet— Nothing as yet. Harold. Stand by him, mine old friend, Thou art a great voice in Northumber¬ land ! Advise him : speak him sweetly, he will hear thee. He is passionate but honest. Stand thou by him ! More talk of this to-morrow, if yon weird sign . Not blast us in our dreams.—Well, father Stigand— [To Stigand, who advances to him. Stigand {pointing to the comet). War there, my son ? is that the doom of England ? Harold. Why not the doom of all the world as well ? For all the world sees it as well as Eng¬ land. These meteors came and went before our day, Not harming any : it threatens us no more Than French or Norman. War? the worst that follows Things that seem jerk’d out of the common rut Of Nature is the hot religious fool, Who, seeing war in heaven, for heaven’s credit Makes it on earth : but look, where Edward draws A faint foot hither, leaning upon Tostig. He hath learnt to love our Tostig much of late. Leofwin. And he hath learnt, despite the tiger in him, To sleek and supple himself to the king’s hand. Gurth. I trust the kingly touch that cures the evil May serve to charm the tiger out of him. Leofwin. He hath as much of cat as tiger in him. Our Tostig loves the hand and not the man. Harold. Nay ! Better die than lie ! Enter King, Queen, and Tostig. Edward. In heaven signs ! Signs upon earth ! signs everywhere ! your Priests Gross, worldly, simoniacal, unlearn’d ! They scarce can read their Psalter; and your churches Uncouth, unhandsome, while in Norman - land God speaks thro’ abler voices, as He dwells In statelier shrines. I say not this, as being Half Norman-blooded, nor as some have held, Because I love the Norman better—no, But dreading God’s revenge upon this realm For narrowness and coldness: and I say it For the last time perchance, before I go To find the sweet refreshment of the Saints. I have lived a life of utter purity: I have builded the great church of Holy Peter : SCENE I. HAROLD. 54i I have wrought miracles—to God the glory— And miracles will in my name be wrought Hereafter.—I have fought the fight and go— I see the flashing of the gates of pearl— And it is well with me, tho’ some of you Have scorn’d me—ay—but after I am gone Woe, woe to England ! I have had a vision ; The seven sleepers in the cave at Ephesus Have turn’d from right to left. Harold. My most dear Master, What matters? let them turn from left to right And sleep again. Tostig. Too hardy with thy king ! A life of prayer and fasting well may see Deeper into the mysteries of heaven Than thou, good brother. Aldwyth (aside). Sees he into thine, That thou wouldst have his promise for the crown? Edward. Tostig says true ; my son, thou art too hard, Not stagger’d by this ominous earth and heaven : But heaven and earth are threads of the same loom, Play into one another, and weave the web That may confound thee yet. Harold. Nay, I trust not, For I have served thee long and honestly. Edward. I know it, son ; I am not thankless : thou Hast broken all my foes, lighten’d for me The weight of this poor crown, and left me time And peace for prayer to gain a better one. Twelve years of service ! England loves thee for it. Thou art the man to rule her ! Aldwyth (aside). So, not Tostig ! Harold. And after those twelve years a boon, my king, Respite, a holiday : thyself wast wont To love the chase : thy leave to set my feet On board, and hunt and hawk beyond the seas ! Edward. What with this flaming horror overhead ? Harold. Well, when it passes then. Edward. Ay if it pass. Go not to Normandy—go not to Nor¬ mandy. Harold. And wherefore not, my king, to Normandy? Is not my brother Wulfnoth hostage there For my dead father’s loyalty to thee ? I pray thee, let me hence and bring him home. Edward. Not thee, my son: some other messenger. Harold. And why not me, my lord, to Normandy? Is not the Norman Count thy friend and mine ? Edward. I pray thee, do not go to Normandy. Harold. Because my father drove the Normans out Of England ?—That was many a summer gone— Forgotten and forgiven by them and thee. Edward. Plarold, I will not yield thee leave to go. Harold. Why then to Flanders. I will hawk and hunt In Flanders. Edward. Be there not fair woods and fields In England? Wilful, wilful. Go—the Saints Pilot and prosper all thy wandering out And homeward. Tostig, I am faint again. Son Harold, I will in and pray for thee. (Exit, leaning on Tostig, and followed by Stigand, Morcar, and Courtiers. Harold. What lies upon the mind of our good king That he should harp this way on Normandy ? Queen. Brother, the king is wiser than he seems ; And Tostig knows it; Tostig loves the king. Harold. And love should know ; and —be the king so wise,— 542 HAROLD. ACT I. Then Tostig too were wiser than he seems. I love the man but not his phantasies. (. Re-enter Tostig.) Well, brother, When didst thou hear from thy North¬ umbria ? Tostig. When did I hear aught but this ‘ When 5 from thee ? Leave me alone, brother, with my Northumbria : She is my mistress, let me look to her! The King hath made me Earl; make me not fool ! Nor make the King a fool, who made me Earl! Harold. No, Tostig—lest I make myself a fool Who made the King who made thee, make thee Earl. Tostig. Why chafe me then ? Thou knowest I soon go wild. Gurth. Come, come ! as yet thou art not gone so wild But thou canst hear the best and wisest of us. Harold. So says old Gurth, not I : yet hear ! thine earldom, Tostig, hath been a kingdom. Their old crown Is yet a force among them, a sun set But leaving light enough for Alfgar’s house To strike thee down by—nay, this ghastly glare May heat their fancies. Tostig. My most worthy brother, Thou art the quietest man in all the world— Ay, ay and wise in peace and great in war— Pray God the people choose thee for their king ! But all the powers of the house of Godwin Are not enframed in thee. Harold. Thank the Saints, no ! But thou hast drain’d them shallow by thy tolls, And thou art ever here about the King : Thine absence well may seem a want of care. Cling to their love ; for, now the sons of Godwin Sit topmost in the field of England, envy, Like the rough bear beneath the tree, good brother, Waits till the man let go. Tostig. Good counsel truly ! I heard from my Northumbria yesterday. Harold. How goes it then with thy Northumbria? Well? Tostig. And wouldst thou that it went aught else than well ? Harold. I would it went as well as with mine earldom, Leofwin’s and Gurth’s. Tostig. Ye govern milder men. Gurth. We have made them milder by just government. Tostig. Ay, ever give yourselves your own good word. Leofwin. An honest gift, by all the Saints, if giver And taker be but honest! but they bribe Each other, and so often, an honest world Will not believe them. Harold. I may tell thee, Tostig, I heard from thy Northumberland to-day. Tostig. From spies of thine to spy my nakedness In my poor North ! Harold. There is a movement there, A blind one—nothing yet. Tostig. Crush it at once With all the power I have !—I must—I will !— Crush it half-born! Fool still ? or wis¬ dom there, My wise head-shaking Harold ? Harold. Make not thou The nothing something. Wisdom when in power And wisest, should not frown as Power, but smile As kindness, watching all, till the true must Shall make her strike as Power: but when to strike— O Tostig, O dear brother—If they prance, Rein in, not lash them, lest they rear and run And break both neck and axle. Tostig. Good again! SCENE I. HAROLD. 543 Good counsel tho’ scarce needed. Pour not water In the full vessel running out at top To swamp the house. Leofwin . Nor thou be a wild thing Out of the waste, to turn and bite the hand Would help thee from the trap. Tostig. Thou playest in tune. Leofwin. To the deaf adder thee, that wilt not dance However wisely charm’d. Tostig. No more, no more ! Gurth. I likewise cry ‘no more.’ Unwholesome talk For Godwin’s house ! Leofwin, thou hast a tongue ! Tostig, thou look’st as thou wouldst spring upon him. St. Olaf, not while I am by! Come, come, Join hands, let brethren dwell in unity ; Let kith and kin stand close as our shield-wall, Who breaks us then ? I say, thou hast a tongue, And Tostig is not stout enough to bear it. Vex him not, Leofwin. Tostig. No, I am not vext,— Altho’ ye seek to vex me, one and all. 1 have to make report of my good earldom To the good king who gave it—not to you— Not any of you.—I am not vext at all. Harold. The king ? the king is ever at his prayers ; In all that handles matter of the state I am the king. Tostig. That shalt thou never be If I can thwart thee. Harold. Brother, brother! Tostig. Away ! [Exit Tostig. Queen. Spite of this grisly star ye three must gall Poor Tostig. Leofwin. Tostig, sister, galls himself; He cannot smell a rose but pricks his nose Against the thorn, and rails against the rose. Queen. I am the only rose of all the stock That never thorn’d him; Edward loves him, so Ye hate him. Harold always hated him. Why—how they fought when boys—and, Holy Mary ! How Harold used to beat him ! Harold. Why, boys will fight. Leofwin would often fight me, and I beat him. Even old Gurth would fight. I had much ado To hold mine own against old Gurth. Old Gurth, We fought like great states for grave cause ; but Tostig— On a sudden — at a something—for a nothing— The boy would fist me hard, and when we fought I conquer’d, and he loved me none the less, Till thou wouldst get him all apart, and tell him That where he was but worsted, he was wrong’d. Ah ! thou hast taught the king to spoil him too ; Now the spoilt child sways both. Take heed, take heed ; Thou art the Queen ; ye are boy and girl no more : Side not with Tostig in any violence, Lest thou be sideways guilty of the violence. Queen. Come fall not foul on me. I leave thee, brother. Harold. Nay, my good sister— [Exeunt Queen, Harold, Gurth, and Leofwin. Aldwyth. Gamel, son of Orm, What thinkest thou this means ? [Pointing to the comet. Gamel. War, my dear lady, War, waste, plague, famine, all maligni¬ ties. Aldwyth. It means the fall of Tostig from his earldom. Gamel. That were too small a matter for a comet! 544 HAROLD. ACT I. Aldwyth. It means the lifting of the house of Alfgar. Gamel. Too small ! a comet would not show for that ! Aldwyth. Not small for thee, if thou canst compass it. Gamel. Thy love ? Aldwyth. As much as I can give thee, man ; This Tostig is, or like to be, a tyrant; Stir up thy people : oust him ! Gamel. And thy love ? Aldwyth. As much as thou canst bear. Gamel. I can bear all, And not be giddy. Aldwyth. No more now: to-morrow. SCENE II.—In the Garden. The King’s House near London. Sunset. Edith. Mad for thy mate, passionate nightingale . . . I love thee for it—ay, but stay a moment; He can but stay a moment: he is going. I fain would hear him coming ! . . . near me . . near, Somewhere—To draw him nearer with a charm Like thine to thine. {Singing.) Love is come with a song and a smile, Welcome Love with a smile and a song: Love can stay but a little while. Why cannot he stay? They call him away: Ye do him wrong, ye do him wrong; Love will stay for a whole life long. Enter Harold. Harold. The nightingales in Havering- atte-Bower Sang out their loves so loud, that Edward’s prayers Were deafen’d and he pray’d them dumb, and thus I dumb thee too, my wingless nightingale ! {Kissing her. Edith. Thou art my music ! Would their wings were mine To follow thee to Flanders ! Must thou go? Harold. Not must, but will. It is but for one moon. Edith. Leaving so many foes in Edward’s hall To league against thy weal. The Lady Aldwyth Was here to-day, and when she touch’d on thee, She stammer’d in her hate; I am sure she hates thee, Pants for thy blood. Harold. Well, I have given her cause— I fear no woman. Edith. Hate not one who felt Some pity for thy hater ! I am sure Her morning wanted sunlight, she so praised The convent and lone life—within the pale— Beyond the passion. Nay—she held with Edward, At least methought she held with holy Edward, That marriage was half sin. Harold. A lesson worth Finger and thumb—thus {snaps his fingers). And my answer to it— See here—an interwoven H and E ! Take thou this ring; I will demand his ward From Edward when I come again. Ay, would she ? She to shut up my blossom in the dark ! Thou art my nun, thy cloister in mine arms. Edith {taking the ring). Yea, but Earl Tostig— Harold. That’s a truer fear ! For if the North take fire, I should be back; I shall be, soon enough. Edith. Ay, but last night An evil dream that ever came and went— Harold. A gnat that vext thy pillow ! Had I been by, I would have spoil’d his horn. My girl> what was it ? SCENE II. HAROLD. 545 Edith. Oh ! that thou wert not going ! For so methought it was our marriage- morn, And while we stood together, a dead man Rose from behind the altar, tore away My marriage ring, and rent my bridal veil; And then I turn’d, and saw the church all fill’d With dead men upright from their graves, and all The dead men made at thee to murder thee, But thou didst back thyself against a pillar, And strike among them with thy battle- axe— There, what a dream ! Harold. Well, well—a dream— no more ! Edith. Did not Heaven speak to men in dreams of old ? Harold. Ay—well—of old. I tell thee what, my child ; Thou hast misread this merry dream of thine, Taken the rifted pillars of the wood For smooth stone columns of the sanc¬ tuary, The shadows of a hundred fat dead deer For dead men’s ghosts. True, that the battle-axe Was out of place; it should have been the bow.— Come, thou shalt dream no more such dreams ; I swear it, By mine own eyes—and these two sap¬ phires—these Twin rubies, that are amulets against all The kisses of all kind of womankind In Flanders, till the sea shall roll me back To tumble at thy feet. Edith. That would but shame me, Rather than make me vain. The sea may roll Sand, shingle, shore-weed, not the living rock Which guards the land. Harold. Except it be a soft one, And undereaten to the fall. Mine amulet . . . This last . . . upon thine eyelids, to shut in A happier dream. Sleep, sleep, and thou shalt see My grayhounds fleeting like a beam of light, And hear my peregrine and her bells in heaven; And other bells on earth, which yet are heaven’s; Guess what they be. Edith. He cannot guess who knows. Farewell, my king. Harold. Not yet, but then—my queen. \Exeunt. Enter Aldwyth from the thicket. Aldwyth. The kiss that charms thine eyelids into sleep, Will hold mine waking. Hate him ? I could love him More, tenfold, than this fearful child can do; Griffyth I hated : why not hate the foe Of England ? Griffyth when I saw him flee, Chased deer-like up his mountains, all the blood That should have only pulsed for Griffyth, beat For his pursuer. I love him or think I love him. If he were King of England, I his queen, I might be sure of it. Nay, I do love him.— She must be cloister’d somehow, lest the king Should yield his ward to Harold’s will. What harm ? She hath but blood enough to live, not love.— When Harold goes and Tostig, shall I play The craftier Tostig with him ? fawn upon him ? Chime in with all ? ‘ O thou more saint than king !’ And that were true enough. ‘ O blessed relics ! * * O Holy Peter !’ If he found me thus, 2 N 546 HAROLD. ACT II. Harold might hate me ; he is broad and honest, Breathing an easy gladness . . . not like Aldwyth . . . For which I strangely love him. Should not England Love Aldwyth, if she stay the feuds that part The sons of Godwin from the sons of Alfgar By such a marrying? Courage, noble Aldwyth ! Let all thy people bless thee ! Our wild Tostig, Edward hath made him Earl: he would be king :— The dog that snapt the shadow, dropt the bone.— I trust he may do well, this Gamel, whom I play upon, that he may play the note Whereat the dog shall howl and run, and Harold Hear the king’s music, all alone with him, Pronounced his heir of England. I see the goal and half the way to it.— Peace-lover is our Harold for the sake Of England’s wholeness—so—to shake the North With earthquake and disruption—some division— Then fling mine own fair person in the gap A sacrifice to Harold, a peace-offering, A scape-goat marriage—all the sins of both The houses on mine head—then a fair life And bless the Queen of England. Morcar {comingfrom the thicket). Art thou assured By this, that Harold loves but Edith ? Aldwyth. Morcar! Why creep’st thou like a timorous beast of prey Out of the bush by night ? Morcar. I follow’d thee. Aldwyth. Follow my lead, and I will make thee earl. Morcar. What lead then ? Aldzvyth. Thou shalt flash it secretly Among the good Northumbrian folk, that I— That Harold loves me—yea, and presently That I and Harold are betroth’d—and last— Perchance that Harold wrongs me ; tho’ I would not That it should come to that. Morcar. I will both flash And thunder for thee. Aldwyth. I said ‘secretly;’ It is the flash that murders, the poor thunder Never harm’d head. Morcar. But thunder may bring down That which the flash hath stricken. Aldwyth . Down with Tostig ! That first of all.—And when doth Harold go? Morcar. To-morrow—first to Bosham, then to Flanders. Aldwyth. Not to come back till Tostig shall have shown And redden’d with his people’s blood the teeth That shall be broken by us—yea, and thou Chair’d in his place. Good-night, and dream thyself Their chosen Earl. [Exit Aldwyth. Morcar. Earl first, and after that Who knows I may not dream myself their king ! ACT II. SCENE I.—Seashore. Ponthieu. Night. Harold and his Men, wrecked. Harold. Friends, in that last inhos¬ pitable plunge Our boat hath burst her ribs; but ours are whole; I have but bark’d my hands. Attendant. I dug mine into My old fast friend the shore, and clinging thus Felt the remorseless outdraught of the deep Haul like a great strong fellow at my legs, SCENE I. HAROLD. 547 And then I rose and ran. The blast that came So suddenly hath fallen as suddenly— Put thou the comet and this blast to¬ gether— Harold. Put thou thyself and mother- wit together. Be not a fool ! {Enter Fishermen with torches , Harold going up to one of them, Rolf.) Wicked sea-will-o’-the-wisp ! Wolf of the shore ! dog, with thy lying lights Thou hast betray’d us on these rocks of thine! Rolf. Ay, but thou liest as loud as the black herring-pond behind thee. We be fishermen ; I came to see after my nets. Harold. To drag us into them. Fishermen ? devils ! Who, while ye fish for men with your false fires, Let the great Devil fish for your own souls. Rolf. Nay then, we be liker the blessed Apostles; they were fishers of men, Father Jean says. Harold. I had liefer that the fish had swallowed me, Like Jonah, than have known there were such devils. What’s to be done ? [To his Men— goes apart with them. Fisherman. Rolf, what fish did swallow Jonah? Rolf. A whale ! Fisherman. Then a whale to a whelk we have swallowed the King of England. I saw him over there. Look thee, Rolf, when I was down in the fever, she was down with the hunger, and thou didst stand by her and give her thy crabs, and set her up again, till now, by the patient Saints, she’s as crabb’d as ever. Rolf. And I’ll give her my crabs again, when thou art down again. Fisherman. I thank thee, Rolf. Run thou to Count Guy ; he is hard at hand. Tell him what hath crept into our creel, and he will fee thee as freely as he will wrench this outlander’s ransom out of him—and why not ? for what right had he to get himself wrecked on another man’s land ? Rolf. Thou art the human-heartedest, Christian - charitiest of all crab-catchers. Share and share alike ! [Exit. Harold [to Fisherman). Fellow, dost thou catch crabs ? Fisherman. As few as I may in a wind, and less than I would in a calm. Ay ! Harold. I have a mind that thou shalt catch no more. Fisherman. How ? Harold. I have a mind to brain thee with mine axe. Fisherman. Ay, do, do, and our great Count-crab will make his nippers meet in thine heart; he’ll sweat it out of thee, he’ll sweat it out of thee. Look, he’s here ! He’ll speak for himself! Hold thine own, if thou canst! Enter Guy, Count of Ponthieu. Harold. Guy, Count of Ponthieu ? Guy. Harold, Earl of Wessex ! Harold. Thy villains with their lying lights have wreck’d us ! Guy. Art thou not Earl of Wessex ? Harold. In mine earldom A man may hang gold bracelets on a bush, And leave them for a year, and coming back Find them again. Guy. Thou art a mighty man In thine own earldom ! Harold. Were such murderous liars In Wessex—if I caught them, they should hang Cliff-gibbeted for sea-marks; our sea-mew Winging their only wail! Guy. Ay, but my men Hold that the shipwreckt are accursed of God ;— What hinders me to hold with mine own men ? Harold. The Christian manhood of .the man who reigns ! 548 HAROLD. ACT II. Guy. Ay, rave thy worst, but in our oubliettes Thou shalt or rot or ransom. Hale him hence! [To one of h is Attendants. Fly thou to William ; tell him we have Harold. SCENE II.— Bayeux. Palace. Count William and William Malet. William. We hold our Saxon wood¬ cock in the springe, But he begins to flutter. As I think He was thine host in England when I went To visit Edward. Malet. Yea, and there, my lord, To make allowance for their rougher fashions, I found him all a noble host should be. William. Thou art his friend : thou know’st my claim on England Thro’ Edward’s promise : we have him in the toils. And it were well, if thou shouldst let him feel, How dense a fold of danger nets him round, So that he bristle himself against my will. Malet. What would I do, my lord, if I were you ? William. What wouldst thou do ? Malet. My lord, he is thy guest. William. Nay, by the splendour of God, no guest of mine. He came not to see me, had past me by To hunt and hawk elsewhere, save for the fate Which hunted him when that un-Saxon blast, And bolts of thunder moulded in high heaven To serve the Norman purpose, drave and crack’d His boat on Ponthieu beach ; where our friend Guy Had wrung his ransom from him by the rack, But that I stept between and purchased him, Translating his captivity from Guy To mine own hearth at Bayeux, where he sits My ransom’d prisoner. Malet. Well, if not with gold, With golden deeds and iron strokes that brought Thy war with Brittany to a goodlier close Than else had been, he paid his ransom back. William. So that henceforth they are not like to league With Harold against me. Malet. A marvel, how He from the liquid sands of Coesnon Haled thy shore - swallow’d, armour’d Normans up To fight for thee again ! William. Perchance against Their saver, save thou save him from himself. Malet. But I should let him home again, my lord. William. Simple ! let fly the bird within the hand, To catch the bird again within the bush ! No. Smooth thou my way, before he clash with me; I want his voice in England for the crown, I want thy voice with him to bring him round ; And being brave he must be subtly cow’d, And being truthful wrought upon to swear Vows that he dare not break. England our own Thro’ Harold’s help, he shall be my dear friend As well as thine, and thou thyself shalt have Large lordship there of lands and territory. Malet. I knew thy purpose; he and Wulfnoth never Have met, except in public; shall they meet In private ? I have often talk’d with Wulfnoth, SCENE II. HAROLD. 549 And stuff’d the boy with fears that these may act On Harold when they meet. William. Then let them meet! Malet. I can but love this noble, honest Harold. William. Love him ! why not ? thine is a loving office, I have commission’d thee to save the man : Help the good ship, showing the sunken rock, Or he is wreckt for ever. Enter William Rufus. William Rufus. Father. William. Well, boy. William Rufus. They have taken away the toy thou gavest me, The Norman knight. William. Why, boy? William Rufus. Because I broke The horse’s leg—it was mine own to break ; [ like to have my toys, and break them too. William. Well, thou shalt have another Norman knight ! William Rufus. And may I break his legs? William. Yea,—get thee gone ! William Rufus. I’ll tell them I have had my way with thee. {Exit. Malet. I never knew thee check thy will for ought Save for the prattling of thy little ones. William. Who shall be kings of England. I am heir Of England by the promise of her king. Malet. But' there the great Assembly choose their king, The choice of England is the voice of England. William. I will be king of England by the laws, The choice, and voice of England. Malet. Can that be ? William. The voice of any people is the sword That guards them, or the sword that beats them down. Here comes the would-be what I will be . . . kinglike . . . Tho’ scarce at ease ; for, save our meshes break, More kinglike he than like to prove a king. {Enter Harold, musing,, with his eyes on the ground.) He sees me not—and yet he dreams of me. Earl, wilt thou fly my falcons this fair day ? They are of the best, strong-wing’d against the wind. Harold (looking up suddenly , having caught but the last word). Which way does it blow ? William. Blowing for England, ha ? Not yet. Thou hast not learnt thy quarters here. The winds so cross and jostle among these towers. Harold. Count of the Normans, thou hast ransom’d us, Maintain’d, and entertain’d us royally ! William. And thou for us hast fought as loyally, Which binds us friendship-fast for ever ! Harold. Good ! But lest we turn the scale of courtesy By too much pressure on it, I would fain, Since thou hast promised Wulfnoth home with us, Be home again with Wulfnoth. William. Stay—as yet Thou hast but seen how Norman hands can strike, But walk’d our Norman field, scarce touch’d or tasted The splendours of our Court. Harold. I am in no mood : I should be as the shadow of a cloud Crossing your light. William. Nay, rest a week or two, And we will fill thee full cf Norman sun, And send thee back among thine island mists With laughter. 550 HAROLD. ACT II. Harold. Count, I thank thee, but had rather Breathe the free wind from off our Saxon downs, Tho’ charged with all the wet of all the west. William. Why if thou wilt, so let it be—thou shalt. That were a graceless hospitality To chain the free guest to the banquet- board ; To-morrow we will ride with thee to Harfleur, And see thee shipt, and pray in thy behalf For happier homeward winds than that which crack’d Thy bark at Ponthieu,—yet to us, in faith, A happy one—whereby we came to know Thy valour and thy value, noble earl. Ay, and perchance a happy one for thee, Provided — I will go with thee to-mor¬ row— Nay—but there be conditions, easy ones, So thou, fair friend, will take them easily. Enter Page. Page. My lord, there is a post from over seas With news for thee. [Exit Page. William. Come, Malet, let us hear ! [.Exeunt Count William and Malet. Harold. Conditions ? What condi¬ tions ? pay him back I lis ransom ? ‘ easy ’—that were easy— nay— No money-lover he ! What said the King? ‘ I pray you do not go to Normandy.’ And fate hath blown me hither, bound me too With bitter obligation to the Count— Have I not fought it out ? What did he mean ? There lodged a gleaming grimness in his eyes, Gave his shorn smile the lie. The walls oppress me, And yon huge keep that hinders half the heaven. Free air ! free field ! [Moves to go out. A Man-at-arms follows him. Harold (to the Man-at-arms). I need thee not. Why dost thou follow me ? Man-at-arms. I have the Count’s commands to follow thee. Harold. What then ? Am I in danger in this court ? Man-at-arms. I cannot tell. I have the Count’s commands. Harold. Stand out of earshot then, and keep me still In eyeshot. Man-at-arms. Yea, lord Harold. [Withdraws. Harold. And arm’d men Ever keep watch beside my chamber door, And if I walk within the lonely wood, There is an arm’d man ever glides behind ! (Enter Malet. ) Why am I follow’d, haunted, harass’d, watch’d ? See yonder ! [Pointing to the Man-at-arms. Malet. ’Tis the good Count’s care for thee ! The Normans love thee not, nor thou the Normans, Or—so they deem. Harold. But wherefore is the wind, Which way soever the vane-arrow swing, Not ever fair for England? Why but now He said (thou heardst him) that I must not hence Save on conditions. Malet. So in truth he said. Harold. Malet, thy mother was an Englishwoman; There somewhere beats an English pulse in thee ! Malet. Well—for my mother’s sake I love your England, But for my father I love Normandy. Harold. Speak for thy mother’s sake, and tell me true. Malet. Then for my mother’s sake, and England’s sake SCENE II. HAROLD. 55 That suffers in the daily want of thee, Obey the Count’s conditions, my good friend. Harold. How, Malet, if they be not honourable ! Malet. Seem to obey them. Harold. Better die than lie ! Malet. Choose therefore whether thou wilt have thy conscience White as a maiden’s hand, or whether England Be shatter’d into fragments. Harold. News from England ? Malet. Morcar and Edwin have stirr’d up the Thanes Against thy brother Tostig’s governance ; And all the North of Humber is one storm. Harold. I should be there, Malet, I should be there ! Malet. And Tostig in his own hall on suspicion Hath massacred the Thane that was his guest, Gamel, the son of Orm: and there be more As villainously slain. Harold. The wolf! the beast ! Ill news for guests, ha, Malet ! More ? What more? What do they say ? did Edward know of this ? Malet. They say, his wife was know¬ ing and abetting. Harold. They say, his wife !—To marry and have no husband Makes the wife fool. My God, I should be there. I’ll hack my way to the sea. Malet. Thou canst not, Harold ; Our Duke is all between thee and the sea, Our Duke is all about thee like a God ; All passes block’d. Obey him, speak him fair, For he is only debonair to those That follow where he leads, but stark as death To those that cross him.—Look thou, here is Wulfnoth ! 1 leave thee to thy talk with him alone ; How wan, poor lad ! how sick and sad for home ! [ Exit Malet. Harold (muttering ). Go not to Nor¬ mandy—go not to Normandy ! {Enter Wulfnoth.) Poor brother ! still a hostage ! Wulfnoth. Yea, and I Shall see the dewy kiss of dawn no more Make blush the maiden-white of our tall cliffs, Nor mark the sea-bird rouse himself and hover Above the windy ripple, and fill the sky With free sea-laughter—never—save indeed Thou canst make yield this iron-mooded Duke To let me go. Harold. Why, brother, so he will; But on conditions. Canst thou guess at them ? Wulfnoth. Draw nearer,—I was in the corridor, I saw him coming with his brother Odo The Bayeux bishop, and I hid myself. Harold. They did thee wrong who made thee hostage ; thou Wast ever fearful. Wulfnoth. And he spoke—I heard him— ‘ This Harold is not of the royal blood, Can have no right to the crown,’ and Odo said, ‘ Thine is the right, for thine the might; he is here, And yonder is thy keep.’ Harold. No, Wulfnoth, no. Wulfnoth. And William laugh’d and swore that might was right, Far as he knew in this poor world of ours— ‘ Marry, the Saints must go along with us, And, brother, we will find a way,’ said he— Yea, yea, he would be king of England. Harold. Never! Wulfnoth. Yea, but thou must not this way answer him . 