Book _i_J ^ — PUKSENTEl) BY EACH VOLITME^SjOJ^P-jgBI»4:BATELY. COLLECTION OF BRITISH AUTHORS TAUCHMTZ EDITION. YOL.1216. POETRY BY ELIZABETH BROWNING IN ONE VOLUME. LEIPZIG: BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ. PARTS*. C. REINWALD, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PERES. 5^ • This Collection ' is published with copyright for Continental circulu purchasers are earnestly requested not to ifttrodu • into England or into any British C COLLECTION I OF BEITISH AUTHORS TAUCHNITZ EDITION. VOL. 1216. POETRY BY ELIZABETH B. BEOWNING. IN ONE VOLUME. TAUCHNITZ EDITION. By the same Author, AURORA LEIGH . 1 vol. lJ\A%AmMTf^][ JEAMMIE^TT IBlKl(D)WWEMOr. Le.ip7>ip;, BernliarcL Taiichnifa. A SELECTION FROM THE POETRY OF COPYRIGHT EDITION, WITH THE PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR. LEIPZIG BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 1872. ,. A.\t^ Dr. John M^ Gitterman March 6 1934 It has been attempted to retain and to dispose the characteristics of the general poetry y whence this is an abstract^ according to an order which should allow them the prominency and effect they seem to possess when considered in the larger, not exclusively the lesser works of the poet, A musician might say, such and such chords are repeated, others made subordinate by distribution, so that a single movement may imitate the progress of the whole symphony. But there are various ways of modulating up to and connecting any given har- monies; and it will be neither a surprise nor a pain to find that better could have been done, as to both selection and sequence, than^ in the present case, all care and the profoundest veneration were able to do, R.B. CONTENTS. Page Hector in the Garden 9 The Romance of the Swan's Nest 13 The Lost Bower , . . 16 The Romaunt of the Page 31 Rhyme of the Duchess May 43 Bertha in the Lane 66 Catarina to Camoens 75 Lady Geraldine's Courtship 81 Lord Walter's Wife 109 Bianca among the Nightingales 113 The Lay of the Brown Rosary 118 A Reed . . 137 To Flush, my Dog 138 My Doves 142 The Sea-Mew . . , . 145 The Sleep 147 Cowper's Grave 149 Crowned and Buried . . . 153 A Rhapsody of Life's Progress . . 159 The Cry of the Children 165 A Song for the Ragged Schools of London • 171 A Lay of the Early Rose 176 Wine of Cyprus . . 184 The Cyclops 191 Song of the Rose 195 Anacreon's Ode to the Swallow . . 196 The Dead Pan . . 1Q7 Sonnets 207 The Soul's Expression ......... 207 Perplexed Music 208 Work 208 5 CONTENTS. Page Pain in Pleasure 209 Flush or Faunus . . , . 209 Finite and Infinite 210 To George Sand — A Desire 210 To George Sand — A Recognition. 211 Life 211 Question and Answer 212 Inclusions , 213 SonnetF from the Portuguese 214 Calls on the Heart 237 Confessions ............ 241 A Man's Requirements 246 The Lady's Yes . 248 May's Love .... 249 Amy's Cruelty .... 250 My Kate . . 252 A False Step ... 254 The Mask . . . . 255 A Year's Spinning ....... ... 257 Change upon Change ... 259 That Day 260 Void in Law , 261 My Heart and I 264 The Best Thing in the World 266 "Died" 267 Only a Curl 269 A Child's Grave at Florence 272 Little Mattie . 277 Napoleon III. in Italy 280 First News from Villafranca 294 A Tale of Villafranca 296 A View across the Roman Campagna 299 A Court Lady . . 301 Parting Lovers 305 Mother and Poet 308 Nature's Remorses 312 A Musical Instrument . . . 315 The North and the South 317 POETRY BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. HECTOR IN THE GARDEN. Nine years old! The first of any Seem the happiest years that come: Yet when / was nine, I said No such word! I thought instead That the Greeks had used as many In besieging Ilium. Nine green years had scarcely brought me To my childhood's haunted spring; I had life, like flowers and bees In betwixt the country trees. And the sun the pleasure taught me Which he teacheth everything. If the rain fell, there was sorrow, Little head leant on the pane, Little finger drawing down it The long trailing drops upon it. And the "Rain, rain, come to-morrow," Said for charm against the rain. 10 HECTOR IN THE GARDEN. Such a charm was right Canidian Though you meet it with a jeer! If I said it long enough, Then the rain hummed dimly off I And the thrush with his pure Lydian Was left only to the ear; And the sun and I together Went a-rushing out of doors: We our tender spirits drew Over hill and dale in view, Glimmering hither, glimmering thither, In the footsteps of the showers. Underneath the chestnuts dripping, Through the grasses wet and fair. Straight I sought my garden-ground With the laurel on the mound, And the pear-tree oversweeping A side-shadow of green air. In the garden lay supinely A huge giant wrought of spade! Arms and legs were stretched at length In a passive giant strength, — The fine meadow turf, cut finely. Round them laid and interlaid. Call him Hector, son of Priam! Such his title and degree. With my rake I smoothed his brow. Both his cheeks I weeded through, But a rhymer such as I am, Scarce can sing his dignity. HECTOR IN THE GARDEN. 1 1 Eyes of gentianellas azure, Staring, winking at the skies; Nose of gillyflowers and box; Scented grasses put for locks, Which a little breeze at pleasure Set a-waving round his eyes: Brazen helm of daffodillies. With a glitter toward the light Purple violets for the mouth. Breathing perfumes west and south; And a sword of flashing lilies, Holden ready for the fight: And a breastplate made of daisies. Closely fitting, leaf on leaf; Periwinkles interlaced Drawn for belt about the waist; While the brown bees, humming praises, Shot their arrows round the chief. And who knows, (I sometimes wondered,) If the disembodied soul Of old Hector, once of Troy, Might not take a dreary joy Here to enter — if it thundered. Rolling up the thunder-roll? Rolling this way from Troy-ruin, In this body rude and rife Just to enter, and take rest 'Neath the daisies of the breast — They, with tender roots, renewing His heroic heart to life? 12 HECTOR IN THE GARDEN. Who could know? I sometimes started At a motion or a sound! Did his mouth speak — naming Troy With an otorororoi^ Did the