552 HAROLD. ACT II. Harold. Is it not better still to speak the truth ? Wulfnoth. Not here, or thou wilt never hence nor I: For in the racing toward this golden goal He turns not right or left, but tramples flat Whatever thwarts him; hast thou never heard His savagery at Alenjon,—the town Hung out raw hides along their walls, and cried ‘Work for the tanner.’ Harold. That had anger’d me Had I been William. Wulfnoth. Nay, but he had prisoners, He tore their eyes out, sliced their hands away, And flung them streaming o’er the battle¬ ments Upon the heads of those who walk’d within— O speak him fair, Harold, for thine own sake. Harold. Your Welshman says, 1 The Truth against the World,’ Much more the truth against myself. Wulfnoth . Thyself? But for my sake, oh brother ! oh ! for my sake! Harold. Poor Wulfnoth ! do they not entreat thee well ? Wulfnoth. I see the blackness of my dungeon loom Across their lamps of revel, and beyond The merriest murmurs of their banquet clank The shackles that will bind me to the wall. Harold. Too fearful still 1 Wulfnoth. Oh no, no—speak him fair! Call it to temporize ; and not to lie ; Harold, I do not counsel thee to lie. The man that hath to foil a murderous aim May, surely, play with words. Harold. Words are the man. Not ev’n for thy sake, brother, would I lie. Wulfnoth. Then for thine Edith ? Harold. There thou prick’st me deep. Wulfnoth. And for our Mother Eng¬ land ? Harold. Deeper still. Wulfnoth. And deeper still the deep- down oubliette, Down thirty feet below the smiling day— In blackness—dogs’ food thrown upon thy head. And over thee the suns arise and set, And the lark sings, the sweet stars come and go, And men are at their markets, in their fields, And woo their loves and have forgotten thee; And thou art upright in thy living grave, Where there is barely room to shift thy side, And all thine England hath forgotten thee; And he our lazy-pious Norman King, With all his Normans round him once again, Counts his old beads, and hath forgotten thee. Harold. Thou art of my blood, and so methinks, my boy, Thy fears infect me beyond reason. Peace ! Wulfnoth. And then our fiery Tostig, while thy hands Are palsied here, if his Northumbrians rise And hurl him from them,—I have heard the Normans Count upon this confusion—may he not make A league with William, so to bring him back ? Harold. That lies within the shadow of the chance. Wulfnoth. And like a river in flood thro’ a burst dam Descends the ruthless Norman—our good King Kneels mumbling some old bone—our helpless folk Are wash’d away, wailing, in their own blood— SCENE II. HAROLD. 553 Harold. Wailing! not warring? Boy, thou hast forgotten That thou art English. Wulfnoth. Then our modest women— I know the Norman license—-thine own Edith— Harold. No more ! I will not hear thee—William comes. Wulfnoth. I dare not well be seen in talk with thee. Make thou not mention that I spake with thee. \Moves away to the back of the stage. Enter William, Malet, and Officer. Officer. We have the man that rail’d against thy birth. William. Tear out his tongue. Officer. He shall not rail again. He said that he should see confusion fall On thee and on thine house. William. Tear out his eyes, And plunge him into prison. Officer. It shall be done. [Exit Officer. William. Look not amazed, fair earl! Better leave undone Than do by halves—tongueless and eye¬ less, prison’d— Harold. Better methinks have slain the man at once ! William. We have respect for man’s immortal soul, We seldom take man’s life, except in war; It frights the traitor more to maim and blind. Harold. In mine own land I should have scorn’d the man, Or lash’d his rascal back, and let him go. William. And let him go ? To slander thee again ! Yet in thine own land in thy father’s day They blinded my young kinsman, Alfred —ay, Some said it was thy father’s deed. Harold. They lied. William. But thou and he—whom at thy word, for thou Art known a speaker of the truth, I free From this foul charge— Harold. Nay, nay, he freed himself By oath and compurgation from the charge. The king, the lords, the people clear’d him of it. William. But thou and he drove our good Normans out From England, and this rankles in us yet. Archbishop Robert hardly scaped with life. Harold. Archbishop Robert! Robert the Archbishop ! Robert of Jumieges, he that— Malet. Quiet! quiet! Harold. Count ! if there sat within the Norman chair A ruler all for England—one who fill’d All offices, all bishopricks with English— We could not move from Dover to the Humber Saving thro’ Norman bishopricks—I say Ye would applaud that Norman who should drive The stranger to the fiends ! William. Why, that is reason ! Warrior thou art, and mighty wise withal! Ay, ay, but many among our Norman lords Hate thee for this, and press upon me— saying God and the sea have given thee to our hands— To plunge thee into life-long prison here :— Yet I hold out against them, as I may. Yea—would hold out, yea; tho’ they should revolt— For thou hast done the battle in my cause; I am thy fastest friend in Normandy. Harold. I am doubly bound to thee ... if this be so. William. And I would bind thee more, and would myself Be bounden to thee more. Harold. Then let me hence With Wulfnoth to King Edward. William. So we will. We hear he hath not long to live. Harold. It may be. William. Why then the heir of England, who is he ? 554 HAROLD. ACT II. Harold. The Atheling is nearest to the throne. William. But sickly, slight, half¬ witted and a child, Will England have him king ? Harold. It may be, no. William. And hath King Edward not pronounced his heir ? Harold. Not that I know. William. When he was here in Normandy, He loved us and we him, because we found him A Norman of the Normans. Harold. So did we. William. A gentle, gracious, pure and saintly man ! And grateful to the hand that shielded him, He promised that if ever he were king In England, he would give his kingly voice To me as his successor. Knowest thou this ? Harold. I learn it now. William. Thou knowest I am his cousin, And that my wife descends from Alfred ? Harold. Ay. William. Who hath a better claim then to the crown So that ye will not crown the Atheling ? Harold. None that I know ... if that but hung upon King Edward’s will. William. Wilt thou uphold my claifn? Alalet (aside to Harold). Be careful of thine answer, my good friend. Wulfnoth {aside to Harold). Oh ! Harold, for my sake and for thine own! Harold. Ay . . . if the king have not revoked his promise. William. But hath he done it then ? Harold. Not that I know. William. Good, good, and thou wilt help me to the crown ? Harold. Ay ... if the Witan will consent to this. William. Thou art the mightiest voice in England, man, Thy voice will lead the Witan—shall I have it ? Wulfnoth {aside to Harold). Oh ! Harold, if thou love thine Edith, ay. Harold. Ay, if— Malet {aside to Harold). Thine * ifs ’ will sear thine eyes out—ay. William. I ask thee, wilt thou help me to the crown ? And I will make thee my great Earl of Earls, Foremost in England and in Normandy ; Thou shalt be verily king—all but the name— For I shall most sojourn in Normandy; And thou be my vice-king in England. Speak. Wulfnoth {aside to Harold). Ay, brother—for the sake of England —ay. Harold. My lord— Malet {aside to Harold). Take heed now. Harold. Ay. William. I am content, For thou art truthful, and thy word thy bond. To-morrow will we ride with thee to Harfleur. [Exit William. Malet. Harold, I am thy friend, one life with thee, And even as I should bless thee saving mine, I thank thee now for having saved thyself. [Exit Malet. Harold. For having lost myself to save myself, Said ‘ ay ’ when I meant ‘ no,’ lied like a lad That dreads the pendent scourge, said ‘ ay ’ for ‘ no ’! Ay ! No !—he hath not bound me by an oath— Is ‘ ay ’ an oath ? is ‘ ay ’ strong as an oath ? Or is it the same sin to break my word As break mine oath ? He call’d my word my bond ! He is a liar who knows I am a liar, SCENE II. HAROLD. 555 And makes believe that he believes my word-— The crime be on his head—not bounden —no. [Suddenly doors are flung open, dis¬ covering in an inner hall Count William in his state robes, seated upon his throne , between two Bishops, Odo of Bayeux being one : in the centre of the hall an ark covered with cloth of gold; and on either side of it the Norman barons. Enter a Jailor before William’s throne. William {to Jailor). Knave, hast thou let thy prisoner scape ? Jailor. Sir Count, He had but one foot, he must have hopt away, Yea, some familiar spirit must have help’d him. William. Woe knave to thy familiar and to thee ! Give me thy keys. [ They fall clashing. Nay let them lie. Stand there and wait my will. [ The Jailor stands aside. William {to Harold). Hast thou such trustless jailors in thy North ? Harold. We have few prisoners in mine earldom there, So less chance for false keepers. William. We have heard Of thy just, mild, and equal governance ; Honour to thee ! thou art perfect in all honour! Thy naked word thy bond! confirm it. now Before our gather’d Norman baronage, For they will not believe thee—as I believe. [Descends from his throne and stands by the ark. Let all men here bear witness of our bond ! [Beckons to Harold, who advances. Enter Malet behind him. Lay thou thy hand upon this golden pall! Behold the jewel of St. Pancratius Woven into the gold. Swear thou on this! Harold. What should I swear? Why should I swear on this ? William {savagely). Swear thou to help me to the crown of England. Malet {whispering Harold). My friend, thou hast gone too far to palter now. Wulfnoth (i whispering Harold). Swear thou to-day, to-morrow is thine own. Harold. I swear to help thee to the crown of England . . . According as King Edward promises. William. Thou must swear absolutely, noble Earl. Malet (whispering ). Delay is death to thee, ruin to England. Wulfnoth {whispering). Swear, dear¬ est brother, I beseech thee, swear! Harold {putting his hand on the jewel). I swear to help thee to the crown of England. William. Thanks, truthful Earl; I did not doubt thy word, But that my barons might believe thy word, And that the Holy Saints of Normandy When thou art home in England, with thine own, Might strengthen thee in keeping of thy word, I made thee swear.—Show him by whom he hath sworn. \Jhe two Bishops advance , and raise the cloth of gold. The bodies and bones of Saints are seen lying in the ark. The holy bones of all the Canonised From all the holiest shrines in Normandy! Harold. Horrible! \They let the cloth fall again. William. Ay, for thou hast sworn an oath Which, if not kept, would make the hard earth rive To the very Devil’s horns, the bright sky cleave To the very feet of God, and send her hosts 55 6 HAROLD. ACT III. Of injured Saints to scatter sparks of plague Thro’ all your cities, blast your infants, dash The torch of war among your standing corn, Dabble your hearths with your own blood. —Enough ! Thou wilt not break it ! I, the Count— the King— Thy friend—am grateful for thine honest oath, Not coming fiercely like a conqueror, now, But softly as a bridegroom to his own. For I shall rule according to your laws, And make your ever-jarring Earldoms move To music and in order—Angle, Jute, Dane, Saxon, Norman, help to build a throne Out-towering hers of France . . . The wind is fair For England now . . . To-night we will be merry. To-morrow will I ride with thee to Harfleur. [.Exeunt William and all the Norman barons , etc. Harold. To-night we will be merry— and to-morrow— Juggler and bastard—bastard—he hates that most— William the tanner’s bastard ! Would he heard me ! O God, that I were in some wide, waste field With nothing but my battle - axe and him To spatter his brains ! Why let earth rive, gulf in These cursed Normans—yea and mine own self. Cleave heaven, and send thy saints that I may say Ev’n to their faces, ‘ If ye side with William Ye are not noble.’ How their pointed fingers Glared at me! Am I Harold, Harold, son Of our great Godwin ? Lo ! I touch mine arms, My limbs—they are not mine—they are a liar’s— I mean to be a liar—I am not bound— Stigand shall give me absolution for it— Did the chest move ? did it move ? I am utter craven ! O Wulfnoth, Wulfnoth, brother, thou hast betray’d me ! Wulfnoth. Forgive me, brother, I will live here and die. Enter Page. Page. My lord! the Duke awaits thee at the banquet. Harold. Where they eat dead men’s flesh, and drink their blood. Page. My lord— Harold. I know your Norman cookery is so spiced, It masks all this. Page. My lord ! thou art white as death. Harold. With looking on the dead. Am I so white ? Thy Duke will seem the darker. Hence, I follow. \Exeunt. ACT III. SCENE I.— The King’s Palace. London. King Edward dying on a couch, and by him standing the Queen, Harold, Archbishop Stigand, Gurth, Leofwin, Archbishop Aldred. Aldwyth, and Edith. Stigand. Sleeping or dying there? If this be death, Then our great Council wait to crown thee King— Come hither, I have a power ; [To Harold. They call me near, for I am close to thee And England—I, old shrivell’d Stigand, I, Dry as an old wood-fungus on a dead tree, I have a power ! SCENE I. HAROLD. 557 See here this little key about my neck ! There lies a treasure buried down in Ely: If e’er the Norman grow too hard for thee, Ask me for this at thy most need, son Harold, At thy most need—not sooner. Harold. So I will. Stigand. Red gold—a hundred purses —yea, and more ! If thou canst make a wholesome use of these To chink against the Norman, I do believe My old crook’d spine would bud out two young wings To fly to heaven straight with. Harold. Thank thee, father ! Thou art English, Edward too is English now, He hath clean repented of his Normanism. Stigand. Ay, as the libertine repents who cannot Make done undone, when thro’ his dying sense Shrills ‘lost thro’ thee.’ They have built their castles here ; Our priories are Norman; the Norman adder Hath bitten us ; we are poison’d : our dear England Is demi-Norman. He !— [Pointing to King Edward, sleeping. Harold. I would I were As holy and as passionless as he ! That I might rest as calmly ! Look at him— The rosy face, and long down - silvering beard, The brows unwrinkled as a summer mere.— Stigand. A summer mere with sudden wreckful gusts From a side-gorge. Passionless? How he flamed When Tostig’s anger’d earldom flung him, nay, He fain had calcined all Northumbria To one black ash, but that thy patriot passion Siding with our great Council against Tostig, Out-passion’d his ! Holy ? ay, ay, for¬ sooth, A conscience for his own soul, not his realm ; A twilight conscience lighted thro’ a chink ; Thine by the sun; nay, by some sun to be, When all the world hath learnt to speak the truth, And lying were self-murder by that state Which was the exception. Harold. That sun may God speed ! Stigand. Come, Harold, shake the cloud off! Harold. Can I, father ? Our Tostig parted cursing me and Eng¬ land ; Our sister hates us for his banishment ; He hath gone to kindle Norway against England, And Wulfnoth is alone in Normandy. For when I rode with William down to Harfleur, ‘ Wulfnoth is sick,’ he said ; ‘ he cannot follow; ’ Then with that friendly-fiendly smile of his, ‘ We have learnt to love him, let him a little longer Remain a hostage for the loyalty Of Godwin’s house.’ As far as touches Wulfnoth I that so prized plain word and naked truth Have sinn’d against it—all in vain. Leofwin. Good brother, By all the truths that ever priest hath preach’d, Of all the lies that ever men have lied, Thine is the pardonablest. Harold. May be so ! I think it so, I think I am a fool To think it can be otherwise than so. Stigand. Tut, tut, I have absolved thee : dost thou scorn me, Because I had my Canterbury pallium, From one whom they dispoped ? Harold. No, Stigand, no ! 558 HAROLD. ACT ITT. Stigand. Is naked truth actable in true life ? I have heard a saying of thy father Godwin, That, were a man of state nakedly true, Men would but take him for the craftier liar. Leofwin. Be men less delicate than the Devil himself? I thought that naked Truth would shame the Devil The Devil is so modest. Gurth. He never said it ! Leofwin. Be thou not stupid-honest, brother Gurth! Harold. Better to be a liar’s dog, and hold My master honest, than believe that lying And ruling men are fatal twins that cannot Move one without the other. Edward wakes !— Dazed—he hath seen a vision. Edward. The green tree ! Then a great Angel past along the highest Ciying ‘ the doom of England,’ and at once He stood beside me, in his grasp a sword Of lightnings, wherewithal he cleft the tree From off the bearing trunk, and hurl’d it from him Three fields away, and then he dash’d and drench’d, He dyed, he soak’d the trunk with human blood, And brought the sunder’d tree again, and set it Straight on the trunk, that thus baptized in blood Grew ever high and higher, beyond my seeing, And shot out sidelong boughs across the deep That dropt themselves, and rooted in far isles Beyond my seeing : and the great Angel rose And past again along the highest crying ‘ The doom of England !’—Tostig, raise my head ! [Falls back senseless. Harold (raising him). Let Harold serve for Tostig! Queen. Harold served Tostig so ill, he cannot serve for Tostig ! Ay, raise his head, for thou hast laid it low! The sickness of our saintly king, for whom My prayers go up as fast as my tears fall, I well believe, hath mainly drawn itself From lack of Tostig—thou hast banish’d him. Harold. Nay—but the council, and the king himself, Queen. Thou hatest him, hatest him. Harold [coldly). Ay—Stigand, unriddle This vision, canst thou ? Stigand. Dotage ! Edward (starting up). It is finish’d. I have built the Lord a house—the Lord hath dwelt In darkness. I have built the Lord a house— Palms, flowers, pomegranates, golden cherubim With twenty-cubit wings from wall to wall— I have built the Lord a house—sing, Asaph ! clash The cymbal, Heman ! blow the trumpet, priest! Fall, cloud, and fill the house—lo ! my two pillars, Jachin and Boaz !— [Seeing Harold and Gurth. Harold, Gurth,—where am I ? Where is the charter of our Westminster ? Stigand. It lies beside thee, king, upon thy bed. Edward. Sign, sign at once—take, sign it, Stigand, Aldred ! Sign it, my good son Harold, Gurth, and Leofwin, Sign it, my queen ! All. We have sign’d it. Edward. It is finish’d ! The kingliest Abbey in all Christian lands, The lordliest, loftiest minster ever built To Holy Peter in our English isle ! SCENE T. HAROLD. 559 Let me be buried there, and all our kings, And all our just and wise and holy men That shall be born hereafter. It is finish’d ! Hast thou had absolution for thine oath ? [To Harold. Harold. Stigand hath given me abso¬ lution for it. Edward. Stigand. is not canonical enough To save thee from the wrath of Norman Saints. Stigand. Norman enough ! Be there no Saints of England To help us from their brethren yonder? Edward. Prelate, The Saints are one, but those of Nor- manland Are mightier than our own. Ask it of Aldred. [ To Harold. Aldred. It shall be granted him, my king; for he Who vows a vow to strangle his own mother Is guiltier keeping this, than breaking it. Edward. O friends, I shall not over¬ live the day. Stigand. Why then the throne is empty. Who inherits ? For tho’ we be not bound by the king’s voice In making of a king, yet the king’s voice Is much toward his making. Who inherits ? Edgar the Atheling ? Edward. No, no, but Harold. I love him : he hath served me: none but he Can rule all England. Yet the curse is on him For swearing falsely by those blessed bones; He did not mean to keep his vow. Harold. Not mean To make our England Norman. Edward. There spake Godwin, Who hated all the Normans ; but their Saints Have heard thee, Harold. Edith. Oh ! my lord, my king ! He knew not whom he sware by. Edward. Yea, I know He knew not, but those heavenly ears have heard, Their curse is on him ; wilt thou bring another, Edith, upon his head ? Edith. No, no, not I. Edward. Why then, thou must not wed him. Harold. Wherefore, wherefore ? Edward. O son, when thou didst tell me of thine oath, I sorrow’d for my random promise given To yon fox-lion. I did not dream then I should be king.—My son, the Saints are virgins ; They love the white rose of virginity, The cold, white lily blowing in her cell : I have been myself a virgin ; and I sware To consecrate my virgin here to heaven— The silent, cloister’d, solitary life, A life of life-long prayer against the curse That lies on thee and England. Harold. No, no, no. Edward. Treble denial of the tongue of flesh, Like Peter’s when he fell, and thou wilt have To wail for it like Peter. O my son ! Are all oaths to be broken then, all pro¬ mises Made in our agony for help from heaven ? Son, there is one who loves thee : and a wife, What matters who, so she be serviceable In all obedience, as mine own hath been: God bless thee, wedded daughter. [Laying his hand on the Queen’s head. Queen. Bless thou too That brother whom I love beyond the rest, My banish’d Tostig. Edward. All the sweet Saints bless him ! Spare and forbear him, Harold, if he comes ! And let him pass unscathed ; he loves me, Harold ! Be kindly to the Normans left among us, Who follow’d me for love ! and dear son, swear 560 HAROLD. ACT III. When thou art king, to see my solemn vow Accomplish’d. Harold. Nay, dear lord, for I have sworn Not to swear falsely twice. Edward. Thou wilt not swear ? Harold. I cannot. Edward. Then on thee remains the curse, Harold, if thou embrace her: and on thee, Edith, if thou abide it,— [The King swoons ; Edith falls and kneels by the couch. Stigand. He hath swoon’d ! Death ? . . . no, as yet a breath. Harold. Look up ! look up ! Edith ! Aldred. Confuse her not; she hath begun Her life-long prayer for thee. Aldwyth. O noble Harold, I would thou couldst have sworn. Harold. For thine own pleasure ? Aldwyth. No, but to please our dying king, and those Who make thy good their own—all England, Earl. Aldred. I would thou couldst have sworn. Our holy king Hath given his virgin lamb to Holy Church To save thee from the curse. Harold. Alas ! poor man, His promise brought it on me. Aldred. O good son ! That knowledge made him all the care- fuller To find a means whereby the curse might glance From thee and England. Harold. Father, we so loved— Aldred. The more the love, the mightier is the prayer ; The more the love, the more acceptable The sacrifice of both your loves to heaven. No sacrifice to heaven, no help from heaven ; That runs thro’ all the faiths of all the world. And sacrifice there must be, for the king Is holy, and hath talk’d with God, and seen A shadowing horror; there are signs in heaven— Harold. Your comet came and went. Aldred. And signs on earth ! Knowest thou Senlac hill ? Harold. I know all Sussex ; A good entrenchment for a perilous hour ! Aldred. Pray God that come not suddenly ! There is one Who passing by that hill three nights ago— He shook so that he scarce could out with it— Heard, heard— Harold. The wind in his hair ? Aldred. A ghostly horn Blowing continually, and faint battle- hymns, And cries, and clashes, and the groans of men; And dreadful shadows strove upon the hill, And dreadful lights crept up from out the marsh— Corpse - candles gliding over nameless graves— Harold. At Senlac? Aldred. Senlac. Edward (waking). Senlac! Sanguelac, The Lake of Blood ! Stigand. This lightning before death Plays on the word,—and Normanizes too ! Harold. Hush, father, hush ! Edward. Thou uncanonical fool, Wilt thou play with the thunder ? North and South Thunder together, showers of blood are blown Before a never ending blast, and hiss Against the blaze they cannot quench—a lake, A sea of blood—we are drown’d in blood —for God Has fill’d the quiver, and Death has drawn the bow— Sanguelac ! Sanguelac ! the arrow ! the arrow! [Dies. SCENE II. HAROLD. 56 Stigand. It is the arrow of death in his own heart— And our great Council wait to crown thee King. SCENE II. —In the Garden. The King’s House near London. Edith. Crown’d, crown’d and lost, crown’d King—and lost to me ! (Singing.) Two young lovers in winter weather, None to guide them, Walk’d at night on the misty heather; Night, as black as a raven’s feather; Both were lost and found together, None beside them. That is the burthen of it—lost and found Together in the cruel river Swale A hundred years ago; and there’s another, Lost, lost, the light of day, To which the lover answers lovingly * I am beside thee.’ Lost, lost, we have lost the way. ‘ Love, I will guide thee. ’ Whither, O whither ? into the river, Where we two may be lost together, And lost for ever ? ‘ Oh ! never, oh! never, Tho’ we be lost and be found together. ’ Some think they loved within the pale forbidden By Holy Church : but who shall say ? the truth Was lost in that fierce North, where they were lost, Where all good things are lost, where Tostig lost The good hearts of his people. It is Harold ! (Enter Harold.) Harold the King! Harold. Call me not King, but Harold. Edith. Nay, thou art King ! Harold. Thine, thine, or King or churl ! My girl, thou hast been weeping: turn not thou Thy face away, but rather let me be King of the moment to thee, and command That kiss my due when subject, which will make My kingship kinglier to me than to reign King of the world without it. Edith. Ask me not, Lest I should yield it, and the second curse Descend upon thine head, and thou be only King of the moment over England. Harold. Edith, Tho’ somewhat less a king to my true self Than ere they crown’d me one, for I have lost Somewhat of upright stature thro’ mine oath, Yet thee I would not lose, and sell not thou Our living passion for a dead man’s dream; Stigand believed he knew not what he spake. Oh God ! I cannot help it, but at times They seem to me too narrow, all the faiths Of this grown world of ours, whose baby eye Saw them sufficient. Fool and wise, I fear This curse, and scorn it. But a little light !— And on it falls the shadow of the priest; Heaven yield us more ! for better, Woden, all Our cancell’d warrior-gods, our grim Walhalla, Eternal war, than that the Saints at peace The Holiest of our Holiest one should be This William’s fellow-tricksters ;—better die Than credit this, for death is death, or else Lifts us beyond the lie. Kiss me—thou art not A holy sister yet, my girl, to fear There might be more than brother in my kiss, And more than sister in thine own. 2 O 562 HAROLD. ACT III. Edith. I dare not. Harold. Scared by the church— ‘ Love for a whole life long ’ When was that sung? Edith. Here to the nightingales. Harold. Their anthems of no church, how sweet-they are ! Nor kingly priest, nor priestly king to cross Their billings ere they nest. Edith. They are but of spring, They fly the winter change—not so with us— No wings to come and go. Harold. But wing’d souls flying Beyond all change and in the eternal distance To settle on the Truth. Edith. They are not so true, They change their mates. Harold. Do they ? I did not know it. Edith. They say thou art to wed the Lady Aldwyth. Harold. They say, they say. Edith. If this be politic, And well for thee and England—and for her— Care not for me who love thee. Gurth [calling). Harold, Harold ! Harold. The voice of Gurth ! [Enter Gurth.) Good even, my good brother! Gurth. Good even, gentle Edith. Edith. Good even, Gurth. Gurth. Ill news hath come! Our hapless brother, Tostig— He, and the giant King of Norway, Harold Ilardrada — Scotland, Ireland, Iceland, Orkney, Are landed North of Humber, and in a field So packt with carnage that the dykes and brooks Were bridged and damm’d with dead, have overthrown Morcar and Edwin. Harold. Well then, we must fight. How blows the wind? Gurth. Against St. Valery And William. Harold. Well then, we will to the North. Gurth. Ay, but worse news: this William sent to Rome, Swearing thou swarest falsely by his Saints: The Pope and that Archdeacon Hilde¬ brand His master, heard him, and have sent him back A holy gonfanon, and a blessed hair Of Peter, and all France, all Burgundy, Poitou, all Christendom is raised against thee; He hath cursed thee, and all those who fight for thee, And given thy realm of England to the bastard. Harold. Ha ! ha ! Edith. Oh ! laugh not! . . . Strange and ghastly in the gloom And shadowing of this double thunder¬ cloud That lours on England—laughter ! Harold. No, not strange ! This was old human laughter in old Rome Before a Pope was born, when that which reign’d Call’d itself God.—A kindly rendering Of ‘Render unto Caesar.’.The Good Shepherd ! Take this, and render that. Gurth. They have taken York. Harold. The Lord was God and came as man—the Pope Is man and comes as God.—York taken ? Gurth. Yea, Tostig hath taken York ! Harold. To York then. Edith, Hadst thou been braver, I had better braved All—but I love thee and thou me—and that Remains beyond all chances and all churches, And that thou knowest. Edith. Ay, but take back thy ring. SCENE I. HAROLD. 563 It burns my hand—a curse to thee and me. I dare not wear it. [Proffers Harold the ring , which he takes. Harold . But I dare. God with thee ! [.Exeunt Harold and Gurth. Edith. The King hath cursed him, if he marry me ; The Pope hath cursed him, marry me or no ! God help me ! I know nothing—can but pray For Harold—pray, pray, pray—no help but prayer, A breath that fleets beyond this iron world, And touches Him that made it. ACT IV. SCENE I. — In Northumbria. Archbishop Aldred, Morcar,Edwin, and Forces. Enter Harold. The standard of the golden Dragon of Wes¬ sex preceding him. Harold. What! are thy people sullen from defeat ? Our Wessex dragon flies beyond the Humber, No voice to greet it. Edwin. Let not our great king Believe us sullen — only shamed to the quick Before the king—as having been so bruised By Harold, king of Norway; but our help Is Harold, king of England. Pardon us, thou ! Our silence is our reverence for the king! Harold. Earl of the Mercians ! if the truth be gall, Cram me not thou with honey, when our good hive Needs every sting to save it. Voices. Aldwyth ! Aldwyth ! Harold. Why cry thy people on thy sister’s name ? Morcar. She hath won upon our people thro’ her beauty, And pleasantness among them. Voices. Aldwyth, Aldwyth ! Harold. They shout as they would have her for a queen. Morcar. She hath followed with our host, and suffer’d all. Harold. What would ye, men ? Voice. Our old Northumbrian crown, And kings of our own choosing. Harold. Your old crown Were little help without our Saxon carles Against Hardrada. Voice. Little ! we are Danes, Who conquer’d what we walk on, our own field. Harold. They have been plotting here ! [Aside. Voice. He calls us little ! Harold. The kingdoms of this world began with little, A hill, a fort, a city—that reach’d a hand Down to the field beneath it, ‘ Be thou mine,’ Then to the next, ‘Thou also!’ If the field Cried out ‘I am mine own another hill Or fort, or city, took it, and the first Fell, and the next became an Empire. Voice. Yet Thou art but a West Saxon: we are Danes! Harold. My mother is a Dane, and I am English ; There is a pleasant fable in old books, Ye take a stick, and break it; bind a score All in one faggot, snap it over knee, Ye cannot. Voice. Hear King Harold ! he says true ! Harold. Would ye be Norsemen? Voices. No! Harold. Or Norman ? Voices. No ! Harold. Snap not the faggot-band then. Voice. That is true ! Voice. Ay, but thou art not kingly, only grandson To Wulfnoth, a poor cow-herd. Harold. This old Wulfnoth Would take me on his knees and tell me tales Of Alfred and of Athelstan the Great 564 HAROLD. ACT IV. Who drove you Danes ; and yet he held that Dane, Jute, Angle, Saxon, were or should be all One England, for this cow-herd, like my father, Who shook the Norman scoundrels off the throne, Had in him kingly thoughts—a king of men, Not made but born, like the great king of all, A light among the oxen. Voice. That is true ! Voice. Ay, and I love him now, for mine own father Was great, and cobbled. Voice. Thou art Tostig’s brother. Who wastes the land. Harold. This brother comes to save Your land from waste ; I saved it once before, For when your people banish’d Tostig hence, And Edward would have sent a host against you, Then I, who loved my brother, bad the king Who doted on him, sanction your decree Of Tostig’s banishment, and choice of Morcar, To help the realm from scattering. Voice. King ! thy brother, If one may dare to speak the truth, was wrong’d. Wild was he, born so: but the plots against him Had madden’d tamer men. Morcar. Thou art one of those Who brake into Lord Tostig’s treasure- house And slew two hundred of his following, And now, when Tostig hath come back with power, Are frighted back to Tostig. Old Thane. Ugh ! Plots and feuds ! This is my ninetieth birthday. Can ye not Be brethren ? Godwin still at feud with Alfgar, And Alfgar hates King Harold. Plots and feuds ! This is my ninetieth birthday ! Harold. Old man, Harold Hates nothing ; not his fault, if our two houses Be less than brothers. Voices. Aldwyth, Harold, Aldwyth ! Harold. Again ! Morcar ! Edwin l What do they mean ? Edwin. So the good king would deign to lend an ear Not overscornful, we might chance—per¬ chance— To guess their meaning. Morcar. Thine own meaning, Harold, To make all England one, to close all feuds, Mixing our bloods, that thence a king may rise Half-Godwin and half-Alfgar, one to rule All England beyond question, beyond quarrel. Harold. Who sow’d this fancy here among the people ? Morcar. Who knows what sows itself among the people ? A goodly flower at times. Harold. The Queen of Wales ? Why, Morcar, it is all but duty in her To hate me; I have heard she hates me. Morcar. No ! For I can swear to that, but cannot swear That these will follow thee against the Norsemen, If thou deny them this. Harold. Morcar and Edwin, When will ye cease to plot against my house ? Edwin. The king can scarcely dream that we, who know His prowess in the mountains of the West, Should care to plot against him in the North. Morcar. Who dares arraign us, king, of such a plot ? Harold. Ye heard one witness even now. Morcar. The craven ! There is a faction risen again for Tostig, Since Tostig came with Norway—fright not love. SCENE I. HAROLD. 565 Harold. Morcar and Edwin, will ye, if I yield, Follow against the Norseman? Morcar. Surely, surely ! Harold. Morcar and Edwin, will ye upon oath, Help us against the Norman ? Morcar. With good will; Yea, take the Sacrament upon it, king. Harold. Where is thy sister ? Morcar. Somewhere hard at hand. Call and she comes. [ One goes out, then enter Aldwyth. Harold. I doubt not but thou knowest Why thou art summon’d. Aldwyth. Why?—I stay with these, Lest thy fierce Tostig spy me out alone, And flay me all alive. Harold. Canst thou love one Who did discrown thine husband, unqueen thee ? Didst thou not love thine husband ? Aldwyth. Oh ! my lord, The nimble, wild, red, wiry, savage king— That was, my lord, a match of policy. Harold. Was it ? I knew him brave : he loved his land : he fain Had made her great: his finger cn her harp (I heard him more than once) had in it Wales, Her floods, her woods, her hills : had I been his, I had been all Welsh. Aldwyth. Oh, ay—all Welsh—and yet I saw thee drive him up his hills—and women Cling to the conquer’d, if they love, the more ; If not, they cannot hate the conqueror. We never—oh ! good Morcar, speak for us, His conqueror conquer’d Aldwyth. Harold. Goodly news! Morcar. Doubt it not thou ! Since Griffyth’s head was sent To Edward, she hath said it. Harold. I had rather She would have loved her husband. Aldwyth, Aldwyth, Canst thou love me, thou knowing where I love ? Aldwyth. I can, my lord, for mine own sake, for thine, For England, for thy poor white dove, who flutters Between thee and the porch, but then would find Her nest within the cloister, and be still. Harold. Canst thou love one, who cannot love again ? Aldwyth. Full hope have I that love will answer love. Harold. Then in the name of the great God, so be it! Come, Aldred, join our hands before the hosts, That all may see. [Aldred joins the hands of Harold and Aldwyth and blesses them. Voices. Harold, Harold and Aldwyth ! Harold. Set forth our golden Dragon, let him flap The wings that beat down Wales ! Advance our Standard of the Warrior, Dark among gems and gold ; and thou, brave banner, Blaze like a night of fatal stars on those Who read their doom and die. Where lie the Norsemen? on the Der¬ went ? ay At Stamford-bridge. Morcar, collect thy men; Edwin, my friend— Thou lingerest.—Gurth,— Last night King Edward came to me in dreams— The rosy face and long down-silvering beard— He told me I should conquer:— I am no woman to put faith in dreams. (To his army). Last night King Edward came to me in dreams. And told me we should conquer. Voices. Forward ! Forward ! Harold and Holy Cross ! Aldwyth. The day is won ! 566 HAROLD. ACT IV. SCENE II.— A Plain. Before the Battle of Stamford-Bridge. Harold and his Guard. Harold. Who is it comes this way ? Tostig ? ( Enter Tostig with a small force.) O brother, What art thou doing here ? Tostig. I am foraging For Norway’s army. Harold. I could take and slay thee. Thou art in arms against us. Tostig. Take and slay me, For Edward loved me. Harold. Edward bad me spare thee. Tostig. I hate King Edward, for he join’d with thee To drive me outlaw’d. Take and slay me, I say, Or I shall count thee fool. Harold. Take thee, or free thee, Free thee or slay thee, Norway will have war ; No man would strike with Tostig, save for Norway. Thou art nothing in thine England, save for Norway, Who loves not thee but war. What dost thou here, Trampling thy mother’s bosom into blood? Tostig. She hath wean’d me from it with such bitterness. I come for mine own Earldom, my Northumbria j Thou hast given it to the enemy of our house. Harold. Northumbria threw thee off, she will not have thee, Thou hast misused her : and, O crowning crime ! Hast murder’d thine own guest, the son of Orm, Gamel, at thine own hearth. Tostig. The slow, fat fool ! He drawl’d and prated so, I smote him suddenly, I knew not what I did. He held with Morcar. — I hate myself for all things that I do. Harold. And Morcar holds with us. Come back with him. Know what thou dost ; and we may find for thee, So thou be chasten’d by thy banishment, Some easier earldom. Tostig. What for Norway then ? He looks for land among us, he and his. Harold. Seven feet of English land, or something more, Seeing he is a giant. Tostig. That is noble ! That sounds of Godwin. Harold. Come thou back, and be Once more a son of Godwin. Tostig (turns away). O brother, brother, O Harold—- Harold (laying his hand on Tostig’s shoulder). Nay then, come thou back to us ! Tostig (after a pause turning to him). Never shall any man say that I, that Tostig Conjured the mightier Harold from his North To do the battle for me here in England, Then left him for the meaner ! thee !— Thou hast no passion for the House of Godwin— Thou hast but cared to make thyself a king— Thou hast sold me for a cry.— Thou gavest thy voice against me in the Council— I hate thee, and despise thee, and defy thee. Farewell for ever ! [Exit. Harold. On to Stamford-bridge ! SCENE III. After the Battle of Stamford- Bridge. Banquet. Harold and Aldwyth. Gurth, Leofwin, Morcar, Edwin, and other Earls and Thanes. Voices. Hail ! Harold ! Aldwyth ! hail, bridegroom and bride ! SCENE III. HAROLD. 5 67 Aldwyth (talking with Harold). An¬ swer them thou! Is this our marriage-banquet ? Would the wines Of wedding had been dash’d into the cups Of victory, and our marriage and thy glory Been drunk together ! these poor hands but sew, Spin, broider—would that they were man’s to have held The battle-axe by thee ! Harold. There was a moment When being forced aloof from all my guard, And striking at Hardrada and his mad¬ men I had wish’d for any weapon. Aldwyth. Why art thou sad ? Harold. I have lost the boy who play’d at ball with me, With whom I fought another fight than this Of Stamford-bridge. Aldwyth. Ay ! ay ! thy victories Over our own poor Wales, when at thy side He conquer’d with thee. Harold. No—the childish fist That cannot strike again. Aldwyth. Thou art too kindly. Why didst thou let so many Norsemen hence ? Thy fierce forekings had clench’d their pirate hides To the bleak church doors, like kites upon a barn. Harold. Is there so great a need to tell thee why ? Aldwyth. Yea, am I not thy wife? Voices. Hail, Harold, Aldwyth ! Bridegroom and bride ! Aldwyth. Answer them! [To Harold. Harold [to all). Earls and Thanes ! Full thanks for your fair greeting of my bride ! Earls, Thanes, and all our countrymen! the day, Our day beside the Derwent will not shine Less than a star among the goldenest hours Of Alfred, or of Edward his great son, Or Athelstan, or English Ironside Who fought with Knut, or Knut who coming Dane Died English. Every man about his king Fought like a king ; the king like his own man, No better ; one for all, and all for one, One soul! and therefore have we shatter’d back The hugest wave from Norseland ever yet Surged on us, and our battle-axes broken The Raven’s wing, and dumb’d his carrion croak From the gray sea for ever. Many are gone— Drink to the dead who died for us, the living Who fought and would have died, but happier lived, If happier be to live ; they both have life In the large mouth of England, till her voice Die with the world. Hail—hail! Morcar. May all invaders perish like Hardrada ! All traitors fail like Tostig ! [All drink but Harold. Aldwyth. Thy cup’s full! Harold. I saw the hand of Tostig cover it. Our dear, dead, traitor-brother, Tostig, him Reverently we buried. Friends, had I been here, Without too large self-lauding I must hold The sequel had been other than his league With Norway, and this battle. Peace be with him ! He was not of the worst. If there be those At banquet in this hall, and hearing me— For there be those I fear who prick’d the lion To make him spring, that sight of Danish blood Might serve an end not English—peace with them Likewise, if they can be at peace with what God gave us to divide us from the wolf! 568 HAROLD. ACT IV. Aldwyth (aside to Harold). Make not our Morcar sullen: it is not wise. Harold. Hail to the living who fought, the dead who fell ! Voices. Hail, hail! First Thane. How ran that answer which King Harold gave To his dead namesake, when he ask’d for England ? Leofwin. ‘ Seven feet of English earth, or something more, Seeing he is a giant ! ’ First Thane. Then for the bastard Six feet and nothing more ! Leofivin. Ay, but belike Thou hast not learnt his measure. First Thane. By St. Edmund I over-measure him. Sound sleep to the man Here by dead Norway without dream or dawn ! Second Thane. What is he bragging still that he will come To thrust our Harold’s throne from under him? My nurse would tell me of a molehill crying To a mountain ‘ Stand aside and room for me! ’ First Thane. Let him come ! let him come. Here’s to him, sink or swim! [Drinks. Second Thane. God sink him ! First Thane. Cannot hands which had the strength To shove that stranded iceberg off our shores, And send the shatter’d North again to sea, Scuttle his cockle-shell ? What’s Brun- anburg To Stamford-bridge ? a war-crash, and so hard, So loud, that, by St. Dunstan, old St. Thor— By God, we thought him dead—but our old Thor Heard his own thunder again, and woke and came Among us again, and mark’d the sons of those Who made this Britain England, break the North : Mark’d how the war-axe swang, Heard how the war-horn sang, Mark’d how the spear-head sprang, Heard how the shield-wall rang, Iron on iron clang, Anvil on hammer bang— Second Thane. Hammer on anvil, hammer on anvil. Old dog, Thou art drunk, old dog ! First Thane. Too drunk to fight with thee! Second Thane. Fight thou with thine own double, not with me, Keep that for Norman William ! First Thane. Down with William ! Third Thane. The washerwoman’s brat ! Fourth Thane. The tanner’s bastard ! Fifth Thane. The Falaise byblow ! [Enter a TYizne,f'om Pevensey , spat¬ ter'd with mud. Harold. Ay, but what late guest, As haggard as a fast of forty days, And caked and plaster’d with a hundred mires, Hath stumbled on our cups ? Thane from Pevensey. My lord the King! William the Norman, for the wind had changed— Harold. I felt it in the middle of that fierce fight At Stamford-bridge. William hath landed, ha? Thane from Pevensey. Landed at Pevensey—I am from Pevensey— Hath wasted all the land at Pevensey— Hath harried mine own cattle—God con¬ found him ! I have ridden night and day from Peven¬ sey— A thousand ships—a hundred thousand men— Thousands of horses, like as many lions SCENE ITT. HAROLD. 569 Neighing and roaring as they leapt to land— Harold. How oft in coming hast thou broken bread ? Thane from Pevensey. Some thrice, or so. Harold. Bring not thy hollowness On our full feast. Famine is fear, were it but Of being starved. Sit down, sit down, and eat, And, when again red-blooded, speak again; (Aside.) The men that guarded Eng¬ land to the South Were scatter’d to the harvest. ... No power mine To hold their force together. . . . Many are fallen At Stamford - bridge . . . the people stupid-sure Sleep like their swine ... in South and North at once I could not be. (Aloud.) Gurth, Leofwin, Morcar, Edwin ! (Pointing to the revellers.) The curse of England ! these are drown’d in wassail, And cannot see the world but thro’ their wines ! Leave them ! and thee too, Aldwyth, must I leave— Harsh is the news! hard is our honeymoon! Thy pardon. ( Turning round to his attendants.) Break the banquet up ... Ye four ! And thou, my carrier-pigeon of black news, Cram thy crop full, but come when thou art call’d. [Exit Harold. ACT V. SCENE I. —A Tent on a Mound, FROM WHICH CAN BE SEEN THE Field of Senlac. Harold, sitting; by him standing Hugh Margot the Monk, Gurth, Leofwin. Harold. Refer my cause, my crown to Rome ! . . . The wolf Mudded the brook and predetermined all. Monk, Thou hast said thy say, and had my constant ‘ No ’ For all but instant battle. I hear no more. Margot. Hear me again—for the last time. Arise, Scatter thy people home, descend the hill, Lay hands of full allegiance in thy Lord’s And crave his mercy, for the Holy Father Hath given this realm of England to the Norman. Harold. Then for the last time, monk, I ask again When had the Lateran and the Holy Father To do with England’s choice of her own king ? Margot. Earl, the first Christian Caesar drew to the East To leave the Pope dominion in the West. He gave him all the kingdoms of the West. Harold. So!—did he?—Earl—I have a mind to play The William with thine eyesight and thy tongue. Earl—ay—thou art but a messenger of William. I am weary—go : make me not wroth with thee ! Margot. Mock-king, I am the mes¬ senger of God, His Norman Daniel! Mene, Mene, Tekel ! Is thy wrath Hell, that I should spare to cry, Yon heaven is wroth with thee ? Hear me again ! Our Saints have moved . the Church that moves the world, And all the Heavens and very God : they heard— They know King Edward’s promise and thine—thine. Harold. Should they not know free England crowns herself? Not know that he nor I had power to promise ? Not know that Edward caneell’d his own promise ? 57° HAROLD. ACT V. And for my part therein—Back to that juggler, [Rising. Tell him the Saints are nobler than he dreams, Tell him that God is nobler than the Saints, And tell him we stand arm’d on Senlac Hill, And bide the doom of God. Margot. Hear it thro’ me. The realm for which thou art forsworn is cursed, The babe enwomb’d and at the breast is cursed, The corpse thou whelmest with thine earth is cursed, The soul who fighteth on thy side is cursed, The seed thou sowest in thy field is cursed, The steer wherewith thou plowest thy field is cursed, The fowl that fleeth o’er thy field is cursed, And thou, usurper, liar— Harold. Out, beast monk ! [.Lifting his hand to strike him. Gurth stops the blow. I ever hated monks. Margot. I am but a voice Among you : murder, martyr me if ye will— Harold. Thanks, Gurth ! The simple, silent, selfless man Is worth a world of tonguesters. [To Margot.) Get thee gone ! He means the thing he says. See him out safe ! Leofwin. He hath blown himself as red as fire with curses. An honest fool ! Follow me, honest fool, But if thou blurt thy curse among our folk, I know not—I may give that egg-bald head The tap that silences. Harold. See him out safe. [Exeunt Leofwin and Margot. Gurth. Thou hast lost thine even temper, brother Harold ! Harold. Gurth, when I past by Waltham, my foundation For men who serve the neighbour, not themselves, I cast me down prone, praying ; and, when I rose, They told me that the Holy Rood had lean’d And bow’d above me; whether that which held it Had weaken’d, and the Rood itself were bound To that necessity which binds us down ; Whether it bow’d at all but in their fancy; Or if it bow’d, whether it symbol’d ruin Or glory, who shall tell ? but they were sad, And somewhat sadden’d me. Gurth. Yet if a fear, Or shadow of a fear, lest the strange Saints By whom thou swarest, should have power to balk Thy puissance in this fight with him, who made And heard thee swear—brother—/have not sworn— If the king fall, may not the kingdom fall ? But if I fall, I fall, and thou art king ; And, if I win, I win, and thou art king; Draw thou to London, there make strength to breast Whatever chance, but leave this day to me. Leofwin [entering). And waste the land about thee as thou goest, And be thy hand as winter on the field, To leave the foe no forage. Harold. Noble Gurth ! Best son of Godwin ! If I fall, I fall— The doom of God ! How should the people fight When the king flies ? And, Leofwin, art thou mad ? How should the King of England waste the fields Of England, his own people ?—No glance yet Of the Northumbrian helmet on the heath ? Leofwin. No, but a shoal of wives upon the heath, And someone saw thy willy-nilly nun Vying a tress against our golden fern. SCENE I. HAROLD. 57i Harold. Vying a tear with our cold dews, a sigh With these low-moaning heavens. Let her be fetch’d. We have parted from our wife without reproach, Tho’ we have pierced thro’ all her practices; And that is well. Leofwin. I saw her even now : She hath not left us. Harold . Nought of Morcar then ? Gurth. Nor seen, nor heard ; thine, William’s or his own As wind blows, or tide flows : belike he watches, If this war-storm in one of its rough rolls Wash up that old crown of Northumber¬ land. Harold. I married her for Morcar—a sin against The truth of love. Evil for good, it seems, Is oft as childless of the good as evil For evil. Leofwin. Good for good hath borne at times A bastard false as William. Harold. Ay, if Wisdom Pair’d not with Good. But I am some¬ what worn, A snatch of sleep were like the peace of God. Gurth, Leofwin, go once more about the hill— What did the dead man call it—Sanguelac, The lake of blood ? Leofwin. A lake that dips in William As well as Harold. Harold. Like enough. I have seen The trenches dug, the palisades uprear’d And wattled thick with ash and willow- wands ; Yea, wrought at them myself. Go round once more ; See all be sound and whole. No Norman horse Can shatter England, standing shield by shield ; Tell that again to all. Gurth. I will, good brother. Harold. Our guardsman hath but toil’d his hand and foot, I hand, foot, heart and head. Some wine ! ( One pours wine into a goblet which he hands to Harold.) Too much ! What? we must use our battle-axe to¬ day. Our guardsmen have slept well, since we came in ? Leofwin. Ay, slept and snored. Your second-sighted man That scared the dying conscience of the king, Misheard their snores for groans. They are up again And chanting that old song of Brunanburg Where England conquer’d. Harold. That is well. The Nocman, What is he doing? Leofwin. Praying for Normandy ; Our scouts have heard the tinkle of their bells. Harold. And our old songs are prayers for England too ! But by all Saints— Leofwin. Barring the Norman ! Harold. Nay, Were the great trumpet blowing dooms¬ day dawn, I needs must rest. Call when the Norman moves— [Exeunt all , but Harold. No horse—thousands of horses—our shield wall— Wall—break it not—break not—break— [Sleeps. Vision of Edward. Son Harold, I thy king, who came before To tell thee thou shouldst win at Stam¬ ford-bridge, Come yet once more, from where I am at peace, Because I loved thee in my mortal day, To tell thee thou shalt die on Senlac hill— Sanguelac! Vision of Wulfnoth. O brother, from my ghastly oubliette I send my voice across the nanrow seas— 572 HAROLD. ACT V. No more, no more, dear brother, never¬ more— Sanguelac ! Vision of Tostig. O brother, most unbrotherlike to me, Thou gavest thy voice against me in my life, I give my voice against thee from the grave— Sanguelac ! Vision of Norman Saints. O hapless Harold ! King but for an hour ! Thou swarest falsely by our blessed bones, We give our voice against thee out of heaven ! Sanguelac ! Sanguelac ! The arrow ! the arrow! Harold {starting up , battle-axe in hand). Away! My battle-axe against your voices. Peace ! The king’s last word—‘ the arrow ! ’ I shall die— I die for England then, who lived for England— What nobler ? men must die. I cannot fall into a falser world— I have done no man wrong. Tostig, poor brother, Art thou so anger’d ? Fain had I kept thine earldom in thy hands Sare for thy wild and violent will that wrench’d All hearts of freemen from thee. I could do No other than this way advise the king Against the race of Godwin. Is it possible That mortal men should bear their earthly heats Into yon bloodless world, and threaten us thence Unschool’d of Death ? Thus then thou art revenged— I left our England naked to the South To meet thee in the North. The Norse¬ man’s raid Hath helpt the Norman, and the race of Godwin Hath ruin’d Godwin. No—our waking thoughts Suffer a stormless shipwreck in the pools Of sullen slumber, and arise again Disjointed : only dreams—where mine own self Takes part against myself ! Why? for a spark Of self-disdain born in me when I sware Falsely to him, the falser Norman, over His gilded ark of mummy-saints, by whom I knew not that I sware,—not for my¬ self— For England—yet not wholly— {Enter Edith.) Edith, Edith, Get thou into thy cloister as the king Will’d it: be safe: the perjury-mongering Count Hath made too good an use of Holy Church To break her close ! There the great God of truth Fill all thine hours with peace !—A lying devil Hath haunted me—mine oath—my wife —I fain Had made my marriage not a lie ; I could not: Thou art my bride! and thou in after years Praying perchance for this poor soul of mine. In cold, white cells beneath an icy moon— This memoiy to thee!—and this to England, My legacy of war against the Pope From child to child, from Pope to Pope, from age to age, Till the sea wash her level with her shores, Or till the Pope be Christ’s. Enter Aldwyth. Aldwyth {to Edith). Away from him ! Edith. I will . . . I have not spoken to the king One word ; and one I must. Farewell ! [Going. Harold. Not yet. Stay. Edith. To what use? SCENE I. HAROLD. 573 Harold. The king commands thee, woman ! (To Aldwyth.) Have thy two brethren sent their forces in ? Aldwyth. Nay, I fear not. Harold. Then there’s no force in thee! Thou didst possess thyself of Edward’s ear To part me from the woman that I loved ! Thou didst arouse the fierce Northum¬ brians ! Thou hast been false to England and to me !— As ... in some sort ... I have been false to thee. Leave me. No more—Pardon on both sides—Go! Aldwyth. Alas, my lord, I loved thee. Harold {bitterly). With a love Passing thy love for Griffyth ! wherefore now Obey my first and last commandment. Go! Aldwyth. O Harold! husband ! Shall we meet again ? Harold. After the battle—after the battle. Go. Aldwyth. I go. {Aside.) That I could stab her standing there ! [Exit Aldwyth. Edith. Alas, my lord, she loved thee. Harold. Never ! never ! Edith. I saw it in her eyes ! Harold. I see it in thine. And not on thee — nor England—fall God’s doom ! Edith. On thee ? on me. And thou art England ! Alfred Was England. Ethelred was nothing. England Is but her king, and thou art Harold ! Harold. Edith, The sign in heaven—the sudden blast at sea— My fatal oath—the dead Saints—the dark dreams— The Pope’s Anathema—the Holy Rood That bow’d to me at Waltham—Edith, if I, the last English King of England— Edith. No, First of a line that coming from the people, And chosen by the people— Harold. And fighting for And dying for the people— Edith. Living ! living ! Harold. Yea so, good cheer ! thou art Harold, I am Edith! Look not thus wan ! Edith. What matters how I look ? Have we not broken Wales and Norse- land ? slain, Whose life was all one battle, incarnate war. Their giant-king, a mightier man-in-arms Than William. Harold. Ay, my girl, no tricks in him— No bastard he ! when all was lost, he yell’d, And bit his shield, and dash’d it on the ground, And swaying his two-handed sword about him, Two deaths at every swing, ran in upon us And died so, and I loved him as I hate This liar who made me liar. If Hate can kill, And Loathing wield a Saxon battle-axe—■ Edith. Waste not thy might before the battle ! Harold. No, And thou must hence. Stigand will see thee safe, And so—Farewell. [He is going ; but turns back. The ring thou darest not wear, I have had it fashion’d, see, to meet my hand. [Harold shows the ring which is on his finger. Farewell! [He is going , but turns back again. I am dead as Death this day to ought of earth’s Save William’s death or mine. Edith. Thy death !—to-day ! Is it not thy birthday ? Harold. Ay, that happy day 1 A birthday welcome ! happy days and many ! One—this ! [They embrace. 574 HAROLD. ACT V. Look, I will bear thy blessing into the battle And front the doom of God. Norman cries {heard in the distance). Ha Rou ! Ha Rou 1 Enter Gurth. Gurth. The Norman moves ! Harold. Harold and Holy Cross ! \Exeunt Harold and Gurth. Enter Stigand. Stigand. Our Church in arms—the lamb the lion—not Spear into pruning-hook—the counter, way— Cowl, helm; and crozier, battle-axe. Abbot Alfwig, Leofric, and all the monks of Peterboro’ Strike for the king; but I, old wretch, old Stigand, With hands too limp to brandish iron— and yet I have a power—would Harold ask me for it— I have a power. Edith. What power, holy father? Stigand. Power now from Harold to command thee hence And see thee safe from Senlac. Edith. I remain ! Stigand. Yea, so will I, daughter, until I find Which way the battle balance. I can see it From where we stand : and, live or die, I would I were among them ! Canons from Waltham {singing without ). Salva patriam Sancte Pater, Salva Fili, Salva Spiritus, Salva patriam, Sancta Mater. 1 1 The a throughout these Latin hymns should be sounded broad, as in ‘ father.’ Edith. Are those the blessed angels quiring, father? Stigand. No, daughter, but the canons out of Waltham, The king’s foundation, that have follow’d him. Edith. O God of battles, make their wall of shields Firm as thy cliffs, strengthen their palisades ! What is that whirring sound ? Stigand. The Norman arrow ! Edith. Look out upon the battle—is he safe ? Stigand. The king of England stands between his banners. He glitters on the crowning of the hill. God save King Harold 1 Edith. —chosen by his people And fighting for his people ! Stigand. There is one Come as Goliath came of yore—he flings His brand in air and catches it again, He is chanting some old warsong. Edith. And no David To meet him ? Stigand. Ay, there springs a Saxon on him, Falls—and another falls. Edith. Have mercy on us ! Stigand. Lo ! our good Gurth hath smitten him to the death. Edith. So perish all the enemies of Harold ! Canons {singing). Hostis in Angliam Ruit praedator, Illorum, Domine, Scutum scindatur ! Hostis per Angliae Plagas bacchatur; Casa crematur, Pastor fugatur Grex trucidatur— Stigand. Illos trucida, Domine. Edith. Ay, good father. Canons {singing). Illorum scelera Poena sequatur 1 SCENE I. HAROLD. 575 English cries. Harold and Holy Cross ! Out ! out ! Stigand. Our javelins Answer their arrows. All the Norman foot Are storming up the hill. The range of knights Sit, each a statue on his horse, and wait. English cries. Harold and God Al¬ mighty ! Norman cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! Canons {singing). Eques cum pedite Praepediatur ! Riorum in lacrymas Cruor fundatur ! Pereant, pereant, Anglia precatur. Stigand. Look, daughter, look. Edith. Nay, father, look for me! Stigand. Our axes lighten with a single flash About the summit of the hill, and heads And arms are sliver’d off and splinter’d by Their lightning—and they fly—the Nor¬ man flies. Edith. Stigand, O father, have we won the day ? Stigand. No, daughter, no—they fall behind the horse— Their horse are thronging to the bar¬ ricades ; I see the gonfanon of Holy Peter Floating above their helmets—ha ! he is down ! Edith. He down ! Who down ? Stigand. The Norman Count is down. Edith. So perish all the enemies of England ! Stigand. No, no, he hath risen again —he bares his face— Shouts something—he points onward— all their horse Swallow the hill locust-like, swarming up. Edith. O God of battles, make his battle-axe keen As thine own sharp-dividing justice, heavy As thine own bolts that fall on crimeful heads Charged with the weight of heaven where¬ from they fall 1 Canons [singing). Jacta tonitrua Deus bellator ! Surgas e tenebris, Sis vindicator ! Fulmina, fulmina Deus vastator ! Edith. O God of battles, they are three to one, Make thou one man as three to roll them down ! Canons [singing). Equus cum equite Dejiciatur ! Acies, Acies Prona sternatur ! Riorum lanceas Frange Creator ! Stigand. Yea, yea, for how their lances snap and shiver Against the shifting blaze of Harold’s axe! War-woodman of old Woden, how he fells The mortal copse of faces ! There ! And there ! The horse and horseman cannot meet the shield, The blow that brains the horseman cleaves the horse, The horse and horseman roll along the hill, They fly once more, they fly, the Norman flies ! Equus cum equite Prsecipitatur. Edith. O God, the God of truth hath heard my cry. Follow them, follow them, drive them to the sea ! Riorum scelera Poena sequatur ! Stigand. Truth ! no ; a lie ; a trick, a Norman trick ! They turn on the pursuer, horse against foot, They murder all that follow. Edith. Have mercy on us! 576 HAROLD. act v. Stigand. Hot-headed fools—to burst the wall of shields ! They have broken the commandment of the king ! Edith. His oath was broken—O holy Norman Saints, Ye that are now of heaven, and see beyond Your Norman shrines, pardon it, pardon it, That he forsware himself for all he loved, Me, me and all ! Look out upon the battle ! Stigand. They thunder again upon the barricades. My sight is eagle, but the strife so thick— This is the hottest of it: hold, ash ! hold, willow! English cries. Out, out! Norman cries. Ha Rou ! Stigand. Ha ! Gurth hath leapt upon him And slain him : he hath fallen. Edith. And I am heard. Glory to God in the Highest! fallen, fallen ! Stigand. No, no, his horse — he mounts another—wields His war-club, dashes it on Gurth, and Gurth, Our noble Gurth, is down ! Edith. Have mercy on us ! Stigand. And Leofwin is down ! Edith. Have mercy on us ! O Thou that knowest, let not my strong prayer Be weaken’d in thy sight, because I love The husband of another ! Norman cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! Edith. I do not hear our English war-cry. Stigand. No. Edith (cries out). Harold and Holy Cross ! Norman cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! Edith. What is that whirring sound ? Stigand. The Norman sends his arrows up to Heaven, They fall on those within the palisade ! Edith. Look out upon the hill—is Harold there? Stigand. Sanguelac—Sanguelac—the arrow—the arrow !—away ! SCENE II.— Field of the Dead. Night. Aldwyth and Edith. Aldwyth. O Edith, art thou here ? O Harold, Harold— Our Harold—we shall never see him more. Edith. For there was more than sister in my kiss, And so the saints were wroth. I cannot love them, For they are Norman saints—and yet I should— They are so much holier than their harlot’s son With whom they play’d their game against the king ! Aldwyth. The king is slain, the kingdom overthrown ! Edith. No matter ! Aldwyth. How no matter, Harold slain ?— I cannot find his body. O help me thou! O Edith, if I ever wrought against thee, Forgive me thou, and help me here ! Edith. No matter ! Aldwyth. Not help me, nor forgive me ? Edith. Look out upon the battle—is he safe ? Stigand. He stands between the ban¬ ners with the dead So piled about him he can hardly move. Edith (takes up the war-cry). Out ! out ! Norman cries. Ha Rou ! Edith. So thou saidest. Aldwyth. I say it now, forgive me ! Edith. Cross me not! I am seeking one who wedded me in secret. Whisper ! God’s angels only know it. Ha ! What art thou doing here among the dead ? SCENE II. HAROLD. 577 They are stripping the dead bodies naked yonder, And thou art come to rob them of their rings! Aldwyth. O Edith, Edith, I have lost both crown And husband. Edith. So have I. Aldwyth. I tell thee, girl, I am seeking my dead Harold. Edith. And I mine ! The Holy Father strangled him with a hair Of Peter, and his brother Tostig helpt; The wicked sister clapt her hands and laugh’d ; Then all the dead fell on him. Aldwyth. Edith, Edith— Edith. What was he like, this hus¬ band ? like to thee ? Call not for help from me. I knew him not. He lies not here: not close beside the standard. Here fell the truest, manliest hearts of England. Go further hence and find him. Aldwyth. She is crazed ! Edith. That doth not matter either. Lower the light. He must be here. Enter two Canons, Osgod and AtHelric, with torches. They turn over the dead bodies and examine them as they pass. Osgod. I think that this is Thurkill. Athelric. More likely Godric. Osgod. I am sure this body Is Alfwig, the king’s uncle. Athelric. So it is ! No, no—brave Gurth, one gash from brow to knee ! Osgod. And here is Leofwin. Edith. And here is He ! Aldwyth. Harold ? Oh no—nay, if it were—my God, They have so maim’d and murder’d all his face There is no man can swear to him. Edith. But one woman ! Look you, we never mean to part again. I have found him, I am happy. Was there not someone ask’d me for forgiveness ? I yield it freely, being the true wife Of this dead King, who never bore revenge. Enter Count William and William Malet. William. Who be these women ? And what body is this ? Edith. Harold, thy better ! William. Ay, and what art thou ? Edith. His wife ! Malet. Not true, my girl, here is the Queen ! [ Pointing out Aldwyth. William {to Aldwyth). Wast thou his Queen ? Aldwyth. I was the Queen of Wales. William. Why then of England. Madam, fear us not. {To Malet.) Knowest thou this other? Malet. When I visited England, Some held she was his wife in secret— some— Well—some believed she was his para¬ mour. Edith. Norman, thou liest! liars all of you, Your Saints and all! I am his wife ! and she— For look, our marriage ring! [ She draws it off the finger of Harold. I lost it somehow— I lost it, playing with it when I was wild. That bred the doubt ! but I am wiser now . . . I am too wise . . . Will none among you all Bear me true witness—only for this once— That I have found it here again ? [She puts it on. And thou, Thy wife am I for ever and evermore. [Falls on the body >and dies. William. Death ! —and enough of death for this one day, The day of St. Calixtus, and the day, My day when I was born. 578 HAROLD. ACT V. Malet. And this dead king’s Who, king or not, hath kinglike fought and fallen, His birthday, too. It seems but yester- even I held it with him in his English halls, His day, with all his rooftree ringing ‘ Harold,’ Before he fell into the snare of Guy ; When all men counted Harold would be king, And Harold was most happy. William. Thou art half English. Take them away ! Malet, I vow to build a church to God Here on the hill of battle ; let our high altar Stand where their standard fell. . . where these two lie. Take them away, I do not love to see them. Pluck the dead woman off the dead man, Malet! Malet. Faster than ivy. Must I hack her arms off? How shall I part them ? William. Leave them. Let them be! Buiy him and his paramour together. He that was false in oath to me, it seems Was false to his own wife. We will not give him A Christian burial: yet he was a warrior, And wise, yea truthful, till that blighted vow Which God avenged to-day. Wrap them together in a purple cloak And lay them both upon the waste sea¬ shore At Hastings, there to guard the land for which He did forswear himself—a warrior—ay, And but that Holy Peter fought for us, And that the false Northumbrian held aloof, And save for that chance arrow which the Saints Sharpen’d and sent against him—who can tell?— Three horses had I slain beneath me: twice I thought that all was lost. Since I knew battle, And that was from my boyhood, never yet— No, by the splendour of God—have I fought men Like Harold and his brethren, and his guard Of English. Every man about his king Fell where he stood. They loved him : and, pray God My Normans may but move as true with me To the door of death. Of one self-stock at first, Make them again one people—Norman, English; And English, Norman ; we should have a hand To grasp the world with, and a foot to stamp it . . . Flat. Praise the Saints. It is over. No more blood ! I am king of England, so they thwart me not, And I will rule according to their laws. (To Aldwyth.) Madam, we will entreat thee with all honour. Aldwyth. My punishment is more than I can bear. THE LOVER’S TALE. The original Preface to * The Lover’s Tale ’ states that it was composed in my nineteenth year. Two only of the three parts then written were printed, when, feeling the imperfection of the poem, I with¬ drew it from the press. One of my friends however who, boylike, admired the boy’s work, distri¬ buted among our common associates of that hour some copies of these two parts, without my know¬ ledge, without the omissions and amendments which I had in contemplation, and marred by the many misprints of the compositor. Seeing that these two parts have of late been mercilessly pirated, and that what I had deemed scarce worthy to live is not allowed to die, may I not be pardoned if I suffer the whole poem at last to come into the light—accompanied with a reprint of the sequel— a work of my mature life—‘ The Golden Supper ’ ? May 1879. ARGUMENT. Julian, whose cousin and foster-sister, Camilla, has been wedded to his friend and rival, Lionel, endeavours to narrate the story of his own love for her, and the strange sequel. He speaks (in Parts II. and III.) of having been haunted by visions and the sound of bells, tolling for a funeral, and at last ringing for a marriage ; but he breaks away, overcome, as he approaches the Event, and a witness to it completes the tale. I. Here far away, seen from the topmost cliff, Filling with purple gloom the vacancies Between the tufted hills, the sloping seas Hung in mid-heaven, and half-way down rare sails, White as white clouds, floated from sky to sky. Oh ! pleasant breast of waters, quiet bay, Like to a quiet mind in the loud world, Where the chafed breakers of the outer sea Sank powerless, as anger falls aside And withers on the breast of peaceful love; Thou didst receive the growth of pines that fledged The hills that watch’d thee, as Love watcheth Love, In thine own essence, and delight thyself To make it wholly thine on sunny days. Keep thou thy name of ‘ Lover’s Bay. ’ See, sirs, Even now the Goddess of the Past, that takes The heart, and sometimes touches but one string That quivers, arid is silent, and sometimes Sweeps suddenly all its half - moulder’d chords To some old melody, begins to play That air which pleased her first. I feel thy breath ; I come, great Mistress of the ear and eye : Thy breath is of the pinewood ; and tho’ years Have hollow’d out a deep and stormy strait Betwixt the native land of Love and me, Breathe but a little on me, and the sail Will draw me to the rising of the sun, The lucid chambers of the morning star, And East of Life. Permit me, friend, I prythee, To pass my hand across my brows, and muse On those dear hills, that never more will meet The sight that throbs and aches beneath my touch, As tho’ there beat a heart in either eye ; For when the outer lights are darken’d thus, The memory’s vision hath a keener edge. It grows upon me now—the semicircle Of dark-blue waters and the narrow fringe Of curving beach—its wreaths of dripping green— Its pale pink shells—the summerhouse aloft That open’d on the pines with doors of glass, 580 THE LOVER'S TALE. A mountain nest—the pleasure-boat that rock’d, Light-green with its own shadow, keel to keel, Upon the dappled dimplings of the wave, That blanch’d upon its side. O Love, O Hope ! They come, they crowd upon me all at once— Moved from the cloud of unforgotten things, That sometimes on the horizon of the mind Lies folded, often sweeps athwart in storm— Flash upon flash they lighten thro’ me— days Of dewy dawning and the amber eves When thou and I, Camilla, thou and I Were borne about the bay or safely moor’d Beneath a low-brow’d cavern, where the tide Plash’d, sapping its worn ribs; and all without The slowly-ridging rollers on the cliffs Clash’d, calling to each other, and thro’ the arch Down those loud waters, like a setting star, Mixt with the gorgeous west the light¬ house shone, And silver-smiling Venus ere she fell Would often loiter in her balmy blue, To crown it with herself. Here, too, my love Waver’d at anchor with me, when day hung From his mid-dome in Heaven’s airy halls; Gleams of the water-circles as they broke, Flicker’d like doubtful smiles about her lips, Quiver’d a flying glory on her hair, Leapt like a passing thought across her eyes; And mine with one that will not pass, till earth And heaven pass too, dwelt on my heaven, a face Most starry-fair, but kindled from within As ’twere with dawn. She was dark- hair’d, dark-eyed : Oh, such dark eyes! a single glance of them Will govern a whole life from birth to death, Careless of all things else, led on with light In trances and in visions : look at them, You lose yourself in utter ignorance ; You cannot find their depth ; for they go back, And farther back, and still withdraw themselves Quite into the deep soul, that evermore Fresh springing from her fountains in the brain, Still pouring thro’, floods with redundant life Her narrow portals. Trust me, long ago I should have died, if it were possible To die in gazing on that perfectness Which I do bear within me : I had died, But from my farthest lapse, my latest ebb, Thine image, like a charm of light and strength Upon the waters, push’d me back again On these deserted sands of barren life. Tho’ from the deep vault where the heart of Hope Fell into dust, and crumbled in the dark— Forgetting how to render beautiful Her countenance with quick and health¬ ful blood— Thou didst not sway me upward ; could I perish While thou, a meteor of the sepulchre, Didst swathe thyself all round Hope’s quiet urn For ever? He, that saith it, hath o’er- stept The slippery footing of his narrow wit, And fall’n away from judgment. Thou art light, To which my spirit leaneth all her flowers, And length of days, and immortality THE LOFEE’S TALE. 5 8i Of thought, and freshness ever self-re¬ new’d. For Time and Grief abode too long with Life, And, like all other friends i’ the world, at last They grew aweary of her fellowship : So Time and Grief did beckon unto Death, And Death drew nigh and beat the doors of Life ; But thou didst sit alone in the inner house, A wakeful portress, and didst parle with Death,— * This is a charmed dwelling which I hold;’ So Death gave back, and would no further come. Yet is my life nor in the present time, Nor in the present place. To me alone, Push’d from his chair of regal heritage, The Present is the vassal of the Past: So that, in that I have lived, do I livej And cannot die, and am, in having been— A portion of the pleasant yesterday, Thrust forward on to-day and out of place; A body journeying onward, sick with toil, The weight as if of age upon my limbs, The grasp of hopeless grief about my heart. And all the senses weaken’d, save in that, Which long ago they had glean’d and garner’d up Into the granaries of memory— The clear brow, bulwark of the precious brain, Chink’d as you see, and seam’d—and all the while The light soul twines and mingles with the growths Of vigorous early days, attracted, won, Married, made one with, molten into all The beautiful in Past of act or place. And like the all-enduring camel, driven Far from the diamond fountain by the palms, Who toils across the middle moonlit nights, Or when the white heats of the blinding noons Beat from the concave sand ; yet in him keeps A draught of that sweet fountain that he loves, To stay his feet from falling, and his spirit From bitterness of death. Ye ask me, friends, When I began to love. How should I tell you ? Or from the after-fulness of my heart, Flow back again unto my slender spring And first of love, tho’ every turn and depth Between is clearer in my life than all Its present flow. Ye know not what ye ask. How should the broad and open flower tell What sort of bud it was, when, prest together In its green sheath, close-lapt in silken folds, It seem’d to keep its sweetness to itself, Yet was not the less sweet for that it seem’d ? For young Life knows not when young Life was born, But takes it all for granted : neither Love, Warm in the heart, his cradle, can re¬ member Love in the womb, but resteth satisfied, Looking on her that brought him to the light: Or as men know not when they fall asleep Into delicious dreams, our other life, So know I not when I began to love. This is my sum of knowledge—that my love Grew with myself—say rather, was my growth, My inward sap, the hold I have on earth, My outward circling air wherewith I breathe, Which yet upholds my life, and evermore Is to me daily life and daily death: For how should I have lived and not have loved ? 582 THE LOVER'S TALE. Can ye take off the sweetness from the flower, The colour and the sweetness from the rose, And place them by themselves; or set apart Their motions and' their brightness from the stars, And then point out the flower or the star ? Or build a wall betwixt my life and love, And tell me where I am ? ’Tis even thus : In that I live I love; because I love I live : whate’er is fountain to the one Is fountain to the other ; and whene’er Our God unknits the riddle of the one, There is no shade or fold of mystery Swathing the other. Many, many years, (For they seem many and my most of life. And well I could have linger’d in that porch, So unproportion’d to the dwelling-place,) In the Maydews of childhood, opposite The flush and dawn of youth, we lived together, Apart, alone together on those hills. Before he saw my day my father died, And he was happy that he saw it not; But I and the first daisy on his grave From the same clay came into light at once. As Love and I do number equal years, So she, my love, is of an age with me. How like each other was the birth of each ! On the same morning, almost the same hour, Under the selfsame aspect of the stars, (Oh falsehood of all starcraft !) we were born. How like each other was the birth of each! The sister of my mother—she that bore Camilla close beneath her beating heart, Which to the imprison’d spirit of the child, With its true-touched pulses in the flow And hourly visitation of the blood, Sent notes of preparation manifold, And mellow’d echoes of the outer world— My mother’s sister, mother of my love, Who had a twofold claim upon my heart, One twofold mightier than the other was, In giving so much beauty to the world, And so much wealth as God had charged her with— Loathing to put it from herself for ever, Left her own life with it; and dying thus, Crown’d with her highest act the placid face And breathless body of her good deeds past. So were we bom, so orphan’d. She was motherless And I without a father. So from each Of those two pillars which from earth uphold Our childhood, one had fallen away, and all The careful burthen of our tender years Trembled upon the other. He that gave Her life, to me delightedly fulfill’d All lovingkindnesses, all offices Of watchful care and trembling tender¬ ness. He waked for both : he pray’d for both : he slept Dreaming of both : nor was his love the less Because it was divided, and shot forth Boughs on each side, laden with whole¬ some shade, Wherein we nested sleeping or awake, And sang aloud the matin-song of life. She was my foster-sister : on one arm The flaxen ringlets of our infancies Wander’d, the while we rested : one soft lap Pillow’d us both : a common light of eyes Was on us as we lay : our baby lips, Kissing one bosom, ever drew from thence The stream of life, one stream, one life, one blood, One sustenance, which, still as thought grew large, Still larger moulding all the house of thought, THE LOVER'S TALE. 583 Made all our tastes and fancies like, perhaps— All—all but one; and strange to me, and sweet, Sweet thro’ strange years to know that whatsoe’er Our general mother meant for me alone, Our mutual mother dealt to both of us : So what was earliest mine in earliest life, I shared with her in whom myself remains. As was our childhood, so our infancy, They tell me, was a very miracle Of fellow-feeling and communion. They tell me that we would not be alone,— We cried when we were parted ; when I wept, Her smile lit up the rainbow on my tears, Stay’d on the cloud of sorrow; that we loved The sound of one-another’s voices more Than the gray cuckoo loves his name, and learn’d To lisp in tune together ; that we slept In the same cradle always, face to face. Heart beating time to heart, lip pressing lip, Folding each other, breathing on each other, Dreaming together (dreaming of each other They should have added), till the morning light Sloped thro’ the pines, upon the dewy pane Falling, unseal’d our eyelids, and we woke To gaze upon each other. If this be true, At thought of which my whole soul languishes And faints, and hath no pulse, no breath —as tho’ A man in some still garden should infuse Rich atar in the bosom of the rose, Till, drunk with its own wine, and over¬ full Of sweetness, and in smelling of itself, It fall on its own thorns—if this be true— And that way my wish leads me evermore Still to believe it—’tis so sweet a thought, Why in the utter stillness of the soul Doth question’d memory answer not, nor tell Of this our earliest, our closest-drawn, Most loveliest, earthly - heavenliest har¬ mony? O blossom’d portal of the lonely house, Green prelude, April promise, glad new- year Of Being, which with earliest violets And lavish carol of clear-throated larks Fill’d all the March of life !—I will not speak of thee, These have not seen thee, these can never know thee, They cannot understand me. Pass we then A term of eighteen years. Ye would but laugh, If I should tell you how I hoard in thought The faded rhymes and scraps of ancient crones, Gray relics of the nurseries of the world, Which are as gems set in my memory, Because she learnt them with me; or what use To know her father left us just before The daffodil was blown ? or how we found The dead man cast upon the shore ? All this Seems to the quiet daylight of your minds But cloud and smoke, and in the dark of mine Is traced with flame. Move with me to the event. There came a glorious morning, such a one As dawns but once a season. Mercury On such a morning would have flung himself From cloud to cloud, and swum with balanced wings To some tall mountain : when I said to her, ‘ A day for Gods to stoop,’ she answered, ‘Ay, And men to soar:’ for as that other gazed, Shading his eyes till all the fiery cloud, 5§4 THE LOFEE’S TALE. The prophet and the chariot and the steeds, Suck’d into oneness like a little star Were drunk into the inmost blue, we stood, When first we came from out the pines at noon, With hands for eaves, uplooking and almost Waiting to see some blessed shape in heaven, So bathed we were in brilliance. Never yet Before or after have I known the spring Pour with such sudden deluges of light Into the middle summer ; for that day Love, rising, shook his wings, and charged the winds With spiced May-sweets from bound to bound, and blew Fresh fire into the sun, and from within Burst thro’ the heated buds, and sent his soul Into the songs of birds, and touch’d far- off His mountain-altars, his high hills, with flame Milder and purer. Thro’ the rocks we wound : The great pine shook with lonely sounds of joy That came on the sea-wind. As moun¬ tain streams Our bloods ran free : the sunshine seem’d to brood More warmly on the heart than on the brow. We often paused, and, looking back, we saw The clefts and openings in the mountains fill’d With the blue valley and the glistening brooks, And all the low dark groves, a land of love ! A land of promise, a land of memoiy, A land of promise flowing with the milk And honey of delicious memories ! And down to sea, and far as eye could ken, Each way from verge to verge a Holy Land, Still growing holier as you near’d the bay, For there the Temple stood* When we had reach’d The grassy platform on some hill, I stoop’d, I gather’d the wild herbs, and for her brows And mine made garlands of the selfsame flower, Which she took smiling, and with my work thus Crown’d her clear forehead. Once or twice she told me (For I remember all things) to let grow The flowers that run poison in their veins. She said, ‘ The evil flourish in the world.’ Then playfully she gave herself the lie— * Nothing in nature is unbeautiful ; So, brother, pluck and spare not.’ So I wove Ev’n the dull-blooded poppy-stem, ‘ whose flower, Hued with the scarlet of a fierce sunrise, Like to the wild youth of an evil prince, Is without sweetness, but who crowns himself Above the naked poisons of his heart In his old age.’ A graceful thought of hers Grav ’n on my fancy ! And oh, how like a nymph, A stately mountain nymph .she look’d ! how native Unto the hills she trod on ! While I gazed My coronal slowly disentwined itself And fell between us both; tho’ while I gazed My spirit leap’d as with those thrills of bliss That strike across the soul in prayer, and show us That we are surely heard. Methought a light THE LOVER’S TALE. 585 Burst from the garland I had wov’n, and stood A solid glory on her bright black hair ; A light methought broke from her dark, dark eyes, And shot itself into the singing winds ; A mystic light flash’d ev’n from her white robe As from a glass in the sun, and fell about My footsteps on the mountains. Last we came To what our people call ‘ The Hill of Woe.’ A bridge is there, that, look’d at from beneath Seems but a cobweb filament to link The yawning of an earthquake-cloven chasm. And thence one night, when all the winds were loud, A woful man (for so the story went) Had thrust his wife and child and dash’d himself Into the dizzy depth below. Below, Fierce in the strength of far descent, a stream Flies with a shatter’d foam along the chasm. The path was perilous, loosely strown with crags : We mounted slowly ; yet to both there came The joy of life in steepness overcome, And victories of ascent, and looking down On all that had look’d down on us ; and joy In breathing nearer heaven; and joy to me, High over all the azure-circled earth, To breathe with her as if in heaven itself; And more than joy that I to her became Her guardian and her angel, raising her Still higher, past all peril, until she saw Beneath her feet the region far away, Beyond the nearest mountain’s bosky brows, Arise in open prospect—heath and hill, And hollow lined and wooded to the lips, And steep-down walls of battlemented rock Gilded with broom, or shatter’d into spires, And glory of broad waters interfused, Whence rose as it were breath and steam of gold, And over all the great wood rioting And climbing, streak’d or starr’d at intervals With falling brook or blossom’d bush— and last, Framing the mighty landscape to the west, A purple range of mountain - cones, be¬ tween Whose interspaces gush’d in blinding bursts The incorporate blaze of sun and sea. At length Descending from the point and standing both, There on the tremulous bridge, that from beneath Had seem’d a gossamer filament up in air, We paused amid the splendour. All the west And ev’n unto the middle south was ribb’d And barr’d with bloom on bloom. The sun below, Held for a space ’twixt cloud and wave, shower’d down Rays of a mighty circle, weaving over That various wilderness a tissue of light Unparallel’d. On the other side, the moon, Half-melted into thin blue air, stood still, And pale and fibrous as a wither’d leaf, Nor yet endured in presence of His eyes To indue his lustre ; most unloverlike, Since in his absence full of light and joy, And giving light to others. But this most, Next to her presence whom I loved so well, Spoke loudly even into my inmost heart As to my outward hearing : the loud stream, Forth issuing from his portals in the crag (A visible link unto the home of my heart), 586 THE LO VET’S TALE. Rati amber toward the west, and nigh the sea Parting my own loved mountains was received, Shorn of its strength, into the sympathy Of that small bay, which out to open main Glow’d intermingling close beneath the sun. Spirit of Love ! that little hour was bound Shut in from Time, and dedicate to thee: Thy fires from heaven had touch’d it, and the earth They fell on became hallow’d evermore. We turn’d : our eyes met: hers were bright, and mine Were dim with floating tears, that shot the sunset In lightnings round me ; and my name was borne Upon her breath. Henceforth my name has been A hallow’d memory like the names of old, A center’d, glory-circled memory, And a peculiar treasure, brooking not Exchange or currency : and in that hour A hope flow’d round me, like a golden mist Charm’d amid eddies of melodious airs, A moment, ere the onward whirlwind shatter it, Waver’d and floated—which was less than Hope, Because it lack’d the power of perfect Hope; But which was more and higher than all Hope, Because all other Hope had lower aim ; Even that this name to which her gracious lips Did lend such gentle utterance, this one name, In some obscure hereafter, might in- wreathe (How lovelier, nobler then !) her life, her love, With my life, love, soul, spirit, and heart and strength. ‘ Brother,’ she said, ‘ let this be call’d henceforth The Hill of Hope;’ and I replied, ‘O sister, My will is one with thine; the Hill of Hope.’ Nevertheless, we did not change the name. I did not speak : I could not speak my love. Love lieth deep : Love dwells not in lip- depths. Love wraps his wings on either side the heart, Constraining it with kisses close and warm, Absorbing all the incense of sweet thoughts So that they pass not to the shrine of sound. Else had the life of that delighted hour Drunk in the largeness of the utterance Of Love ; but how should Earthly mea¬ sure mete The Heavenly-unmeasured or unlimited Love, Who scarce can tune his high majestic sense Unto the thundersong that wheels the spheres, Scarce living in the yEolian harmony, And flowing odour of the spacious air, Scarce housed within the circle of this Earth, Be cabin’d up in words and syllables, Which pass with that which breathes them? Sooner Earth Might go round Heaven, and the strait girth of Time Inswathe the fulness of Eternity, Than language grasp the infinite of Love. O day which did enwomb that happy hour, Thou art blessed in the years, divinest day! O Genius of that hour which dost uphold Thy coronal of glory like a God, Amid thy melancholy mates far-seen, Who walk before thee, ever turning round To gaze upon thee till their eyes are dim With dwelling on the light and depth of thine, THE LO VET’S TALE. 5 87 Thy name is ever worshipp’d among hours ! Had I died then, I had not seem’d to die, For bliss stood round me like the light of Heaven,— Had I died then, I had not known the death; Yea had the Power from whose right hand the light Of Life issueth, and from whose left hand floweth The Shadow of Death, perennial efflu¬ ences, Whereof to all that draw the wholesome air, Somewhile the one must overflow the other; Then had he stemm’d my day with night, and driven My current to the fountain whence it . sprang,— Even his own abiding excellence— On me, methinks, that shock of gloom had fall’n Unfelt, and in this glory I had merged The other, like the sun I gazed upon, Which seeming for the moment due to death, And dipping his head low beneath the verge, Yet bearing round about him his own day, In confidence of unabated strength, Steppeth from Heaven to Heaven, from light to light, And holdeth his undimmed forehead far Into a clearer zenith, pure of cloud. We trod the shadow of the downward hill; We past from light to dark. On the other side Is scoop’d a cavern and a mountain hall, Which none have fathom’d. If you go far in (The country people rumour) you may hear The moaning of the woman and the child, Shut in the secret chambers of the rock. I too have heard a sound—perchance of streams Running far on within its inmost halls, The home of darkness; but the cavern- mouth, Half overtraded with a wanton weed, Gives birth to a brawling brook, that passing lightly Adown a natural stair of tangled roots, Is presently received in a sweet grave Of eglantines, a place of burial Far lovelier than its cradle ; for unseen, But taken with the sweetness of the place, It makes a constant bubbling melody That drowns the nearer echoes. Lower down Spreads out a little lake, that, flooding, leaves Low banks of yellow sand ; and from the woods That belt it rise three dark, tall cy¬ presses,— Three cypresses, symbols of mortal woe, That men plant over graves. Hither we came, And sitting down upon the golden moss, Held converse sweet and low—low con¬ verse sweet, In which our voices bore least part. The wind Told a lovetale beside us, how he woo’d The waters, and the waters answering lisp’d To kisses of the wind, that, sick with love, Fainted at intervals, and grew again To utterance of passion. Ye cannot shape Fancy so fair as is this memory. Methought all excellence that ever was Had drawn herself from many thousand years, And all the separate Edens of this earth, To centre in this place and time. I listen’d, And her words stole with most prevailing sweetness Into my heart, as thronging fancies come To boys and girls when summer days are new, And soul and heart and body are all at ease : 588 THE LOVER S TALE . What marvel my Camilla told me all? It was so happy an hour, so sweet a place, And I was as the brother of her blood, And by that name I moved upon her breath ; Dear name, which had too much of near¬ ness in it And heralded the distance of this time ! At first her voice was very sweet and low, As if she were afraid of utterance ; But in the onward current of her speech, (As echoes of the hollow-banked brooks Are fashion’d by the channel which they keep), Her words did of their meaning borrow sound, Her cheek did catch the colour of her words. I heard and trembled, yet I could but hear; My heart paused — my raised eyelids would not fall. But still I kept my eyes upon the sky. I seem’d the only part of Time stood still, And saw the motion of all other things ; While her words, syllable by syllable, Like water, drop by drop, upon my ear Fell; and I wish’d, yet wish’d her not to speak ; But she spake on, for I did name no wish, What marvel my Camilla told me all Her maiden dignities of Hope and Love— ‘Perchance,’ she said, ‘return’d.’ Even then the stars Did tremble in their stations as I gazed ; But she spake on, for I did name no wish, No wish—no hope. Hope was not wholly dead, But breathing hard at the approach of Death,— Camilla, my Camilla, who was mine No longer in the dearest sense of mine— For all the secret of her inmost heart, And all the maiden empire of her mind, Lay like a map before me, and I saw There, where I hoped myself to reign as king, There, where that day I crown’d myself as king, There in my realm and even on my throne, Another! then it seem’d as tho’ a link Of some tight chain within my inmost frame Was riven in twain : that life I heeded not Flow’d from me, and the darkness of the grave, The darkness of the grave and utter night, Did swallow up my vision ; at her feet, Even the feet of her I loved, I fell, Smit with exceeding sorrow unto Death. Then had the earth beneath me yawn¬ ing cloven With such a sound as when an iceberg splits From cope to base—had Heaven from all her doors, With all her golden thresholds clashing, roll’d Her heaviest thunder—I had lain as dead, Mute, blind and motionless as then I lay; Dead, for henceforth there was no life for me ! Mute, for henceforth what use were words to me! Blind, for the day was as the night to me ! The night to me was kinder than the day; The night in pity took away my day, Because my grief as yet was newly born Of eyes too weak to look upon the light; And thro’ the hasty notice of the ear Frail Life was startled from the tender love Of him she brooded over. Would I had lain Until the plaited ivy-tress had wound Round my worn limbs, and the wild brier had driven Its knotted thorns thro’ my unpaining brows, Leaning its roses on my faded eyes. The wind had blown above me, and the rain Had fall’n upon me, and the gilded snake Had nestled in this bosom-throne of Love, But I had been at rest for evermore. THE LOVER'S TALE. 589 Long time entrancement held me. All too soon Life (like a wanton too-officious friend, Who will not hear denial, vain and rude With proffer of unwish’d-for services) Entering all the avenues of sense Past thro’ into his citadel, the brain, With hated warmth of apprehensiveness. And first the chillness of the sprinkled brook Smote on my brows, and then I seem’d to hear Its murmur, as the drowning seaman hears, Who with his head below the surface dropt Listens the muffled booming indistinct Of the confused floods, and dimly knows His head shall rise no more: and then came in The white light of the weary moon above, Diffused and molten into flaky cloud. Was my sight drunk that it did shape to me Him who should own that name ? Were it not well If so be that the echo of that name Ringing within the fancy had updrawn A fashion and a phantasm of the form It should attach to? Phantom!—had the ghastliest That ever lusted for a body, sucking The foul steam of the grave to thicken by it, There in the shuddering moonlight brought its face And what it has for eyes as close to mine As he did—better that than his, than he The friend, the neighbour, Lionel, the beloved, The loved, the lover, the happy Lionel, The low-voiced, tender-spirited Lionel, All joy, to whom my agony was a joy. O how her choice did leap forth from his eyes ! O how her love did clothe itself in smiles About his lips ! and—not one moment’s grace— Then when the effect weigh’d seas upon my head To come my way ! to twit me with the cause ! Was not the land as free thro’ all her ways To him as me? Was not his wont to walk Between the going light and growing night ? Had I not learnt my loss before he came ? Could that be more because he came my way? Why should he not come my way if he would ? And yet to-night, to-night—when all my wealth Flash’d from me in a moment and I fell Beggar’d for ever—why should he come my way Robed in those robes of light I must not wear, With that great crown of beams about his brows— Come like an angel to a damned soul, To tell him of the bliss he had with God- Come like a careless and a greedy heir That scarce can wait the reading of the will Before he takes possession? Was mine a mood To be invaded rudely, and not rather A sacred, secret, unapproached woe, Unspeakable? I was shut up with Grief; She took the body of my past delight, Narded and swathed and balm’d it for herself, And laid it in a sepulchre of rock Never to rise again. I was led mute Into her temple like a sacrifice ; I was the High Priest in her holiest place, Not to be loudly broken in upon. Oh friend, thoughts deep and heavy as these well-nigh O’erbore the limits of my brain : but he 590 THE LOVER.'S TALE. Bent o’er me, and my neck his arm up- stay’d. I thought it was an adder’s fold, and once I strove to disengage myself, but fail’d, Being so feeble: she bent above me, too ; Wan was her cheek ; for whatsoe’er of blight Lives in the dewy touch of pity had made The red rose there a pale one—and her eyes— I saw the moonlight glitter on their tears— And some few drops of that distressful rain Fell on my face, and her long ringlets moved, Drooping and beaten by the breeze, and brush’d My fallen forehead in their to and fro, For in the sudden anguish of her heart Loosed from their simple thrall they had flow’d abroad, And floated on and parted round her neck, Mantling her form halfway. She, when I woke, Something she ask’d, I know not what, and ask’d, Unanswer’d, since I spake not; for the sound Of that dear voice so musically low, And now first heard with any sense of pain, As it had taken life away before, Choked all the syllables, that strove to rise From my full heart. The blissful lover, too, From his great hoard of happiness dis- till’d Some drops of solace; like a vain rich man, That, having always prosper’d in the world, Folding his hands, deals comfortable words To hearts wounded for ever; yet, in truth, P'air speech was his and delicate of phrase, Falling in whispers on the sense, ad¬ dress’d More to the inward than the outward ear, As rain of the midsummer midnight soft, Scarce-heard, recalling fragrance and the green Of the dead spring : but mine was wholly dead, No bud, no leaf, no flower, no fruit for me. Yet who had done, or who had suffer’d wrong ? And why was I to darken their pure love, If, as I found, they two did love each other, Because my own was darken’d ? Why was I To cross between their happy star and them ? To stand a shadow by their shining doors, And vex them with my darkness ? Did I love her ? Ye know that I did love her; to this present My full-orb’d love has waned not. Did I love her, And could I look upon her tearful eyes ? What had she done to weep ? Why should she weep ? O innocent of spirit—let my heart Break rather—whom the gentlest airs of Heaven Should kiss with an unwonted gentleness. Her love did murder mine? What then? She deem’d I wore a brother’s mind : she call’d me brother: She told me all her love : she shall not weep. The brightness of a burning thought, awhile In battle with the glooms of my dark will, Moonlike emerged, and to itself lit up There on the depth of an unfathom’d woe Reflex of action. Starting up at once, As from a dismal dream of my own death, I, for I loved her, lost my love in Love; I, for I loved her, graspt the hand she lov’d, THE LOVER'S TALE. 59i And laid it in her own, and sent my cry Thro’ the blank night to Him who loving made The happy and the unhappy love, that He Would hold the hand of blessing over them, Lionel, the happy, and her, and her, his bride ! Let them so love that men and boys may say, ‘ Lo ! how they love each other ! ’ till their love Shall ripen to a proverb, unto all Known, when their faces are forgot in the land— One golden dream of love, from which may death Awake them with heaven’s music in a life More living to some happier happiness, Swallowing its precedent in victory. And as for me, Camilla, as for me,— The dew of tears is an unwholesome dew, They will but sicken the sick plant the more. Deem that I love thee but as brothers do, So shalt thou love me still as sisters do; Or if thou dream aught farther, dream but how I could have loved thee, had there been none else To love as lovers, loved again by thee. Or this, or somewhat like to this, I spake, When I beheld her weep so ruefully ; For sure my love should ne’er indue the front And mask of Hate, who lives on others’ moans. Shall Love pledge Hatred in her bitter draughts, And batten on her poisons ? Love forbid ! Love passeth not the threshold of cold Hate, And Hate is strange beneath the roof of Love. O Love, if thou be’st Love, dry up these tears Shed for the love of Love; for tho’ mine image, The subject of thy power, be cold in her, Yet, like cold snow, it melteth in the source Of these sad tears, and feeds their down¬ ward flow. So Love, arraign’d to judgment and to death, Received unto himself a part of blame, Being guiltless, as an innocent prisoner, Who, when the woful sentence hath been past, And all the clearness of his fame hath gone Beneath the shadow of the curse of man, First falls asleep in swoon, wherefrom awaked, And looking round upon his tearful friends, Forthwith and in his agony conceives A shameful sense as of a cleaving crime— For whence without some guilt should such grief be ? So died that hour, and fell into the abysm Of forms outworn, but not to me outworn, Who never hail’d another—was there one ? There might be one—one other, worth the life That made it sensible. So that hour died Like odour rapt into the winged wind Borne into alien lands and far away. There be some hearts so airily built, that they, They—when their love is wreck’d—if Love can wreck— On that sharp ridge of utmost doom ride highly Above the perilous seas of Change and Chance ; Nay, more, hold out the lights of cheer¬ fulness ; As the tall ship, that many a dreary year Knit to some dismal sandbank far at sea, All thro’ the livelong hours of utter dark, Showers slanting light upon the dolorous wave. For me—what light, what gleam on those black ways Where Love could walk with banish’d Hope no more ? 592 THE LOFEE’S TALE. It was ill-done to part you, Sisters fair; Love’s arms were wreath’d about the neck of Hope, And Hope kiss’d Love, and Love drew in her breath In that close kiss, and drank her whisper’d tales. They said that Love would die when Hope was gone, And Love mourn’d long, and sorrow’d after Hope; At last she sought out Memory, and they trod The same old paths where Love had walk’d with Hope, And Memory fed the soul of Love with tears. II. From that time forth I would not see her more; But many weary moons I lived alone— Alone, and in the heart of the great forest. Sometimes upon the hills beside the sea All day I watch’d the floating isles of shade, And sometimes on the shore, upon the sands Insensibly I drew her name, until The meaning of the letters shot into My brain; anon the wanton billow wash’d Them over, till they faded like my love. The hollow caverns heard me—the black brooks Of the midforest heard me—the soft winds, Laden with thistledown and seeds of flowers, Paused in their course to hear me, for my voice Was all of thee : the merry linnet knew me. The squirrel knew me, and the dragonfly Shot by me like a flash of purple fire. The rough brier tore my bleeding palms; the hemlock, Brow-high, did strike my forehead as I past; Yet trod I not the wildflower in my path, Nor bruised the wildbird’s egg. Was this the end ? Why grew we then together in one plot ? Why fed we from one fountain? drew one sun ? Why were our mothers’ branches of one stem ? Why were we one in all things, save in that Where to have been one had been the cope and crown Of all I hoped and fear’d ?—if that same nearness Were father to this distance, and that one Vauntcourier to this double ? if Affection Living slew Love, and Sympathy hew’d out The bosom-sepulchre of Sympathy ? Chiefly I sought the cavern and the hill Where last we roam’d together, for the sound Of the loud stream was pleasant, and the wind Came wooingly with woodbine smells. Sometimes All day I sat within the cavern-mouth, Fixing my eyes on those three cypress- cones That spired above the wood ; and with mad hand Tearing the bright leaves of the ivy- screen, I cast them in the noisy brook beneath, And watch’d them till they vanish’d from my sight Beneath the bower of wreathed eglan¬ tines : And all the fragments of the living rock (Huge blocks, which some old trembling of the world Had loosen’d from the mountain, till they fell Half-digging their own graves) these in my agony Did I make bare of all the golden moss, Wherewith the dashing runnel in the spring Had liveried them all over. In my brain THE LOVER.'S TALE. 593 The spirit seem’d to flag from thought to thought, As moonlight wandering thro’ a mist: my blood Crept like marsh drains thro’ all my lan¬ guid limbs; The motions of my heart seem’d far within me, Unfrequent, low, as tho’ it told its pulses; And yet it shook me, that my frame would shudder, As if ’twere drawn asunder by the rack. But over the deep graves of Hope and Fear, And all the broken palaces of the Past, Brooded one master-passion evermore, Like to a low-hung and a fiery sky Above some fair metropolis, earth- shock’d,— Hung round with ragged rims and burn¬ ing folds,— Embathing all with wild and woful hues, Great hills of ruins, and collapsed masses Of thundershaken columns indistinct, And fused together in the tyrannous light— Ruins, the ruin of all my life and me ! Sometimes I thought Camilla was no more, Some one had told me she was dead, and ask’d If I would see her burial: then I seem’d To rise, and through the forest-shadow borne With more than mortal swiftness, I ran down The steepy sea-bank, till I came upon The rear of a procession, curving round The silver-sheeted bay: in front of which Six stately virgins, all in white, upbare A broad earth-sweeping pall of whitest lawn, Wreathed round the bier with garlands : in the distance, From out the yellow woods upon the hill Look’d forth the summit and the pinna¬ cles Of a gray steeple—thence at intervals A low bell tolling. All the pageantry, Save those six virgins which upheld the bier, Were stoled from head to foot in flowing black ; One walk’d abreast with me, and veil’d his brow, And he was loud in weeping and in praise Of her, we follow’d : a strong sympathy Shook all my soul: I flung myself upon him In tears and cries : I told him all my love, How I had loved her from the first; whereat He shrank and howl’d, and from his brow drew back His hand to push me from him ; and the face, The very face and form of Lionel Flash’d thro’ my eyes into my innermost brain. And at his feet I seem’d to faint and fall, To fall and die away. I could not rise Albeit I strove to follow. They past on, The lordly Phantasms ! in their floating folds They past and were no more : but I had fallen Prone by the dashing runnel on the grass. Alway the inaudible invisible thought, Artificer and subject, lord and slave. Shaped by the audible and visible, Moulded the audible and visible ; All crisped sounds of wave and leaf and wind, Flatter’d the fancy of my fading brain ; The cloud-pavilion’d element, the wood, The mountain, the three cypresses, the cave, Storm, sunset, glows and glories of the moon Below black firs, when silent - creeping winds Laid the long night in silver streaks and bars, Were wrought into the tissue of my dream : The moanings in the forest, the loud brook, 2 Q 594 THE LOVER'S TALE. Cries of the partridge like a rusty key Turn’d in a lock, owl-whoop and dor¬ hawk-whirr Awoke pe not, but were a part of sleep, And voices in the distance calling to me And in my vision bidding me dream on, Like sounds without the twilight realm of dreams, Which wander round the bases of the hills, And murmur at the low-dropt eaves of sleep, Half-entering the portals. Oftentimes The vision had fair prelude, in the end Opening on darkness, stately vestibules To caves and shows of Death : whether the mind, With some revenge—even to itself un¬ known,— Made strange division of its suffering With her, whom to have suffering view’d had been Extremest pain; or that the clear-eyed Spirit, Being blunted in the Present, grew at length Prophetical and prescient of whate’er The Future had in store : or that which most Enchains belief, the sorrow of my spirit Was of so wide a compass it took in All I had loved, and my dull agony, Ideally to her transferr’d, became Anguish intolerable. The day waned ; Alone I sat with her : about my brow Her warm breath floated in the utterance Of silver-chorded tones : her lips were sunder’d With smiles of tranquil bliss, which broke in light Like morning from her eyes—her elo¬ quent eyes, (As I have seen them many a hundred times) Fill’d all with pure clear fire, thro’ mine down rain’d Their spirit-searching splendours. As a vision Unto a haggard prisoner, iron-stay’d In damp and dismal dungeons under¬ ground, Confined on points of faith, when strength is shock’d With torment, and expectancy of worse Upon the morrow, thro’ the ragged walls, All unawares before his half-shut eyes, Comes in upon him in the dead of night, And with the excess of sweetness and of awe, Makes the heart tremble, and the sight run over Upon his steely gyves ; so those fair eyes Shone on my darkness, forms which ever stood Within the magic cirque of memory, Invisible but deathless, waiting still The edict of the will to reassume The semblance of those rare realities Of which they were the mirrors. Now the light Which was their life, burst through the cloud of thought Keen, irrepressible. It was a room Within the summer-house of which I spake, Hung round with paintings of the sea, and one A vessel in mid-ocean, her heaved prow Clambering, the mast bent and the ravin wind In her sail roaring. From the outer day, Betwixt the close-set ivies came a broad And solid beam of isolated light, Crowded with driving atomies, and fell Slanting upon that picture, from prime youth Well-known well-loved. She drew it long ago Forthgazing on the waste and open sea, One morning when the upblown billow ran Shoreward beneath red clouds, and I had pour’d Into the shadowing pencil’s naked forms Colour and life : it was a bond and seal Of friendship, spoken of with tearful smiles; THE LO FEE'S TALE. 595 A monument of childhood and of love ; The poesy of childhood ; my lost love Symbol’d in storm. We gazed on it together In mute and glad remembrance, and each heart Grew closer to the other, and the eye Was riveted and charm-bound, gazing like The Indian on a still-eyed snake, low- couch’d— A beauty which is death; when all at once That painted vessel, as with inner life, Began to heave upon that painted sea; An earthquake, my loud heart-beats, made the ground Reel under us, and all at once, soul, life Arid breath and motion, past and flow’d away To those unreal billows: round and round A whirlwind caught and bore us ; mighty gyres Rapid and vast, of hissing spray wind- driven Far thro’ the dizzy dark. Aloud she shriek’d ; My heart was cloven with pain ; I wound my arms About her : we whirl’d giddily ; the wind Sung; but I clasp’d her without fear : her weight Shrank in my grasp, and over my dim eyes, And parted lips which drank her breath, down-hung The jaws of Death: I, groaning, from me flung Her empty phantom : all the sway and whirl Of the storm dropt to windless calm, and I Down welter’d thro’ the dark ever and ever. III. I came one day and sat among the stones Strewn in the entry of the moaning cave ; A morning air, sweet after rain, ran over The rippling levels of the lake, and blew Coolness and moisture and all smells of bud And foliage from the dark and dripping woods Upon my fever’d brows that shook and throbb’d From temple unto temple. To what height The day had grown I know not. Then came on me The hollow tolling of the bell, and all The vision of the bier. As heretofore I walk’d behind with one who veil’d his brow. Methought by slow degrees the sullen bell Toll’d quicker, and the breakers on the shore Sloped into louder surf: those that went with me, And those that held the bier before my face, Moved with one spirit round about the bay, Trod swifter steps; and while I walk’d with these In marvel at that gradual change, I thought Four bells instead of one began to ring, Four merry bells, four merry marriage- bells, In clanging cadence jangling peal on peal— A long loud clash of rapid marriage- bells. Then those who led the van, and those in rear, Rush’d into dance, and like wild Bac¬ chanals Fled onward to the steeple in the woods: I, too, was borne along and felt the blast Beat on my heated eyelids : all at once The front rank made a sudden halt; the bells 596 THE LOVEHS TALE. Lapsed into frightful stillness ; the surge fell From thunder into whispers; those six maids With shrieks and ringing laughter on the sand Threw down the bier; the woods upon the hill Waved with a sudden gust that sweeping down Took the edges of the pall, and blew it far Until it hung, a little silver cloud Over the sounding seas : I turn’d : my heart Shrank in me, like a snowflake in the hand, Waiting to see the settled countenance Of her I loved, adorn’d with fading flowers. But she from out her death-like chrysalis, She from her bier, as into fresher life, My sister, and my cousin, and my love, Leapt lightly clad in bridal white—her hair Studded with one rich Provence rose—a light Of smiling welcome round her lips—her eyes And cheeks as bright as when she climb’d the hill. One hand she reach’d to those that came behind, And while I mused nor yet endured to take So rich a prize, the man who stood with me Stept gaily forward, throwing down his robes, And claspt her hand in his : again the bells Jangled and clang’d : again the stormy surf Crash’d in the shingle : and the whirling rout Led by those two rush’d into dance, and fled Wind - footed to the steeple in the woods, Till they were swallow’d in the leafy bowers, And I stood sole beside the vacant bier. There, there, my latest vision—then the event! IV. THE GOLDEN SUPPER . 1 (A nother speaks.) He flies the event: he leaves the event to me : Poor Julian—how he rush’d away ; the bells, Those marriage-bells, echoing in ear and heart— But cast a parting glance at me, you saw, As who should say ‘Continue.’ Well he had One golden hour—of triumph shall I say? Solace at least—before he left his home. Would you had seen him in that hour of his ! He moved thro’ all of it majestically— Restrain’d himself quite to the close— but now— Whether they were his lady’s marriage- bells, Or prophets of them in his fantasy, I never ask’d : but Lionel and the girl Were wedded, and our Julian came again Back to his mother’s house among the pines. But these, their gloom, the mountains and the Bay, The whole land weigh’d him down as ^Ftna does The Giant of Mythology : he would go, Would leave the land for ever, and had gone Surely, but for a whisper, ‘Go not yet,’ Some warning — sent divinely — as it seem’d 1 This poem is founded upon a story in Boc¬ caccio. See Introduction, p. 579 THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 597 By that which follow’d — but of this I deem As of the visions that he told—the event Glanced back upon them in his after life, And partly made them—tho’ he knew it not. And thus he stay’d and would not look at her— No not for months : but, when the eleventh moon After their marriage lit the lover’s Bay, Heard yet once more the tolling bell, and said, Would you could toll me out of life, but found— All softly as his mother broke it to him— A crueller reason than a crazy ear, For that low knell tolling his lady dead— Dead—and had lain three days without a pulse : All that look’d on her had pronounced her dead. And so they bore her (for in Julian’s land They never nail a dumb head up in elm), Bore her free-faced to the free airs of heaven, And laid her in the vault of her own kin. What did he then ? not die : he is here and hale— Not plunge headforemost from the moun¬ tain there, And leave the name of Lover’s Leap : not he : He knew the meaning of the whisper now, Thought that he knew it. ‘ This, I stay’d for this ; O love, I have not seen you for so long. Now, now, will I go down into the grave, I will be all alone with all I love, And kiss her on the lips. She is his no more : The dead returns to me, and I go down To kiss the dead.’ The fancy stirr’d him so He rose and went, and entering the dim vault, And, making there a sudden light, beheld All round about him that which all will be. The light was but a flash, and went again. Then at the far end of the vault he saw His lady with the moonlight on her face ; Her breast as in a shadow-prison, bars Of black and bands of silver, which the moon Struck from an open grating overhead High in the wall, and all the rest of her Drown’d in the gloom and horror of the vault. ‘ It was my wish,’ he said, ‘ to pass, to sleep, To rest, to be with her—till the great day Peal’d on us with that music which rights all, And raised us hand in hand.’ And kneeling there Down in the dreadful dust that once was man, Dust, as he said, that once was loving hearts, Hearts that had beat with such a love as mine— Not such as mine, no, nor for such as her— He softly put his arm about her neck And kiss’d her more than once, till help¬ less death And silence made him bold—nay, but I wrong him, He reverenced his dear lady even in death; But, placing his true hand upon her heart, ‘ O, you warm heart,’ he moan’d, ‘not even death Can chill you all at once : ’ then starting, thought His dreams had come again. ‘ Do I wake or sleep ? Or am I made immortal, or my love Mortal once more ?’ It beat—the heart —it beat: Faint—but it beat: at which his own began 598 THE LOVER S TALE. To pulse with such a vehemence that it drown’d The feebler motion underneath his hand. But when at last his doubts were satisfied, He raised her softly from the sepulchre, And, wrapping her all over with the cloak He came in, and now striding fast, and now Sitting awhile to rest, but evermore Holding his golden burthen in his arms, So bore her thro’ the solitary land Back to the mother’s house where she was born. There the good mother’s kindly minis¬ tering, With half a night’s appliances, recall’d Her fluttering life : she rais’d an eye that ask’d ‘Where?’ till the things familiar to her youth Had made a silent answer: then she spoke ‘Here! and how came I here?’ and learning it (They told her somewhat rashly as I think) At once began to wander and to wail, ‘ Ay, but you know that you must give me back : Send! bid him come;’ but Lionel was away— Stung by his loss had vanish’d, none knew where. ‘ He casts me out, ’ she wept, ‘ and goes ’ —a wail That seeming something, yet was nothing, born Not from believing mind, but shatter’d nerve, Yet haunting Julian, as her own reproof At some precipitance in her burial. Then, when her own true spirit had return’d, ‘ Oh yes, and you,’ she said, ‘ and none but you ? For you have given me life and love again, And none but you yourself shall tell him of it, And you shall give me back when he returns. ’ ‘Stay then a little,’ answer’d Julian, * here, And keep yourself, none knowing, to yourself; And I will do your will. I may not stay, No, not an hour ; but send me notice of him When he returns, and then will I return, And I will make a solemn offering of you To him you love.’ And faintly she replied, ‘ And I will do your will, and none shall know.’ Not know? with such a secret to be known. But all their house was old and loved them both, And all the house had known the loves of both; Had died almost to serve them any way, And all the land was waste and solitary: And then he rode away ; but after this, An hour or two, Camilla’s travail came Upon her, and that day a boy was born, Heir of his face and land, to Lionel. And thus our lonely lover rode away, And pausing at a hostel in a marsh, There fever seized upon him : myself was then Travelling that land, and meant to rest an hour; And sitting down to such a base repast, It makes me angry yet to speak of it— I heard a groaning overhead, and climb’d The moulder’d stairs (for everything was vile) And in a loft, with none to wait on him, Found, as it seem’d, a skeleton alone, Raving of dead men’s dust and beating hearts. A dismal hostel in a dismal land, A flat malarian world of reed and rush ! But there from fever and my care of him Sprang up a friendship that may help us yet. For while we roam’d along the dreary coast, THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 599 And waited for her message, piece by piece I learnt the drearier story of his life ; And, tho’ he loved and honour’d Lionel, Found that the sudden wail his lady made Dwelt in his fancy: did he know her worth, Her beauty even? should he not be taught, Ev’n by the price that others set upon it, The value of that jewel he had to guard? Suddenly came her notice and we past, I with our lover to his native Bay. This love is of the brain, the mind, the soul : That makes the sequel pure; tho’ some of us Beginning at the sequel know no more. Not such am I: and yet I say the bird That will not hear my call, however sweet, But if my neighbour whistle answers him— What matter ? there are others in the wood. Yet when I saw her (and I thought him crazed, Tho’-not with such a craziness as needs A cell and keeper), those dark eyes of hers— Oh ! such dark eyes ! and not her eyes alone, But all from these to where she touch’d on earth, For such a craziness as Julian’s look’d No less than one divine apology. So sweetly and so modestly she came To greet us, her young hero in her arms ! ‘Kiss him,’ she said. ‘You gave me life again. He, but for you, had never seen it once. His other father you ! Kiss him, and then Forgive him, if his name be Julian too.’ Talk of lost hopes and broken heart ! his own Sent such a flame into his face, I knew Some sudden vivid pleasure hit him there. But he was all the more resolved to go, And sent at once to Lionel, praying him By that great love they both had borne the dead, To come and revel for one hour with him Before he left the land for evermore; And then to friends—they were not many —-who lived Scatteringly about that lonely land of his, And bad them to a banquet of farewells. And Julian made a solemn feast: I never Sat at a costlier ; for all round his hall From column on to column, as in a wood, Not such as here—an equatorial one, Great garlands swung and blossom’d ; and beneath, Heirlooms, and ancient miracles of Art, Chalice and salver, wines that, Heaven knows when, Had suck’d the fire of some forgotten sun, And kept it thro’ a hundred years of gloom, Yet glowing in a heart of ruby—cups Where nymph and god ran ever round in gold- Others of glass as costly—some with gems Moveable and resettable at will, And trebling all the rest in value—Ah heavens ! Why need I tell you all ?—suffice to say That whatsoever such a house as his, And his was old, has in it rare or fair Was brought before the guest: and they, the guests, Wonder’d at some strange light in Julian’s eyes (I told you that he had his golden hour), And such a feast, ill-suited as it seem’d To such a time, to Lionel’s loss and his And that resolved self-exile from a land He never would revisit, such a feast So rich, so strange, and stranger ev’n than rich, But rich as for the nuptials of a king. 6oo THE LOVER S TALE. And stranger yet, at one end of the hall Two great funereal curtains, looping down, Parted a little ere they met the floor, About a picture of his lady, taken Some years before, and falling hid the frame. And just above the parting was a lamp : So the sweet figure folded round with night Seem’d stepping out of darkness with a smile. Well then—our solemn feast—we ate and drank, And might—the wines being of such nobleness— Have jested also, but for Julian’s eyes, And something weird and wild about it all : What was it ? for our lover seldom spoke, Scarce touch’d the meats ; but ever and anon A priceless goblet with a priceless wine Arising, show’d he drank beyond his use ; And when the feast was near an end, he said : ‘ There is a custom in the Orient, friends— I read of it in Persia—when a man Will honour those who feast with him, he brings And shows them whatsoever he accounts Of all his treasures the most beautiful, Gold, jewels, arms, whatever it may be. This custom-’ Pausing here a moment, all The guests broke in upon him with meeting hands And cries about the banquet—‘Beautiful! Who could desire more beauty at a feast ?’ The lover answer’d, ‘ There is more than one Here sitting who desires it. Laud me not Before my time, but hear me to the close. This custom steps yet further when the guest Is loved and honour’d to the uttermost. For after he hath shown him gems or gold, He brings and sets before him in rich guise That which is thrice as beautiful as these, The beauty that is dearest to his heart— “ O my heart’s lord, would I could show you,” he says, “ Ev’n my heart too.!’ And I propose to-night To show you what is dearest to my heart, And my heart too. ‘ But solve me first a doubt. I knew a man, nor many years ago; He had a faithful servant, one who loved His master more than all on earth beside. - He falling sick, and seeming close on death, His master would not wait until he died, But bad his menials bear him from the door, And leave him in the public way to die. I knew another, not so long ago, Who found the dying servant, took him home, And fed, and cherish’d him, and saved his life. I ask you now, should this first master claim His service, whom does it belong to? him Who thrust him out, or him who saved his life?’ This question, so flung down before the guests, And balanced either way by each, at length When some were doubtful how the law would hold, Was handed over by consent of all To one who had not spoken, Lionel. Fair speech was his, and delicate of phrase. And he beginning languidly—his loss Weigh’d on him yet—but warming as he went, Glanced at the point of law, to pass it by, Affirming that as long as either lived, THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 601 By all the laws of love and gratefulness, The service of the one so saved was due All to the saver—adding, with a smile, The first for many weeks—a semi-smile As at a strong conclusion—‘ body and soul And life and limbs, all his to work his will. ’ Then Julian made a secret sign to me To bring Camilla down before them all. And crossing her own picture as she came, And looking as much lovelier as herself Is lovelier than all others—on her head A diamond circlet, and from under this A veil, that seemed no more than gilded air, Flying by each fine ear, an Eastern gauze With seeds of gold—so, with that grace of hers, Slow-moving as a wave against the wind, That flings a mist behind it in the sun— And bearing high in arms the mighty babe, The younger Julian, who himself was crown’d With roses, none so rosy as himself— And over all her babe and her the jewels Of many generations of his house Sparkled and flash’d, for he had decked them out As for a solemn sacrifice of love— So she came in :—I am long in telling it, I never yet beheld a thing so strange, Sad, sweet, and strange together—floated in— While all the guests in mute amazement rose— And slowly pacing to the middle hall, Before the board, there paused and stood, her breast Hard-heaving, and her eyes upon her feet, Not daring yet to glance at Lionel. But him she carried, him nor lights nor feast Dazed or amazed, nor eyes of men ; who cared Only to use his own, and staring wide And hungering for the gilt and jewell’d world About him, look’d, as he is like to prove, When Julian goes, the lord of all he saw. ‘My guests,’ said Julian: ‘you are honour’d now Ev’n to the uttermost: in her behold Of all my treasures the most beautiful, Of all things upon earth the dearest to me. ’ Then waving us a sign to seat ourselves, Led his dear lady to a chair of state. And I, by Lionel sitting, saw his face Fire, and dead ashes and all fire again Thrice in a second, felt him tremble too, And heard him muttering, ‘ So like, so like; She never had a sister. I knew none. Some cousin of his and hers—O God, so like ! ’ And then he suddenly ask’d her if she were. She shook, and cast her eyes down, and was dumb. And then some other question’d if she came From foreign lands, and still she did not speak. Another, if the boy were hers : but she To all their queries answer’d not a word, Which made the amazement more, till one of them Said, shuddering, ‘ Her spectre ! ’ But his friend Replied, in half a whisper, ‘Not at least The spectre that will speak if spoken to. Terrible pity, if one so beautiful Prove, as I almost dread to find her, dumb ! ’ But Julian, sitting by her, answer’d all: ‘ She is but dumb, because in her you see That faithful servant whom we spoke about, Obedient to her second master now ; Which will not last. I have here to-night a guest So bound to me by common love and loss— What! shall I bind him more ? in his behalf, Shall I exceed the Persian, giving him That which of all things is the dearest to me, 602 THE FIRST QUARREL. Not only showing? and he himself pro¬ nounced That my rich gift is wholly mine to give. ‘ Now all be dumb, and promise all of you Not to break in on what I say by word Or whisper, while I show you all my heart.’ And then began the story of his love As here to-day, but not so wordily— The passionate moment would not suffer that— Past thro’ his visions to the burial; thence Down to this last strange hour in his own hall; And then rose up, and with him all his guests Once more as by enchantment; all but he, Lionel, who fain had risen, but fell again, And sat as if in chains—to whom he said : ‘ Take my free gift, my cousin, for your wife ; And were it only for the giver’s sake, And tho’ she seem so like the one you lost, Yet cast her not away so suddenly, Lest there be none left here to bring her back : I leave this land for ever.’ Here he ceased. Then taking his dear lady by one hand, And bearing on one arm the noble babe, He slowly brought them both to Lionel. And there the widower husband and dead wife Rush’d each at each with a cry, that rather seem’d For some new death than for a life renew’d; Whereat the very babe began to wail; At once they turn’d, and caught and brought him in To their charm’d circle, and, half killing him With kisses, round him closed and claspt again. But Lionel, when at last he freed himself From wife and child, and lifted up a face All over glowing with the sun of life, And love, and boundless thanks—the sight of this So frighted our good friend, that turning to me And saying, ‘ It is over : let us go ’— There were our horses ready at the doors— We bad them no farewell, but mounting these He past for ever from his native land ; And I with him, my Julian, back to mine. TO ALFRED TENNYSON MY GRANDSON. Golden-hair’d Ally whose name is one with mine, Crazy with laughter and babble and earth’s new wine, Now that the flower of a year and a half is thine, O little blossom, O mine, and mine of mine. Glorious poet who never hast written a line, Laugh, for the name at the head of my verse is thine. May’st thou never be wrong’d by the name that is mine 1 THE FIRST QUARREL. (IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT.) I. ‘ Wait a little,’ you say, ‘you are sure it ’ll all come right,’ But the boy was born i’ trouble, an’ looks so wan an’ so white : Wait! an’ once I ha’ waited—I hadn’t to wait for long. Now I wait, wait, wait for Harry.—No, no, you are doing me wrong ! Harry and I were married : the boy can hold up his head, The boy was born in wedlock, but after my man was dead ; I ha’ work’d for him fifteen years, an’ I work an’ I wait to the end. I am all alone in the world, an’ you are my only friend. II. Doctor, if you can wait, I’ll tell you the tale o’ my life. When Harry an’ I were children, he call’d me his own little wife ; THE FIRST QUARREL. 603 I was happy when I was with him, an’ sorry when he was away, An’ when we play’d together, I loved him better than play; He workt me the daisy chain—he made me the cowslip ball, He fought the boys that were rude, an’ I loved him better than all. Passionate girl tho’ I was, an’ often at home in disgrace, I never could quarrel with Harry—I had but to look in his face. III. There was a farmer in Dorset of Harry’s kin, that had need Of a good stout lad at his farm ; he sent, an’ the father agreed ; So Harry was bound to the Dorsetshire farm for years an’ for years ; I walked with him down to the quay, poor lad, an’ we parted in tears. The boat was beginning to move, we heard them a-ringing the bell, * I’ll never love any but you, God bless you, my own little Nell.’ IV. I was a child, an’ he was a child, an’ he came to harm ; There was a girl, a hussy, that workt with him up at the farm, One had deceived her an’ left her alone with her sin an’ her shame, And so she was wicked with Harry; the girl was the most to blame. V. And years went over till I that was little had grown so tall, The men would say of the maids, ‘ Our Nelly’s the flower of ’em all.’ I didn’t take heed o’ them , but I taught myself all I could To make a good wife for Harry, when Harry came home for good. VI. Often I seem’d unhappy, and often as happy too, For I heard it abroad in the fields * I’ll never love any but you ;’ ‘ I’ll never love any but you ’ the morning song of the lark, ‘ I’ll never love any but you ’ the nightin¬ gale’s hymn in the dark. VII. And Harry came home at last, but he look’d at me sidelong and shy, Vext me a bit, till he told me that so many years had gone by, I had grown so handsome and tall—that I might ha’ forgot him somehow— For he thought—there were other lads— he was fear’d to look at me now. VIII. Hard was the frost in the field, we were married o’ Christmas day, Married among the red berries, an’ all as merry as May— Those were the pleasant times, my house an’ my man were my pride, We seem’d like ships i’ the Channel a- sailing with wind an’ tide. IX. But work was scant in the Isle, tho’ he tried the villages round, So Harry went over the Solent to see if work could be found ; An’ he wrote ‘ I ha’ six weeks’ work, little wife, so far as I know ; I’ll come for an hour to-morrow, an’ kiss you before I go.’ x. So I set to righting the house, for wasn’t he coming that day ? An’ I hit on an old deal-box that was push’d in a corner away, It was full of old odds an’ ends, an’ a letter along wi’ the rest, I had better ha’ put my naked hand in a hornets’ nest. XI. * Sweetheart ’—this was the letter—this was the letter I read— ‘ You promised to find me work near you, an’ I wish I was dead— 604 RIZPAH. Didn’t you kiss me an’ promise ? you haven’t done it, my lad, An’ I almost died o’ your going away, an’ I wish that I had.’ xii. I too wish that I had—in the pleasant times that had past, Before I quarrell’d with Harry — my quarrel—the first an’ the last. XIII. For Harry came in, an’ I flung him the letter that drove me wild, An’ he told it me all at once, as simple as any child, ‘ What can it matter, my lass, what I did wi’ my single life ? I ha’ been as true to you as ever a man to his wife; An’ she wasn’t one o’ the worst. ’ ‘ Then,’ I said, ‘ I’m none o’ the best.’ An’ he smiled at me, ‘ Ain’t you, my love? Come, come, little wife, let it rest! The man isn’t like the woman, no need to make such a stir.’ But he anger’d me all the more, an’ I said ‘ You were keeping with her, When I was a-loving you all along an’ the same as before.’ An’ he didn’t speak for a while, an’ he anger’d me more and more. Then he patted my hand in his gentle way, ‘ Let bygones be ! ’ ‘ Bygones ! you kept yours hush’d,’ I said, * when you married me ! By-gones ma’ be come-agains ; an’ she — in her shame an’ her sin— You’ll have her to nurse my child, if I die o’ my lying in ! You’ll make her its second mother ! I hate her—an’ I hate you ! ’ Ah, Harry, my man, you had better ha’ beaten me black an’ blue Than ha’ spoken as kind as you did, when I were so crazy wi’ spite, ‘ Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it ’ill all come right.’ XIV. An’ he took three turns in the rain, an’ I watch’d him, an’ when he came in I felt that my heart was hard, he was all wet thro’ to the skin, An’ I never said ‘ off wi’ the wet, ’ I never said ‘on wi’ the dry,’ So I knew my heart was hard, when he came to bid me goodbye. ‘ You said that you hated me, Ellen, but that isn’t true, you know ; I am going to leave you a bit—you’ll kiss me before I go ? ’ xv. ‘ Going ! you’re going to her—kiss her— if you will,’ I said— I was near my time wi’ the boy, I must ha’ been light i’ my head— ‘ I had sooner be cursed than kiss’d ! ’—I didn’t know well what I meant, But I turn’d my face from him , an’ he turn’d his face an’ he went. XVI. And then he sent me a letter, ‘ I’ve gotten my work to do ; You wouldn’t kiss me, my lass, an’ I never loved any but you ; I am sorry for all the quarrel an’ sorry for what she wrote, I ha* six weeks’ work in Jersey an’ go to¬ night by the boat.’ XVII. An’ the wind began to rise, an’ I thought of him out at sea, An’ I felt I had been to blame; he was always kind to me. ‘ Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it ’ill all come right ’— An’ the boat went down that night—the boat went down that night. RIZPAH, 17—. 1. Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and sea— And Willy’s voice in the wind, ‘ O mother, come out to me,’ RIZPAH. 605 Why should he call me to-night, when he knows that I cannot go ? For the downs are as bright as day, and the full moon stares at the snow. II. We should be seen, my dear ; they would spy us out of the town. The loud black nights for us, and the storm rushing over the down, When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by the creak of the chain, And grovel and grope for my son till I find myself drenched with the rain. III. Anything fallen again? nay—what was there left to fall ? I have taken them home, I have number’d the bones, I have hidden them all. What am I saying ? and what are you ? do you come as a spy ? Falls? what falls? who knows? As the tree falls so must it lie. IV. Who let her in ? how long has she been ? you—what have you heard ? Why did you sit so quiet ? you never have spoken a word. O—to pray with me—yes—a lady—none of their spies— But the night has crept into my heart, and begun to darken my eyes. v. Ah—you, that have lived so soft, what should you know of the night, The blast and the burning shame and the bitter frost and the fright ? I have done it, while you were asleep— you were only made for the day. I have gather’d my baby together—and now you may go your way. VI. Nay—for it’s kind of you, Madam, to sit by an old dying wife. But say nothing hard of my boy, I have only an hour of life. I kiss’d my boy in the prison, before he went out to die. ‘ They dared me to do it,’ he said, and he never has told me a lie. I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when he was but a child— ‘ The farmer dared me to do it,’ he said ; he was always so wild— And idle—and couldn’t be idle—my Willy—he never could rest. The King should have made him a soldier, he would have been one of his best. VII. But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they never would let him be good; They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he swore that he would ; And he took no life, but he took one purse, and when all was done He flung it among his fellows—I’ll none of it, said my son. VIII. I came into court to the Judge and the lawyers. I told them my tale, God’s own truth—but they kill’d him, they kill’d him for robbing the mail. They hang’d him in chains for a show— we had always borne a good name— To be hang’d for a thief—and then put away—isn’t that enough shame ? Dust to dust—low down—let us hide ! but they set him so high That all the ships of the world could stare at him, passing by. God ’ill pardon the hell-black raven and horrible fowls of the air, But not the black heart of the lawyer who kill’d him and hang’d him there. IX. And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him my last goodbye ; They had fasten’d the door of his cell. ‘ O mother ! ’ I heard him cry. I couldn’t get back tho’ I tried, he had something further to say, And now I never shall know it. The jailer forced me away. 6 o6 RIZPAH. x. Then since I couldn’t but hear that cry of my boy that was dead, They seized me and shut me up : they fasten’d me down on my bed. ‘ Mother, O mother ! ’—he call’d in the dark to me year after year— They beat me for that, they beat me— you know that I couldn’t but hear; And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid and still They let me abroad again — but the creatures had worked their will. XI. Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my bone was left— I stole them all from the lawyers—and you, will you call it a theft ?— My baby, the bones that had suck’d me, the bones that had laughed and had cried— Theirs? O no ! they are mine—not theirs—they had moved in my side. XII. Do you think I was scared by the bones ? I kiss’d ’em, I buried ’em all— I can’t dig deep, I am old—in the night by the churchyard wall. My Willy ’ill rise up whole when the trumpet of judgment ’ill sound, But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy ground. XIII. They would scratch him up—they would hang him again on the cursed tree. Sin ? O yes—we are sinners, I know— let all that be,' And read me a Bible verse of the Lord’s good will toward men— ‘ Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord ’ —let me hear it again ; ‘ Full of compassion and mercy—long- suffering.’ Yes, O yes ! For the lawyer is born but to murder— the Saviour lives but to bless. He* 11 never put on the black cap except for the worst of the worst, And the first may be last—I have heard it in church—and the last may be first. Suffering—O long-suffering—yes, as the Lord must know, Year after year in the mist and the wind and the shower and the snow.- XIV. Heard, have you ? what ? they have told you he never repented his sin. How do they know it ? are they his mother ? are you of his kin ? Heard ! have you ever heard, when the storm on the downs began, The wind that ’ill wail like a child and the sea that ’ill moan like a man ? xv. Election, Election and Reprobation—it’s all very well. But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find him in Hell. For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord has look’d into my care, And He means me I’m sure to be happy with Willy, I know not where. XVI. And if he be lost—but to save my soul, that is all your desire : Do you think that I care for my soul if my boy be gone to the fire ? I have been with God in the dark—go, go, you may leave me alone— You never have borne a child—you are just as hard as a stone. XVII. Madam, I beg your pardon ! I think that you mean to be kind, But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy’s voice in the wind— The snow and the sky so bright—he used but to call in the dark, And he calls to me now from the church and not from the gibbet—for hark 1 THE NORTHERN COBBLER. 607 Nay—you can hear it yourself—it is coming—shaking the walls— Willy—the moon’s in a cloud-Good night. I am going. He c^lls. THE NORTHERN COBBLER. I. Waait till our Sally cooms in, fur thou mun a’ sights 1 to tell. Eh, but I be maain glad to seea tha sa ’arty an’ well. ‘ Cast awaay on a disolut land wi’ a vartical soon 2 ! ’ Strange fur to goa fur to think what saailors a’ seean an’ a’ doon ; ‘ Summat to drink—sa’ ’ot ?’ I ’a nowt but Adam’s wine : What’s the ’eat o’ this little ’ill-side to the ’eat o’ the line ? II. * What’s i’ tha bottle a-stanning theer ? ’ I’ll tell tha. Gin. But if thou wants thy grog, tha mun goa fur it down to the inn. Naay—fur I be maain-glad, but thaw tha was iver sa dry, Thou gits naw gin fro’ the bottle theer, an’ I’ll tell tha why. in. Mea an’ thy sister was married, when wur it ? back-end o’ June, Ten year sin’, and wa ’greed as well as a fiddle i’ tune : I could fettle and clump owd booots and shoes wi’ the best on ’em all, As fer as fro’ Thursby thurn hup to Harmsby and Hutterby Hall. 1 The vowels at, pronounced separately though in the closest conjunction, best render the sound of the long i andy in this dialect. But since such words as cratin', datin', what, at (I), etc., look awkward except in a page of express phonetics, I have thought it better to leave the simple i and y, and to trust that my readers will give them the broader pronunciation. 2 The 00 short, as in ‘ wood.’ We was busy as beeas i’ the bloom an’ as ’appy as ’art could think, An’ then the babby wur burn, and then I taakes to the drink. IV. An’ I weant gaainsaay it, my lad, thaw I be hafe shaamed on it now, We could sing a good song at the Plow, we could sing a good song at the Plow; Thaw once of a frosty night I slither’d an’ hurted my huck, 1 An’ I coom’d neck-an-crop soomtimes slaape down i’ the squad an’ the muck : An’ once I fowl ./vi’ the Taailor—not hafe ov a man, my lad— Fur he scrawm’d an’ scratted my faace like a cat, an’ it maade ’er sa mad That Sally she turn’d a tongue-banger, 2 an’ raated ma, * Sottin’ thy braains Guzzlin’ an’ soakin’ an’ smoakin’ an’ hawmin’ 3 about i’ the laanes, Soa sow-droonk that tha doesn not touch thy ’at to the Squire An’ I loook’d cock-eyed at my noase an’ I seead ’im a-gittin’ o’ fire ; But sin’ I wur hallus i’ liquor an’ hallus as droonk as a king, Foalks’ coostom flitted awaay like a kite wi’ a brokken string. V. An’ Sally she wesh’d foalks’ cloaths to keep the wolf fro’ the door, Eh but the moor she riled me, she druv me to drink the moor, Fur I fun’, when ’er back wur turn’d, wheer Sally’s owd stockin’wur’id, An’ I grabb’d the munny she maade, and I wear’d it o’ liquor, I did. VI. An’ one night I cooms ’oam like a bull gotten loose at a faair, An’ she wur a-waaitin’ fo’mma, an’ cryin’ and tearin’ ’er ’aair, 1 Hip. 2 Scold. 3 Lounging. 6 o8 THE NORTHERN COBBLER . An’ I tummled athurt the craadle an’ swear’d as I’d break ivry stick O’ furnitur ’ere i’ the ’ouse, an’ I gied our Sally a kick, An’ I mash’d the taables an’ chairs, an’ she an’ the babby beal’d, 1 Fur I knaw’d naw moor what I did nor a mortal beast o’ the feald. VII. An’ when I waaked i’ the murnin’ I see'ad that our Sally went laamed Cos’ o’ the kick as I gied ’er, an’ I wur dreadful ashaamed ; An’ Sally wur sloomy 2 an’ draggle taail’d in an owd turn gown, An’ the babby’s faace wum’t wesh’d an’ the ’ole ’ouse hupside down. VIII. An’ then I minded our Sally sa pratty an’ neat an’ sweeat, Straat as a pole an’ clean as a flower fro’ ’ead to feeat: An’ then I minded the fust kiss I gied ’er by Thursby thurn ; Theer wur a lark a-singin’ ’is best of a Sunday at mum, Couldn’t see ’im, we ’eard ’im a-mountin’ oop ’igher an’ ’igher, An’ then ’e turn’d to the sun, an’ ’e shined like a sparkle o’ fire. ‘ Doesn’t tha see ’im,’ she axes, ‘ fur I can see ’im?’ an’ I See'ad nobbut the smile o’ the sun as danced in ’er pratty blue eye ; An’ I says ‘I mun gie tha a kiss,’ an’ Sally says ‘ Noa, thou moant,’ But I gied ’er a kiss, an’ then anoother, an’ Sally says ‘ doant! ’ IX. An’ when we coom’d into Mee'atin’, at fust she wur all in a tew, But, arter, we sing’d the ’ymn togither like birds on a beugh; 1 Bellowed, cried out. 2 Sluggish, out of spirits. An’ Muggins ’e preach’d o’ Hell-fire an the loov o’ God fur men, An’ then upo’ coomin’ awa'ay Sally gied me a kiss ov ’ersen. x. H|eer wur a fall fro’ a kiss to a kick like Saatan as fell Down out o’ heaven i’ Hell-fire—thaw theer’s naw drinkin’ i’ Hell; Mea fur to kick our Sally as kep the wolf fro’ the door, All along o’ the drink, fur I loov’d ’er as well as afoor. XI. Sa like a graat num-cumpus I blubber’d awa'ay o’ the bed— ‘Weant niver do it naw moor;’ an’ Sally loookt up an’ she said, ‘ I’ll upowd it 1 tha weant; thou’rt like the rest o’ the men, Thou’ll goa sniffin’ about the tap till tha does it agean. Theer’s thy hennemy, man, an’ I knaws, as knaws tha sa well, That, if tha see'as ’im an’ smells ’im tha’ll foller ’im slick into Hell.’ XII. ‘Naay,’ says I, ‘fur I weant goa sniffin’ about the tap.’ ‘Weant tha?’ she says, an’ mysen I thowt i’ mysen ‘mayhap.’ ‘ Nda :’ an’ I started awa'ay like a shot, an’ down to the Hinn, An’ I browt what tha seeas stannin’ theer, yon big black bottle o’ gin. XIII. ‘ That caps owt,’ 2 says Sally, an’ saw she begins to cry, But I puts it inter ’er ’ands an’ I says to ’er, ‘ Sally,’ says I, ‘ Stan’ ’im theer i’ the naame o’ the Lord an’ the power ov ’is Gra'ace, ‘ Stan’ ’im theer, furl’ll loook my hennemy strait i’ the faace, 1 I’ll uphold it. 2 That’s beyond everything. THE NORTHERN COBBLER. 609 Stan’ ’im theer i’ the winder, an’ let ma loook at ’im then, ’E see'ams naw moor nor watter, an’ ’e’s the Divil’s oan sen.’ XIV. An’ I wur down i’ tha mouth, couldn’t Either from that necessity for talk Which lives with blindness, or plain innocence Of nature, or desire that her lost child Should earn from both the praise of heroism, The mother broke her promise to the dead, And told the living daughter with what love Edith had welcomed my brief wooing of her, And all her sweet self-sacrifice and death. Henceforth that mystic bond betwixt the twins— Did I not tell you they were twins?— prevail’d So far that no caress could win my wife Back to that passionate answer of full heart I had from her at first. Not that her love, Tho’ scarce as great as Edith’s power of love, Had lessen’d, but the mother’s garrulous wail For ever woke the unhappy Past again, Till that dead bridesmaid, meant to be my bride, Put forth cold hands between us, and I fear’d The very fountains of her life were chill’d; So took her thence, and brought her here, and here She bore a child, whom reverently we call’d Edith ; and in the second year was born A second—this I named from her own self, Evelyn ; then two weeks—no more—she joined, In and beyond the grave, that one she loved. Now in this quiet of declining life, Thro’ dreams by night and trances of the day, The sisters glide about me hand in hand, Both beautiful alike, nor can I tell One from the other, no, nor care to tell One from the other, only know they come, They smile upon me, till, remembering all The love they both have borne me, and the love I bore them both—divided as I am From either by the stillness of the grave— I know not which of these I love the best. But yoit love Edith ; and her own true eyes Are traitors to her ; our quick Evelyn— THE VILLAGE WIFE; OR , THE ENTAIL. 617 The merrier, prettier, wittier, as they talk, And not without good reason, my good son— Is yet untouch’d : and I that hold them both Dearest of all things—well, I am not sure— But if there lie a preference eitherway, And in the rich vocabulary of Love ‘ Most dearest ’ be a true superlative— I think / likewise love your Edith most. THE VILLAGE WIFE ; OR, THE ENTAIL. 1 i. ’Ouse-keeper sent tha my lass, fur New Squire coom’d last night. Butter an’ heggs—yis—yis. I’ll goa wi’ tha back : all right; Butter I warrants be prime, an’ I war¬ rants the heggs be as well, Hafe a pint o’ milk runs out when ya breaks the shell. 11. Sit thysen down fur a bit: hev a glass o’ cowslip wine! I liked the owd Squire an’ ’is gells as thaw they was gells o’ mine, Fur then we was all es one, the Squire an’ ’is darters an’ me, Hall but Miss Annie, the heldest, I niver not took to she : But Nelly, the last of the cletch, 2 I liked ’er the fust on ’em all, Fur hoffens we talkt o’ my darter es died o’ the fever at fall : An’ I thowt ’twur the will o’ the Lord, but Miss Annie she said it wur draains, Fur she hedn’t naw coomfut in ’er, an’ arn’d naw thanks fur ’er paains. Eh ! thebbe all wi’ the Lord my childer, I han’t gotten none ! Sa new Squire’s coom’d wi’ ’is taail in ’is ’and, an’ owd Squire’s gone. 1 See note to ‘Northern Cobbler.’ 2 A brood of chickens. III. Fur ’staate be i’ taail, my lass : tha dosn’ knaw what that be ? But I knaws the law, I does, for the lawyer ha towd it me. ‘ When theer’s naw ’ead to a ’Ouse by the fault o’ that ere maale— The gells they counts fur nowt, and the next un he ta'akes the taail.’ IV. What be the next un like? can tha tell ony harm on ’im lass ?— Naay sit down—naw ’urry—sa cowd !— hev another glass ! Straange an’ cowd fur the time ! we may happen a fall o’ snaw— Not es I cares fur to hear ony harm, but I likes to knaw. An’ I ’oaps es ’e beant boooklarn’d : but ’e dosn’ not coom fro’ the shere; We’d anew o’ that wi’ the Squire, an’ we haates boooklarnin’ ere. v. Fur Squire wur a Varsity scholard, an’ niver lookt arter the land— Who'ats or turmuts or taates — ’e ’ed hallus a boook i’ ’is ’and, Hallus aloan wi’ ’is boooks, thaw nigh upo’ seventy year. An’ boooks, what’s boooks ? thou knaws thebbe neyther ’ere nor theer. VI. An’ the gells, they hedn’t naw taails, an’ the lawyer he towd it me That ’is taail were soa tied up es he couldn’t cut down a tree ! ‘ Drat the trees, ’' says I, to be sewer I haates ’em, my lass, Fur we puts the muck o’ the land an’ they sucks the muck fro’ the grass. VII. An’ Squire wur hallus a-smilin’, an’ gied to the tramps goin’ by— An’ all o’ the wust i’ the parish—wi’ hoffens a drop in ’is eye. 6i8 THE VILLAGE WIFE; OR, THE ENTAIL. An’ ivry darter o’ Squire’s hed her awn ridin-erse to ’ersen, An’ they rampaged about wi’ their grooms, an’ was ’untin’ arter the men, An’ hallus a-dallackt 1 an’ dizen’d out, an* a-buyin’ new clo'athes. While ’e sit like a graat glimmer-gowk 2 wi’ ’is glasses athurt ’is noase, An’ ’is noase sa grufted wi’ snuff es it couldn’t be scroob’d awaay, Fur at ween ’is readin’ an’ writin’ ’e snifft up a box in a daay, An’ ’e niver runn’d arter the fox, nor arter the birds wi’ ’is gun, An’ ’e niver not shot one ’are, but ’e leaved it to Charlie ’is son, An’ ’e niver not fish’d ’is awn ponds, but Charlie ’e cotch’d the pike, For ’e warn’t not burn to the land, an’ ’e didn’t take kind to it like ; But I ears es ’e’d gie fur a ho wry 3 owd book thutty pound an’ moor, An’ ’e’d wrote an owd book, his awn sen, sa I knaw’d es ’e’d coom to be poor; An’ ’e gied—I be fear’d fur to tell tha ’ow much—fur an owd scratted stoan, An’ ’e digg’d up a loomp i’ the land an’ ’e got a brown pot an’ a boan, An’ ’e bowt owd money, es wouldn’t goa, wi’ good gowd o’ the Queen, An’ ’e bowt little statutes all-naakt an’ which was a shaame to be seen ; But ’e niver loookt ower a bill, nor ’e niver not seed to owt, An’ ’e niver knawd nowt but boooks, an’ boooks, asthouknaws, beantnowt. VIII. But owd Squire’s laady es long es she lived she kep ’em all clear, Thaw es long es she ‘lived I niver hed none of ’er darters ’ere ; But arter she died we was all es one, the childer an’ me, An’ sarvints runn’d in an’ out, an’ offens we hed ’em to tea. Lawk ! ’ow I laugh’d when the lasses ’ud talk o’ their Missis’s waiiys, 1 Overdrest in gay colours. 2 Owl. 3 Filthy. An’ the Missisis talk’d o’ the lasses.—I’ll tell tha some o’ these daays. Hoanly Miss Annie were saw stuck oop, like ’er mother afoor— ’Er an’ ’er blessed darter — they niver derken’d my door. IX. An’ Squire ’e smiled an’ ’e smiled till ’e’d gotten a fright at last, An’ ’e calls fur ’is son, fur the ’turney’s letters they foller’d sa fast ; But Squire wur afear’d o’ ’is son, an’ ’e says to ’im, meek as a mouse, ‘ Lad, thou mun cut off thy taail, or the gells ’ull goa to the ’Ouse, Fur I finds es I be that i’ debt, es I ’oaps es thou’ll ’elp me a bit, An’ if thou’ll ’gree to cut off thy taail I may sa'ave mysen yit.’ * x. But Charlie ’e sets back ’is ears, an’ ’e swears, an’ ’e-says to ’im ‘Noa. I’ve gotten the ’staate by the taail an’ be dang’d if I iver let goa ! Coom ! coom ! feyther,’ ’e says, ‘ why shouldn’t thy boooks be sowd ? I hears es soom o’ thy boooks mebbe worth their weight i’ gowd.’ XI. Heaps an’ heaps o’ boooks, I ha’ see’d ’em, belong’d to the Squire, But the lasses ’ed teard out leaves i’ the middle to kindle the fire ; Sa moast on ’is owd big boooks fetch’d nigh to nowt at the saale, And Squire were at Charlie agean to git ’im to cut off ’is taail. XII. Ya wouldn’t find Charlie’s likes—’e were that outdacious at ’oam, Not thaw ya went fur to raake oat Hell wi’ a small-tooth co'amb— Droonk wi’ the Quoloty’s wine, an’ droonk wi’ the farmer’s a'ale, Mad wi’ the lasses an’ all—an’ ’e wouldn’t cut off the taail. THE VILLAGE WIFE; OF, THE ENTAIL. 619 XIII. Thou’s coom’d oop by the beck ; and a thurn be a-grawin’ theer, I niver ha seed it sa white wi’ the Maay es I see’d it to-year— Theerabouts Charlie joompt—and it gied me a scare tother night, Fur I thowt it wur Charlie’s gho'ast i’ the derk, fur it loookt sa white. ‘ Billy,’ says ’e, ‘hev a joomp !’—thaw the banks o’ the beck be sa high, Fur he ca’d ’is ’erse Billy-rough-un, thaw niver a hair wur awry ; But Billy fell bakkuds o’ Charlie, an’ Charlie ’e brok ’is neck, Sa theer wur a hend o’ the taail, fur ’e lost ’is taail i’ the beck. XIV. Sa ’is taail wur lost an’ ’is boooks wur gone an’ ’is boy wur dead, An’ Squire ’e smiled an’ ’e smiled, but ’e niver not lift oop ’is ’eiid : Hallus a soft un Squire! an’ ’e smiled, fur ’e hedn’t naw friend, Sa feyther an’ son was buried togither, an’ this wur the hend. xv. An’ Parson as hesn’t the call, nor the mooney, but hes the pride, ’E reads of a sewer an’ sartan ’oap o’ the tother side; But I beant that sewer es the Lord, how- siver they praay’d an’ praay’d, Lets them inter ’eaven easy es leaves their debts to be paaid. Siver the mou’ds rattled down upo’ poor owd Squire i’ the wood, An’ I cried along wi’ the gells, fur they weant niver coom to naw good. XVI. Fur Molly the long un she walkt awaay wi’ a hofficer lad, An’ nawbody ’eard on ’er sin, sa o’ coorse she be gone to the bad ! An’ Lucy wur laame o’ one leg, sweet- ’arts she niver ’ed none— Straange an’ unheppen 1 Miss Lucy ! we naamed her ‘ Dot an’ gaw one ! ’ An’Hetty wur weak i’ the hattics, wi’out ony harm i’ the legs, An’ the fever ’ed baaked Jinny’s ’ead as bald as one o’ them heggs, An’ Nelly wur up fro’ the craadle as big i’ the mouth as a cow, An’ saw she mun hammergrate, 2 lass, or she weant git a maate onyhow ! An’ es for Miss Annie es call’d me afoor my awn foalks to my fa'ace ‘ A hignorant village wife as ’ud hev to be larn’d her awn plaace,’ Hes fur Miss Hannie the heldest hes now be a-grawin’ sa howd, I knaws that mooch o’ shea, es it beant not fit to be towd ! XVII. Sa I didn’t not ta'ake it kindly ov owd Miss Annie to saay Es I should be talkin agean ’em, es soon es they went awaay, Fur, lawks ! ’ow I cried when they went, an’ our Nelly she gied me ’er ’and, Fur I’d ha done owt for the Squire an’ ’is gells es belong’d to the land ; Boooks, es I said afoor, thebbe neyther ’ere nor theer ! But I sarved ’em wi’ butter an’ heggs fur huppuds o’ twenty year. XVIII. An’ they hallus paaid what I hax’d, sa I hallus deal’d wi’ the Hall, An’ they knaw’d what butter wur, an’ they knaw’d what a hegg wur an’ all; Hugger-mugger they lived, but they wasn’t that easy to please, Till I gied ’em Hinjian curn, an’ they laaid big heggs es tha seeas ; An’ I niver puts saame 3 i’ my butter, they does it at Willis’s farm, Taaste another drop o’ the wine—tweant do tha naw harm. 1 Ungainly, awkward. 2 Emigrate. 3 Lard. 620 IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. XIX. Sa new Squire’s coom’d wi’ ’is taail in ’is ’and, an’ owd Squire’s gone ; I heard ’im a roomlin’ by, but arter my nightcap wur on ; Sa I han’t clapt eyes on ’im yit, fur he coom’d last night sa laate— Pluksh ! ! ! 1 the hens i’ the peas ! why didn’t tha hesp the ga'ate ? IN THE CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL. EMMIE. I. Our doctor had call’d in another, I never had seen him before, But he sent a chill to my heart when I saw him come in at the door, Fresh from the surgery-schools of France and of other lands— Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, big merciless hands ! Wonderful cures he had done, O yes, but they said too of him He was happier using the knife than in trying to save the limb, And that I can well believe, for he look’d so coarse and so red, I could think he was one of those who would break their jests on the dead, And mangle the living dog that had loved him and fawn’d at his knee— Drench’d with the hellish oorali—that ever such things should be ! II. Here was a boy—I am sure that some of our children would die But for the voice of Love, and the smile, and the comforting eye— Here was a boy in the ward, every bone seem’d out of its place— Caught in a mill and crush’d—it was all but a hopeless case : 1 A cry accompanied by a clapping of hands to scare trespassing fowl. And he handled him gently enough ; but his voice and his face were not kind, And it was but a hopeless case, he had seen it and made up his mind, And he said to me roughly * The lad will need little more of your care.’ ‘All the more need,’ I told him, ‘to seek the Lord Jesus in prayer ; They are all his children here, and I pray for them all as my own : ’ But he turn’d to me, ‘ Ay, good woman, can prayer set a broken bone?’ Then he mutter’d half to himself, but I know that I heard him say ‘All very well—but the good Lord Jesus has had his day. ’ ill. Had ? has it come ? It has only dawn’d. It will come by and by. O how could I serve in the wards if the hope of the world were a lie ? How could I bear with the sights and the loathsome smells of disease But that He said ‘Ye do it to me, when ye do it to these ’? IV. So he went. And we past to this ward where the younger children are laid: Here is the cot of our orphan, our dar¬ ling, our meek little maid ; Empty you see just now ! We have lost her who loved her so much— Patient of pain tho’ as quick as a sensitive plant to the touch; Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often moved me to tears, Hers was the gratefullest heart I have found in a child of her years— Nay you remember our Emmie ; you used . to send her the flowers ; How she would smile at ’em, play with ’em, talk to ’em hours after hours ! They that can wander at will where the works of the Lord are reveal’d Little guess what joy can be got from a cowslip out of the field ; Flowers to these * spirits in prison ’ are all they can know of the spring, DEDICA TOR Y POEM TO THE PRINCESS ALICE. 621 They freshen and sweeten the wards like the waft of an Angel’s wing ; And she lay with a flower in one hand and her thin hands crostonher breast— Wan, but as pretty as heart can desire, and we thought her at rest, Quietly sleeping—so quiet, our doctor said ‘ Poor little dear, Nurse, I must do it to-morrow ; she’ll never live thro’ it, I fear.’ v. I walk’d with our kindly old doctor as far as the head of the stair, Then I return’d to the ward ; the child didn’t see I was there. VI. Never since I was nurse, had I been so grieved and so vext ! Emmie had heard him. Softly she call’d from her cot to the next, ‘ He says I shall never live thro’ it, O Annie, what shall I do ? ’ Annie consider’d. ‘If I,’ said the wise little Annie, ‘ was you, I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to help me, for, Emmie, you see, It’s all in the picture there : “ Little children should come to me.’” (Meaning the print that you gave us, I find that it always can please Our children, the dear Lord Jesus with children about his knees.) ‘ Yes, and I will,’ said Emmie, ‘ but then if I call to the Lord, How should he know that it’s me ? such a lot of beds in the ward ! ’ That was a puzzle for Annie. Again she consider’d and said : ‘ Emmie, you put out your arms, and you leave ’em outside on the bed— The Lord has so much to see to ! but, Emmie, you tell it him plain, It’s the little girl with her arms lying out on the counterpane.’ VII. I had sat three nights by the child — I could not watch her for four— My brain had begun to reel—I felt I could do it no more. That was my sleeping-night, but I thought that it never would pass. There was a thunderclap once, and a clatter of hail on the glass, And there was a phantom cry that I heard as I tost about, The motherless bleat of a lamb in the storm and the darkness without; My sleep was broken besides with dreams of the dreadful knife And fears for our delicate Emmie who scarce would escape with her life; Then in the gray of the morning it seem’d she stood by me and smiled, And the doctor came at his hour, and we went to see to the child. VIII. He had brought his ghastly tools : we believed her asleep again— Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying out on the counterpane ; Say that His day is done ! Ah why should we care what they say? The Lord of the children had heard her, and Emmie had past away. DEDICATORY POEM TO THE PRINCESS ALICE. Dead Princess, living Power, if that, which lived True life, live on—and if the fatal kiss, Born of true life and love, divorce thee not From earthly love and life—if what we call The spirit flash not all at once from out This shadow into Substance—then perhaps The mellow’d murmur of the people’s praise From thine own State, and all our breadth of realm, Where Love and Longing dress thy deeds in light, Ascends to thee; and this March morn that sees Thy Soldier-brother’s bridal orange-bloom 622 THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. Break thro’ the yews and cypress of thy grave, And thine Imperial mother smile again, May send one ray to thee ! and who can tell— Thou—England’s England-loving daugh¬ ter—thou Dying so English thou wouldst have her flag Borne on thy coffin — where is he can swear But that some broken gleam from our poor earth May touch thee, while remembering thee, I lay At thy pale feet this ballad of the deeds Of England, and her banner in the East ? THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. i. Banner of England, not for a season, O banner of Britain, hast thou Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle-cry ! Never with mightier glory than when we had rear’d thee on high Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege of Lucknow— Shot thro’ the staff or the halyard, but ever we raised thee anew, And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. II. Frail were the works that defended the hold that we held with our lives— Women and children among us, God help them, our children and wives ! Hold it we might—and for fifteen days or for twenty at mosf. ‘ Never surrender, I charge you, but every man die at his post !’ Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence the best of the brave : Cold were his brows when we kiss’d him—we laid him that night in his grave. ‘ Every man die at his post !’ and there hail’d on our houses and halls Death from their rifle-bullets, and death from their cannon-balls, Death in our innermost chamber, and death at our slight barricade, Death while we stood with the musket, and death while we stoopt to the spade, Death to the dying, and wounds to the wounded, for often there fell, Striking the hospital wall, crashing thro’ it, their shot and their shell, Death—for their spies were amongus, their marksmen were told of our best, So that the brute bullet broke thro’ the brain that could think for the rest; Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets would rain at our feet— Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that girdled us round— Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth of a street, Death from the heights of the mosque and the palace, and death in the ground ! Mine? yes, amine ! Countermine ! down, down ! and creep thro’ the hole! Keep the revolver in hand ! you can hear him—the murderous mole ! Quiet, ah ! quiet—wait till the point of the pickaxe be thro’ ! Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again than before— Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is no more ; And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew ! hi. Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it chanced on a day Soon as the blast of that underground thunderclap echo’d away, Dark thro’ the smoke and the sulphur like so many fiends in their hell— Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, and yell upon yell— Fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemy fell. What have they done ? where is it ? Out yonder. Guard the Redan ! THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. 623 Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the Bailey-gate ! storm, and it ran Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every side Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily drown’d by the tide— So many thousands that if they be bold enough, who shall escape ? Kill or be kill’d, live or die, they shall know we are soldiers and men ! Ready ! take aim at their leaders—their masses are gapp’d with our grape— Backward they reel like the wave, like the wave flinging forward again, Flying and foil’d at the last by the hand¬ ful they could not subdue ; And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. IV. Handful of men as we were, we were English in heart and in limb, Strong with the strength of the race to command, to obey, to endure, Each of us fought as if hope for the garri¬ son hung but on him ; Still—could we watch at all points ? we were every day fewer and fewer. There was a whisper among us, but only a whisper that past: ‘Children and wives—if the tigers leap into the fold unawares— Every man die at his post—and the foe may outlive us at last— Better to fall by the hands that they love, than to fall into theirs ! ’ Roar upon roar in a moment two mines by the enemy sprung Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades. Rifleman, true is your heart, but be sure that your hand be as true ! Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed are your flank fusillades— Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to which they had clung, Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive them with hand-grenades; And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. v. Then on another wild morning another wild earthquake out-tore Clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve good paces or more. Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden there from the light of the sun— One has leapt up on the breach, crying out : ‘ Follow me, follow me !’— Mark him—he falls ! then another, and him too, and down goes he. Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but the traitors had won ? Boardings and rafters and doors—an em¬ brasure ! make way for the gun ! Now double-charge it with grape ! It is charged and we fire, and they run. Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face have his due ! Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, faithful and few, Fought with the bravest among us, and drove them, and smote them, and slew, That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India blew. VI. Men will forget what we suffer and not what we do. We can fight! But to be soldier all day and be sentinel all thro’ the night— Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, their lying alarms, Bugles and drums in the darkness, and shoutings and soundings to arms, Ever the labour of fifty that had to be done by five, Ever the marvel among us that one should be left alive, Ever the day with its traitorous death from the loopholes around, Ever the night with its coffinless corpse to be laid in the ground, Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge of cataract skies, Stench of old offal decaying, and infinite torment of flies, 624 SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD COBHAM. Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing over an English field, Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that would not be heal’d, Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful- pitiless knife,— Torture and trouble in vain,—for it never could save us a life. Valour of delicate women who tended the hospital bed. Horror of women in travail among the dying and dead, Grief for our perishing children, and never a moment for grief, Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes of relief, Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butcher’d for all that we knew— Then day and night, day and night, coming down on the still-shatter’d walls Millions of musket-bullets, and thousands of cannon-balls— But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. VII. Hark cannonade, fusillade! is it true what was told by the scout, Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the fell mutineers ? Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our ears ! All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubi¬ lant shout, Havelock’s glorious Highlanders answer with conquering cheers, Sick from the hospital echo them, women and children come out, Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock’s good fusileers, Kissing the war-harden’d hand of the Highlander wet with their tears ! Dance to the pibroch!—saved! we are saved !—is it you ? is it you ? Saved by the valour of Havelock, saved by the blessing of Heaven ! ‘ Hold it for fifteen days ! ’ we have held it for eighty-seven ! And ever aloft on the palace roof the old banner of England blew. SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD COBHAM. (IN wales.) My friend should meet me somewhere hereabout To take me to that hiding in the hills. I have broke their cage, no gilded one, I trow— I read no more the prisoner’s mute wail Scribbled or carved upon the pitiless stone; I find hard rocks, hard life, hard cheer, or none, For I am emptier than a friar’s brains ; But God is with me in this wilderness, These wet black passes and foam-churn¬ ing chasms— And God’s free air, and hope of better things. I would I knew their speech ; not now to glean, Not now—I hope to do it—some scatter’d ears, Some ears for Christ in this wild field of Wales— But, bread, merely for bread. This tongue that wagg’d They said with such heretical arrogance Against the proud archbishop Arundel— So much God’s cause was fluent in it—is here But as a Latin Bible to the crowd; ‘Bara!’—what use? The Shepherd, when I speak, Vailing a sudden eyelid with his hard ‘ Dim Saesneg ’ passes, wroth at things of old— No fault of mine. Had he God’s word in Welsh He might be kindlier : happily come the day! Not least art thou, thou little Bethle¬ hem In Judah, for in thee the Lord was bom; Nor thou in Britain, little Lutterworth, Least, for in thee the word was born again. SIR JOHN OLD CASTLE , LORD COB HAM. 625 Heaven - sweet Evangel, ever - living word, Who whilome spakest to the South in Greek About the soft Mediterranean shores, And then in Latin to the Latin crowd, As good need was—thou hast come to talk our isle. Hereafter thou, fulfilling Pentecost, Must learn to use the tongues of all the world. Yet art thou thine own witness that thou bringest Not peace, a sword, a fire. What did he say, My frighted Wiclif - preacher whom I crost In flying hither ? that one night a crowd Throng’d the waste field about the city gates : The king was on them suddenly with a host. Why there? they came to hear their preacher. Then Some cried on Cobham, on the good Lord Cobham ; Ay, for they love me ! but the king—nor voice Nor finger raised against him—took and hang’d, Took, hang’d and burnt—how many— thirty-nine— Call’d it rebellion—hang’d, poor friends, as rebels And burn’d alive as heretics ! for your Priest Labels—to take the king along with him— All heresy, treason: but to call men traitors May make men traitors. Rose of Lancaster, Red in thy birth, redder with household war, Now reddest with the blood of holy men, Redder to be, red rose of Lancaster— If somewhere in the North, as Rumour sang Fluttering the hawks of this crown-lust¬ ing line— By firth and loch thy silver sister grow , 1 That were my rose, there my allegiance due. Self - starved, they say—nay, murder’d, doubtless dead. So to this king I cleaved : my friend was he, Once my fast friend : I would have given my life To help his own from scathe, a thousand lives To save his soul. He might have come to learn Our Wiclif s learning: but the worldly Priests Who fear the king’s hard common-sense should find What rotten piles uphold their mason- work, Urge him to foreign war. O had he will’d I might have stricken a lusty stroke for him, But he would not; far liever led my friend Back to the pure and universal church, But he would not: whether that heirless flaw In his throne’s title make him feel so frail, He leans on Antichrist; or that his mind, So quick, so capable in soldiership, In matters of the faith, alas the while ! More worth than all the kingdoms of this world, Runs in the rut, a coward to the Priest. Burnt—good Sir Roger Acton, my dear friend ! Burnt too, my faithful preacher, Beverley! Lord give thou power to thy two wit¬ nesses ! Lest the false faith make merry over them ! Two—nay but thirty-nine have risen and stand, Dark with the smoke of human sacrifice, Before thy light, and cry continually— Cry—against whom ? 1 Richard II. 2 S 626 SIR JOHN OLD CASTLE, LORD COBHAM. Him, who should bear the sword Of Justice—what! the kingly, kindly boy; Who took the world so easily heretofore, My boon companion, tavern-fellow—him Who gibed and japed—in many a merry tale That shook our sides—at Pardoners, Summoners, Friars, absolution-sellers, monkeries And nunneries, when the wild hour and the wine Had set the wits aflame. Harry of Monmouth, Or Amurath of the East ? Better to sink Thy fleurs-de-lys in slime again, and fling Thy royalty back into the riotous fits Of wine and harlotry—thy shame, and mine. Thy comrade — than to persecute the Lord, And play the Saul that never will be Paul. Burnt, burnt! and while this mitred Arundel Dooms our unlicensed preacher to the flame, The mitre-sanction’d harlot draws his clerks Into the suburb—their hard celibacy, Sworn to be veriest ice of pureness, molten Into adulterous living, or such crimes As holy Paul—a shame to speak of them— Among the heathen— Sanctuary granted To bandit, thief, assassin—yea to him Who hacks his mother’s throat—denied to him, Who finds the Saviour in his mother tongue. The Gospel, the Priest’s pearl, flung down to swine— The swine, lay-men, lay-women, who will come, God willing, to outlearn the filthy friar. Ah rather, Lord, than that thy Gospel, meant To course and range thro’ all the world, should be Tether’d to these dead pillars of the Church— Rather than so, if thou wilt have it so, Burst vein, snap sinew, and crack heart, and life Pass in the fire of Babylon! but how long, O Lord, how long ! My friend should meet me here. Here is the copse, the fountain and—a Cross ! To thee, dead wood, I bow not head nor knees. Rather to thee, green boscage, work of God, Black holly, and white-flower’d wayfar¬ ing-tree ! Rather to thee, thou living water, drawn By this good Wiclif mountain down from heaven, And speaking clearly in thy native tongue— No Latin—He that thirsteth, come and drink ! Eh ! how I anger’d Arundel asking me To worship Holy Cross ! I spread mine arms, God’s work, I said, a cross of flesh and blood And holier. That was heresy. (My good friend By this time should be with me.) ‘ Images ?’ ‘ Bury them as God’s truer images Are daily buried.’ ‘Heresy.— Penance?’ ‘ Fast, Hairshirt and scourge—nay, let a man repent, Do penance in his heart, God hears him.’ ‘ Heresy— Not shriven, not saved ?’ ‘ What profits an ill Priest Between me and my God ? I would not spurn Good counsel of good friends, but shrive myself No, not to an Apostle.’ ‘ Heresy.’ (My friend is long in coming.) ‘ Pil¬ grimages ?’ SIR JOHN OLD CASTLE, LORD COB HAM. 627 ‘ Drink, bagpipes, revelling, devil’s- dances, vice. The poor man’s money gone to fat the friar. Who reads of begging saints in Scripture? ’ —■'* Heresy ’— (Hath he been here—not found me—gone again ? Have I mislearnt our place of meeting ?) ‘ Bread— Bread left after the blessing ? ’ how they stared, That was their main test - question— glared at me ! ‘ He veil’d Himself in flesh, and now He veils His flesh in bread, body and bread together. ’ Then rose the howl of all the cassock’d wolves, ‘No bread, no bread. God’s body!’ Archbishop, Bishop, Priors, Canons, Friars, bellringers, Parish-clerks— ‘No bread, no bread!’—‘Authority of the Church, Power of the keys !’—Then I, God help me, I So mock’d, so spurn’d, so baited two whole days— I lost myself and fell from evenness, And rail’d at all the Popes, that ever since Sylvester shed the venom of world-wealth Into the church, had only prov’n them¬ selves Poisoners, murderers. Well—God par¬ don all— Me, them, and all the world—yea, that proud Priest, That mock-meek mouth of utter Anti¬ christ, That traitor to King Richard and the truth, Who rose and doom’d me to the fire. Amen ! Nay, I can bum, so that the Lord of life Be by me in my death. Those three ! the fourth Was like the Son of God ! Not burnt were they. On them the smell of burning had not past. That was a miracle to convert the king. These Pharisees, this Caiaphas-Arundel What miracle could turn ? He here again, He thwarting their traditions of Him¬ self, He would be found a heretic to Himself, And doom’d to burn alive. So, caught, I burn. Burn ? heathen men have borne as much as this, For freedom, or the sake of those they loved, Or some less cause, some cause far less than mine ; For every other cause is less than mine. The moth will singe her wings, and singed return, Her love of light quenching her fear of pain— How now, my soul, we do not heed the fire ? Faint - hearted ? tut! — faint - stomach’d ! faint as I am, God willing, I will burn for Him. Who comes ? A thousand marks are set upon my head. Friend?—foe perhaps—a tussle for it then ! Nay, but my friend. Thou art so well disguised, I knew thee not. Hast thou brought bread with thee ? I have not broken bread for fifty hours. None? I am damn’d already by the Priest For holding there was bread where bread was none— No bread. My friends await me yonder ? Yes. Lead on then. Up the mountain ? Is it far ? Not far. Climb first and reach me down thy hand. I am not like to die for lack of bread. For I must live to testify by fire . 1 1 He was burnt on Christmas Day, 1417. 628 COLUMBUS. COLUMBUS. Chains, my good lord: in your raised brows I read Some wonder at our chamber ornaments. We brought this iron from our isles of gold. Does the king know you deign to visit him Whom once he rose from off his throne to greet Before his people, like his brother king ? I saw your face that morning in the crowd. At Barcelona—tho’ you were not then So bearded. Yes. The city deck’d herself To meet me, roar’d my name ; the king, the queen Bad me be seated, speak, and tell them all The story of my voyage, and while I spoke The crowd’s roar fell as at the ‘ Peace, be still !’ And when I ceased to speak, the king, the queen, Sank from their thrones, and melted into tears, And knelt, and lifted hand and heart and voice In praise to God who led me thro’ the waste. And then the great ‘ Laudamus ’ rose to heaven. Chains for the Admiral of the Ocean ! chains For him who gave a new heaven, a new earth, As holy John had prophesied of me, Gave glory and more empire to the kings Of Spain than all their battles ! chains for him Who push’d his prows into the setting sun, And made West East, and sail’d the Dragon’s mouth, And came upon the Mountain of the World, And saw the rivers roll from Paradise ! Chains ! we are Admirals of the Ocean, we, We and our sons for ever. Ferdinand Hath sign’d it and our Holy Catholic queen— Of the Ocean—of the Indies—Admirafs we— Our title, which we never mean to yield, Our guerdon not alone for what we did, But our amends for all we might have done— The vast occasion of our stronger life— Eighteen long years of waste, seven in your Spain, Lost, showing courts and kings a truth the babe Will suck in with his milk hereafter— earth A sphere. Were you at Salamanca ? No. We fronted there the learning of all Spain, All their cosmogonies, their astronomies : Guess-work they guess’d it, but the golden guess Is morning-star to the full round of truth. No guess-work ! I was certain of my goal; Some thought it heresy, but that would not hold. King David call’d the heavens a hide, a tent Spread over earth, and so this earth was flat: Some cited old Lactantius : could it be That trees grew downward, rain fell up¬ ward, men Walk’d like the fly on ceilings ? and be¬ sides, The great Augustine wrote that none could breathe Within the zone of heat; so might there be Two Adams, two mankinds, and that was clean Against God’s word : thus was I beaten back, And chiefly to my sorrow by the Church, And thought to turn my face from Spain, appeal COLUMBUS. 629 Once more to France or England ; but our Queen Recall’d me, for at last their Highnesses Were half-assured this earth might be a sphere. All glory to the all-blessed Trinity, All glory to the mother of our Lord, And Holy Church, from whom I never swerved Not even by one hair’s-breadth of heresy, I have accomplish’d what I came to do. Not yet—not all—last night a dream— I sail’d On my first voyage, harass’d by the frights Of my first crew, their curses and their groans. The great flame-banner borne by Tene- riffe, The compass, like an old friend false at last In our most need, appall’d them, and the wind Still westward, and the weedy seas—at length The landbird, and the branch with berries on it, The carven staff—and last the light, the light On Guanahani ! but I changed the name; San Salvador I call’d it; and the light Grew as I gazed, and brought out a broad sky Of dawning over—not those alien palms, The marvel of that fair new nature—not That Indian isle, but our most ancient East Moriah with Jerusalem ; and I saw The glory of the Lord flash up, and beat Thro’ all the homely town from jasper, sapphire, Chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sardius, Chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, Jacynth, and amethyst—and those twelve gates, Pearl—and I woke, and thought—death —I shall die— I am written in the Lamb’s own Book of Life To walk within the glory of the Lord Sunless and moonless, utter light—but no! The Lord had sent this bright, strange dream to me To mind me of the secret vow I made When Spain was waging war against the Moor— I strove myself with Spain against the .Moor. There came two voices from the Sepul¬ chre, Two friars crying that if Spain should oust The Moslem from her limit, he, the fierce Soldan of Egypt, would break down and raze The blessed tomb of Christ; whereon I vow’d That, if our Princes harken’d to my prayer, Whatever wealth I brought from that new world Should, in this old, be consecrate to lead A new crusade against the Saracen, And free the Holy Sepulchre from thrall. Gold? I had brought your Princes gold enough If left alone ! Being but a Genovese, I am handled worse than had I been a Moor, And breach’d the belting wall of Cambalu, And given the Great Khan’s palaces to the Moor, Or clutch’d the sacred crown of Prester John, And cast it to the Moor : but had I brought From Solomon’s now-recover’d Ophir all The gold that Solomon’s navies carried home, Would that have gilded me 1 Blue blood of Spain, Tho’ quartering your own royal arms of Spain, I have not: blue blood and black blood of Spain, The noble and the convict of Castile, Howl’d me from Hispaniola; for you know 630 COLUMBUS. The flies at home, that ever swarm about And cloud the highest heads, and murmur down Truth in the distance—these outbuzz’d me so That even our prudent king, our righteous queen— I pray’d them being so calumniated They would commission one of. weight and worth To judge between my slander’d self and me— Fonseca my main enemy at their court, They sent me out his tool, Bovadilla, one As ignorant and impolitic as a beast— Blockish irreverence, brainless greed— who sack’d My dwelling, seized upon my papers, loosed My captives, feed the rebels of the crown, Sold the crown-farms for all but nothing, gave All but free leave for all to work the mines, Drove me and my good brothers home in chains, And gathering ruthless gold—a single piece Weigh’d nigh four thousand Castillanos —so They tell me—weigh’d him down into the abysm— The hurricane of the latitude on him fell, The seas of our discovering over-roll Him and his gold ; the frailer caravel, With what was mine, came happily to the shore. There was a glimmering of God’s hand. And God Hath more than glimmer’d on me. O my lord, I swear to you I heard his voice between The thunders in the black Veragua nights, ‘ O soul of little faith, slow to believe ! Have I not been about thee from thy birth ? Given thee the keys of the great Ocean- sea ? Set thee in light till time shall be no more ? Is it I who have deceived thee or the world ? Endure ! thou hast done so well for men, that men Cry out against thee : was it otherwise With mine own Son ? ’ And more than once in days Of doubt and cloud and storm, when drowning hope Sank all but out of sight, I heard his voice, ‘ Be not cast down. I lead thee by the hand, Fear not.’ And I shall hear his voice again— I know that he has led me all my life, I am not yet too old to work his will— His voice again. Still for all that, my lord, I lying here bedridden and alone, Cast off, put by, scouted by court and king— The first discoverer starves—his followers, all Flower into fortune—our world’s way— and I, Without a roof that I can call mine own, With scarce a coin to buy a meal withal, And seeing what a door for scoundrel scum I open’d to the West, thro’ which the lust, Villany, violence, avarice, of your Spain Pour’d in on all those happy naked isles— Their kindly native princes slain or slaved, Their wives and children Spanish concu¬ bines, Their innocent hospitalities quench’d in blood, Some dead of hunger, some beneath the scourge, Some over-labour’d, some by their own hands,— Yea, the dear mothers, crazing Nature, kill Their babies at the breast for hate of Spain— COLUMBUS. 631 Ah God, the harmless people whom we found In Hispaniola’s island-Paradise ! Who took us for the very Gods from Heaven, And we have sent them very fiends from Hell; And I myself, myself not blameless, I Could sometimes wish I had never led the way. Only the ghost of our great Catholic Queen Smiles on me, saying, ‘ Be thou com¬ forted ! This creedless people will be brought to Christ And own the holy governance of Rome.’ But who could dream that we, who bore the Cross Thither, were excommunicated there, For curbing crimes that scandalised the Cross, By him, the Catalonian Minorite, Rome’s Vicar in our Indies ? who believe These hard memorials of our truth to Spain Clung closer to us for a longer term Than any friend of ours at Court ? and yet Pardon—too harsh, unjust. I am rack’d with pains, You see that I have hung them by my bed, And I will have them buried in my grave. Sir, in that flight of ages which are God’s Own voice to justify the dead—perchance Spain once the most chivalric race on earth, Spain then the mightiest, wealthiest realm on earth, So made by me, may seek to unbury me, To lay me in some shrine of this old Spain, Or in that vaster Spain I leave to Spain. Then some one standing by my grave will say, ‘ Behold the bones of Christopher Colon ’— ‘ Ay, but the chains, what do they mean —the chains?’— I sorrow for that kindly child of Spain Who then will have to answer, ‘ These same chains Bound these same bones back thro’ the Atlantic sea, Which he unchain’d for all the world to come. ’ O Queen of Heaven who seest the souls in Hell And purgatory, I suffer all as much As they do—for the moment Stay, my son Is here anon : my son will speak for me Ablier than I can in these spasms that grind Bone against bone. You will not. One last word. You move about the Court, I pray you tell King Ferdinand who plays with me, that one, Whose life has been no play with him and his Hidalgos—shipwrecks, famines, fevers, fights, Mutinies, treacheries—wink’d at, and condoned— That I am loyal to him till the death, And ready—tho’ our Holy Catholic Queen, Who fain had pledged her jewels on my first voyage, Whose hope was mine to spread the Catholic faith, Who wept with me when I return’d in chains, Who sits beside the blessed Virgin now, To whom I send my prayer by night and day— She is gone—but you will tell the King, that I, Rack’d as I am with gout, and wrench’d with pains Gain’d in the service of His Highness, yet Am ready to sail forth on one last voyage, 632 THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. And readier, if the King would hear, to lead One last crusade against the Saracen, And save the Holy Sepulchre from thrall. Going ? I am old and slighted : you have dared Somewhat perhaps in coming ? my poor thanks ! I am but an alien and a Genovese. THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. (FOUNDED ON AN IRISH LEGEND. A.D. 700.) I. I was the chief of the race—he had stricken my father dead— But I gather’d my fellows together, I swore I would strike off his head. Each of them look’d like a king, and was noble in birth as in worth, And each of them boasted he sprang from the oldest race upon earth. Each was as brave in the fight as the bravest hero of song, And each of them liefer had died than have done one another a wrong. He lived on an isle in the ocean—we sail’d on a Friday morn— He that had slain my father the day before I was born. II. And we came to the isle in the ocean, and there on the shore was he. But a sudden blast blew us out and away thro’ a boundless sea. hi. And we came to the Silent Isle that we never had touch’d at before, Where a silent ocean always broke on a silent shore, And the brooks glitter’d on in the light without sound, and the long waterfalls Pour’d in a thunderless plunge to the base of the mountain walls, And the poplar and cypress unshaken by storm flourish’d up beyond sight, And the pine shot aloft from the crag to an unbelievable height, And high in the heaven above it there flicker’d a songless lark, And the cock couldn’t crow, and the bull couldn’t low, and the dog couldn’t bark. And round it we went, and thro’ it, but never a murmur, a breath— It was all of it fair as life, it was all of it quiet as death, And we hated the beautiful Isle, for whenever we strove to speak Our voices were thinner and fainter than any flittermouse-shriek; And the men that were mighty of tongue and could raise such a battle-cry That a hundred who heard it would rush on a thousand lances and die— O they to be dumb’d by the charm !—so fluster’d with anger were they They almost fell on each other ; but after we sail’d away. IV. And we came to the Isle of Shouting, we landed, a score of wild birds Cried from the topmost summit with human voices and words ; Once in an hour they cried, and whenever their voices peal’d The steer fell down at the plow and the harvest died from the field, And the men dropt dead in the valleys and half of the cattle went lame, And the roof sank in on the hearth, and the dwelling broke into flame ; And the shouting of these wild birds ran into the hearts of my crew, Till they shouted along with the shout¬ ing and seized one another and slew; But I drew them the one from the other ; I saw that we could not stay, And we left the dead to the birds and we sail’d with our wounded away. THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. 633 v. And we came to the Isle of Flowers : their breath met us out on the seas, For the Spring and the middle Summer sat each on the lap of the breeze ; And the red passion-flower to the cliffs, and the dark-blue clematis, clung, And starr’d with a myriad blossom the long convolvulus hung; And the topmost spire of the mountain was lilies in lieu of snow, And the lilies like glaciers winded down, running out below Thro’ the fire of the tulip and poppy, the blaze of gorse, and the blush Of millions of roses that sprang without leaf or a thorn from the bush ; And the whole isle-side flashing down from the peak without ever a tree Swept like a torrent of gems from the sky to the blue of the sea ; And we roll’d upon capes of crocus and vaunted our kith and our kin, And we wallow’d in beds of lilies, and chanted the triumph of Finn, Till each like a golden image was pollen’d from head to feet And each was as dry as a cricket, with thirst in the middle-day heat. Blossom and blossom, and promise of blossom, but never a fruit ! And we hated the Flowering Isle, as we hated the isle that was mute, And we tore up the flowers by the million and flung them in bight and bay, And we left but a naked rock, and in anger we sail’d away. VI. And we came to the Isle of Fruits : all round from the cliffs and the capes, Purple or amber, dangled a hundred fathom of grapes, And the warm melon lay like a little sun on the tawny sand, And the fig ran up from the beach and rioted over the land, And the mountain arose like a jewell’d throne thro’ the fragrant air, Glowing with all-colour’d plums and with golden masses of pear, And the crimson and scarlet of berries that flamed upon bine and vine, But in every berry and fruit was the poisonous pleasure of wine ; And the peak of the mountain was apples, the hugest that ever were seen, And they prest, as they grew, on each other, with hardly a leaflet between, And all of them redder than rosiest health or than utterest shame, And setting, when Even descended, the very sunset aflame; And we stay’d three days, and we gorged and we madden’d, till every one drew His sword on his fellow to slay him, and ever they struck and they slew ; And myself, I had eaten but sparely, and fought till I sunder’d the fray, Then I bad them remember my father’s death, and we sail’d away. VII. And we came to the Isle of Fire : we were lured by the light from afar, For the peak sent up one league of fire to the Northern Star; Lured by the glare and the blare, but scarcely could stand upright, For the whole isle shudder’d and shook like a man in a mortal affright; We were giddy besides with the fruits we had gorged, and so crazed that at last There were some leap’d into the fire ; and away we sail’d, and we past Over that undersea isle, where the -water is clearer than air : Down we look’d : what a garden ! O bliss, what a Paradise there ! Towers of a happier time, low down in a rainbow deep Silent palaces, quiet fields of eternal sleep ! And three of the gentlest and best of my people, whate’er I could say, Plunged head down in the sea, and the Paradise trembled away. 634 THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. VIII. And we came to the Bounteous Isle, where the heavens lean low on the land, And ever at dawn from the cloud glitter’d o’er us a sunbright hand, Then it open’d and dropt at the side of each man, as he rose from his rest, Bread enough for his need till the labour¬ less day dipt under the West; And we wander’d about it and thro’ it. O never was time so good ! And we sang of the triumphs of Finn, and the boast of our ancient blood, And we gazed at the wandering wave as we sat by the gurgle of springs, And we chanted the songs of the Bards and the glories of fairy kings ; But at length we began to be weary, to sigh, and to stretch and yawn, Till we hated the Bounteous Isle and the sunbright hand of the dawn, For there was not an enemy near, but the whole green Isle was our own, And we took to playing at ball, and we took to throwing the stone, And we took to playing at battle, but that was a perilous play, For the passion of battle was in us, we slew and we sail’d away. IX. And we came to the Isle of Witches and heard their musical cry— £ Come to us, O come, come ’ in the stormy red of a sky Dashing the fires and the shadows of dawn on the beautiful shapes, For a wild witch naked as heaven stood on each of the loftiest capes, And a hundred ranged on the rock like white sea-birds in a row, And a hundred gamboll’d and pranced on the wrecks in the sand below, And a hundred splash’d from the ledges, and bosom’d the burst of the spray, But I knew we should fall on each other, and hastily sail’d away. x. And we came in an evil time to the Isle of the Double Towers, One was of smooth-cut stone, one carved all over with flowers, But an earthquake always moved in the hollows under the dells, And they shock’d on each other and butted each other with clashing of bells, And the daws flew out of the Towers and jangled and wrangled in vain, And the clash and boom of the bells rang into the heart and the brain, Till the passion of battle was on us, and all took sides with the Towers, There were some for the clean-cut stone, there were more for the carven flowers, And the wrathful thunder of God peal’d over us all the day, For the one half slew the other, and after we sail’d away. XI. And we came to the Isle of a Saint who had sail’d with St. Brendan of yore, He had lived ever since on the Isle and his winters were fifteen score, And his voice was low as from other worlds, and his eyes were sweet, And his white hair sank to his heels and his white beard fell to his feet, And he spake to me, ‘ O Maeldune, let be this purpose of thine ! Remember the words of the Lord when he told us “Vengeance is mine !” His fathers have slain thy fathers in war or in single strife, Thy fathers have slain his fathers, each taken a life for a life, Thy father had slain his father, how long shall the murder last ? Go back to the Isle of Finn and suffer the Past to be Past.’ And we kiss’d the fringe of his beard and we pray’d as we heard him pray, And the Holy man he assoil’d us, and sadly we sail’d away. DE PRO FUND IS. 635 XII. And we came to the Isle we were blown from, and there on the shore was he, The man that had slain my father. I saw him and let him be. O weary was I of the travel, the trouble, the strife and the sin, When I landed again, with a tithe of my men, on the Isle of Finn. DE PROFUNDIS : THE TWO GREETINGS. I. Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep, Where all that was to be, in all that was, Whirl’d for a million aeons thro’ the vast Waste dawn of multitudinous-eddying light— Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep, Thro’ all this changing world of change¬ less law, And every phase of ever-heightening life, And nine long months of antenatal gloom, With this last moon, this crescent—her dark orb Touch’d with earth’s light—thou comest, darling boy ; Our own ; a babe in lineament and limb Perfect, and prophet of the perfect man ; Whose face and form are hers and mine in one, Indissolubly married like our love ; Live, and be happy in thyself, and serve This mortal race thy kin so well, that men May bless thee as we bless thee, O young life Breaking with laughter from the dark ; and may The fated channel where thy motion lives Be prosperously shaped, and sway thy course Along the years of haste and random youth Unshatter’d ; then full-current thro’ full man ; And last in kindly curves, with gentlest fall, By quiet fields, a slowly-dying power, To that last deep where we and thou are still. II. 1. Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep, From that great deep, before our world begins, Whereon the Spirit of God moves as he will— Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep, From that true world within the world we see, Whereof our world is but the bounding shore— Out of the deep, Spirit, out of the deep, With this ninth moon, that sends the hidden sun Down yon dark sea, thou comest, darling boy. II. For in the world, which is not ours, They said * Let us make man ’ and that which should be man, From that one light no man can look upon, Drew to this shore lit by the suns and moons And all the shadows. O dear Spirit half-lost In thine own shadow and this fleshly sign That thou art thou—who wailest being born And banish’d into mysteiy, and the pain Of this divisible-indivisible world Among the numerable-innumerable Sun, sun, and sun, thro’ finite-infinite space In finite-infinite Time—our mortal veil And shatter’d phantom of that infinite One, Who made thee unconceivably Thyself Out of His whole World-self and all in all— 6 3 6 PREFATORY SONNET, ETC. — MONTENEGRO. Live thou ! and of the grain and husk, the grape And ivyberry, choose ; and still depart From death to death thro’ life and life, and find Nearer and ever nearer Him, who wrought Not Matter, nor the finite-infinite, But this main-miracle, that thou art thou, With power on thine own act and on the world. THE HUMAN CRY. I. Hallowed be Thy name—Halleluiah!— Infinite Ideality ! Immeasurable Reality ! Infinite Personality ! Hallowed be Thy name—Halleluiah ! H. We feel we are nothing—for all is Thou and in Thee ; We feel we are something —that also has come from Thee ; We know we are nothing—but Thou wilt help us to be. Hallowed be Thy name—Halleluiah ! PREFATORY SONNET TO THE ‘NINETEENTH CENTURY.’ Those that of late had fleeted far and fast To touch all shores, now leaving to the skill Of others their old craft seaworthy still, Have charter’d this ; where, mindful of the past, Our true co-mates regather round the mast; Of diverse tongue, but with a common will Here, in this roaring moon of daffodil And crocus, to put forth and brave the blast ; For some, descending from the sacred peak Of hoar high-templed Faith, have leagued again Their lot with ours to rove the world about; And some are wilder comrades, sworn to seek If any golden harbour be for men In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of Doubt. TO THE REV. W. H. BROOK¬ FIELD. Brooks, for they call’d you so that knew you best, Old Brooks, who loved so well to mouth my rhymes, How oft we two have heard St. Mary’s chimes ! How oft the Cantab supper, host and guest, Would echo helpless laughter to your jest ! How oft with him we paced that walk of limes, Him, the lost light of those dawn-golden times, Who loved you well ! Now both are gone to rest. You man of humorous-melancholy mark, Dead of some inward agony—is it so ? Our kindlier, trustier Jaques, past away ! I cannot laud this life, it looks so dark : 2/aas 6uap —dream of a shadow, go— God bless you. I shall join you in a day. MONTENEGRO. They rose to where their sovran eagle sails, They kept their faith, their freedom, on the height, Chaste, frugal, savage, arm’d by day and night Against the Turk ; whose inroad nowhere scales Their headlong passes, but his footstep fails. BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. 637 And red with blood the Crescent reels from fight Before their dauntless hundreds, in prone flight By thousands down the crags and thro’ the vales. O smallest among peoples ! rough rock- throne Of Freedom ! warriors beating back the swarm Of Turkish Islam for five hundred years, Great Tsernogora ! never since thine own Black ridges drew the cloud and brake the storm Has breathed a race of mightier moun¬ taineers. TO VICTOR HUGO. Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance, Cloud-weaver of phantasmal'hopes and fears, French of the French, and Lord of human tears; Child-lover ; Bard whose fame-lit laurels glance Darkening the wreaths of all that would advance, Beyond our strait, their claim to be thy peers ; Weird Titan by thy winter weight of years As yet unbroken, Stormy voice of France! Who dost not love our England—so they say ; I know not—England, France, all man to be Will make one people ere man’s race be run: And I, desiring that diviner day, Yield thee full thanks for thy full courtesy To younger England in the boy my son. TRANSLATIONS, ETC. BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. Constantinus, King of the Scots, after having sworn allegiance to Athelstan, allied himself with the Danes of Ireland under Anlaf, and invading England, was defeated by Athelstan and his brother Edmund with great slaughter at Brunan- burh in the year 937. I. 1 Athelstan King, Lord among Earls, Bracelet-bestower and ' Baron of Barons, He with his brother, Edmund Atheling, Gaining a lifelong Glory in battle, Slew with the sword-edge There by Brunanburh, 1 I have more or less availed myself of my son’s prose translation of this poem in the Con¬ temporary Review (November 1876). Brake the shield-wall, Hew’d the lindenwood, 2 Hack’d the battleshield, Sons of Edward with hammer’d brands. II. Theirs was a greatness Got from their Grandsires— Theirs that so often in Strife with their enemies Struck for their hoards and their hearths and their homes. ill. Bow’d the spoiler, Bent the Scotsman, Fell the shipcrews Doom’d to the death. All the field with blood of the fighters Flow’d, from when first the great Sun-star of morningtide, 2 Shields of lindenwood. 63 8 BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. Lamp of the Lord God Lord everlasting, Glode over earth till the glorious creature Sank to his setting. IV. There lay many a man Marr’d by the javelin, Men of the Northland Shot over shield. There was the Scotsman Weary of war. v. We the West-Saxons, Long as the daylight Lasted, in companies Troubled the track of the host that we hated, Grimly with swords that were sharp from the grindstone, Fiercely we hack’d at the flyers before us. VI. Mighty the Mercian, Hard was his hand-play, Sparing not any of Those that with Anlaf, Warriors over the Weltering waters Borne in the bark’s-bosom, Drew to this island: Doom’d to the death. VII. Five young kings put asleep by the sword- stroke, Seven strong Earls of the army of Anlaf Fell on the war-field, numberless numbers, Shipmen and Scotsmen. VIII. Then the Norse leader, Dire was his need of it, Few were his following, Fled to his warship : Fleeted his vessel to sea with the king in it, Saving his life on the fallow flood. IX. Also the crafty one, Constantinus, Crept to his North again, Hoar-headed hero ! x. Slender warrant had He to be proud of The welcome of war-knives— He that was reft of his Folk and his friends that had Fallen in conflict, Leaving his son too Lost in the carnage, Mangled to morsels, A youngster in war ! XI. Slender reason had He to be glad of The clash of the war-glaive— Traitor and trickster And spurner of treaties— He nor had Anlaf With armies so broken A reason for bragging That they had the better In perils of battle On places of slaughter— The struggle of standards, The rush of the javelins, The crash of the charges, 1 The wielding of weapons— The play that they play’d with The children of Edward. XII. Then with their nail’d prows Parted the Norsemen, a Blood-redden’d relic of Javelins over The jarring breaker, the deep- sea billow, Shaping their way toward Dy- flen 2 again, Shamed in their souls. 1 Lit. ‘ the gathering of men.’ 2 Dublin. ACHILLES OVER THE TRENCH. 639 XIII. Also the brethren, King and Atheling, Each in his glory, Went to his own in his own West-Saxon- land, Glad of the war. XIV. Many a carcase they left to be carrion, Many a livid one, many a sallow-skin— Left for the white-tail’d eagle to tear it, and Left for the horny-nibb’d raven to rend it, and Gave to the garbaging war-hawk to gorge it, and That gray beast, the wolf of the weald, xv. Never had huger Slaughter of heroes Slain by the sword-edge— Such as old writers Have writ of in histories— Hapt in this isle, since Up from the East hither Saxon and Angle from Over the broad billow Broke into Britain with Haughty war-workers who Harried the Welshman, when Earls that were lured by the Hunger of glory gat Hold of the land. ACHILLES OVER THE TRENCH. ILIAD, xviii. 202. So saying, light-foot Iris pass’d away. Then rose Achilles dear to Zeus; and round The warrior’s puissant shoulders Pallas flung Her fringed aegis, and around his head The glorious goddess wreath’d a golden cloud, And from it lighted an all - shining flame. As when a smoke from a city goes to heaven . Far off from out an island girt by foes, All day the men contend in grievous war From their own city, but with set of sun Their fires flame thickly, and aloft the glare Flies streaming, if perchance the neigh¬ bours round May see, and sail to help them in the war ; So from his head the splendour went to heaven. From wall to dyke he stept, he stood, nor join’d The Achaeans — honouring his wise mother’s word— There standing, shouted, and Pallas far away Call’d ; and a boundless panic shook the foe. For like the clear voice when a trumpet shrills, Blown by the fierce beleaguerers of a town, So rang the clear voice of ^Fakides ; And when the brazen cry of ZEakides Was heard among the Trojans, all their hearts Were troubled, and the full-maned horses whirl’d The chariots backward, knowing griefs at hand ; And sheer-astounded were the charioteers To see the dread, unweariable fire That always o’er the great Peleion’s head Burn’d, for the bright-eyed goddess made it burn. Thrice from the dyke he sent his mighty shout, Thrice backward reel’d the Trojans and allies; And there and then twelve of their noblest died Among their spears and chariots. 640 TO THE PRINCESS FREDERICA—TO DANTE. TO PRINCESS FREDERICA ON HER MARRIAGE. 0 you that were eyes and light to the King till he past away From the darkness of life—• He saw not his daughter—he blest her : the blind King sees you to-day, He blesses the wife. SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. ON THE CENOTAPH IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. Not here ! the white North has thy bones ; and thou, Heroic sailor-soul, Art passing on thine happier voyage now Toward no earthly pole. TO DANTE. (WRITTEN AT REQUEST OF THE FLORENTINES.) King, that hast reign’d six hundred years, and grown In power, and ever growest, since thine own Fair Florence honouring thy nativity, Thy Florence now the crown of Italy, Hath sought the tribute of a verse from me, I, wearing but the garland of a day, Cast at thy feet one flower that fades away. THE END. 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