pulse of the Strong-hearted Make the daisies tremble round? It was hard to answer, often: But the birds sang in the tree, But the little birds sang bold In the pear-tree green and old. And my terror seemed to soften Through the courage of their glee. Oh, the birds, the tree, the ruddy And white blossoms sleek with rain! Oh, my garden rich with pansies! Oh, my childhood's bright romances! All revive, like Hector's body. And I see them stir again. And despite life's changes, chances. And despite the deathbell's toll, They press on me in full seeming: Help, some angel! stay this dreaming! As the birds sang in the branches. Sing God's patience through my soul! That no dreamer, no neglecter Of the present's work unsped, I may wake up and be doing. Life's heroic ends pursuing, Though my past is dead as Hector, And though Hector is twice dead. THE ROMANCE OF THE SWANKS NEST. THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST. Little Ellie sits alone 'Mid the beeches of a meadow By a stream-side on the grass, And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow On her shining hair and face. She has thrown her bonnet by, And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow water's flow: Now she holds them nakedly In her hands, all sleek and dripping. While she rocketh to and fro. Little Ellie sits alone. And the smile she softly uses Fills the silence like a speech While she thinks what shall be done. And the sweetest pleasure chooses For her future within reach. Little Ellie in her smile Chooses — "I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds: He shall love me without guile, And to him I will discover The swan's nest among the reeds. 14 THE ROMANCE OF THE SWANKS NEST, "And the steed shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be noble, With an eye that takes the breath: And the lute he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble. As his sword strikes men to death. "And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure. And the mane shall swim the wind; And the hoofs along the sod Shall flash onward and keep measure, Till the shepherds look behind. "But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face: He will say, *0 Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in. And I kneel here for thy grace!' "Then, ay, then he shall kneel low, With the red-roan steed anear him Which shall seem to understand, Till I answer, *Rise and go! For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand.' "Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own lips tremble With ayes I must not say, Nathless maiden-brave, * Farewell,' I will utter, and dissemble — * Light to-morrow with to-day!' THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST. I5 "Then he'll ride among the hills To the wide world past the river, There to put away all wrong; To make straight distorted wills, And to empty the broad quiver Which the wicked bear along. "Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain And kneel down beside my feet^ ^Lo, my master sends this gage, Lady, for thy pity's counting! What wilt thou exchange for it^ "And the first time, I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon. And the second time, a glove; But the third time — I may bend From my pride, and answer — Tardon, If he comes to take my love/ "Then the young foot-page will run, Then my lover will ride faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee: 'I am a duke's eldest son. Thousand serfs do call me master, But, O Love, I love but theeT "He will kiss me on the mouth Then, and lead me as a lover Through the crowds that praise his deeds: And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto him I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds " 1 6 THE LOST BOWER. Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gaily, Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, And went homeward round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily. What more eggs were with the two. Pushing through the elm-tree copse. Winding up the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads. Past the boughs she stoops — and stops. Lo, the wild swan had deserted, And a rat had gnawed the reeds! EUie went home sad and slow. If she found the lover ever. With his red-roan steed of steeds. Sooth I know not; but I know She could never show him — never. That swan's nest among the reeds! THE LOST BOWER. In the pleasant orchard-closes, "God bless all our gains." say we; But "May God bless all our losses,'' Better suits with our degree. Listen, gentle — ay, and simple! listen, children on the knee! THE LOST BOWER. 1 7 Green the land is where my daily- Steps in jocund childhood played, Dimpled close with hill and valley, Dappled very close with shade; Summer-snow of apple-blossoms running up from glade to glade. There is one hill I see nearer. In my vision of the rest; And a little wood seems clearer As it climbeth from the west, Sideway from the tree-locked valley, to the airy upland crest. Small the wood is, green with hazels, And, completing the ascent, Where the wind blows and sun dazzles Thrills in leafy tremblement. Like a heart that after climbing beateth quickly through ^ content. Not a step the wood advances O'er the open hill-tops bound; There, in green arrest, the branches See their image on the ground: You may walk beneath them smiling, glad with sight and glad with sound. For you harken on your right hand, How the birds do leap and call In the greenwood, out of sight and Out of reach and fear of all; And the squirrels crack the filberts through their cheer- ful madrigal. Elizabeth Browning, Z l8 THE LOST BOWER. On your left, the sheep are cropping The slant grass and daisies pale, And five apple-trees stand dropping Separate shadows towards the vale Over which, in choral silence, the hills look you their "All hail!" Far out, kindled by each other, Shining hills on hills arise, Close as brother leans to brother When they press beneath the eyes Of some father praying blessings from the gifts of paradise. While beyond, above them mounted, And above their woods also, Malvern hills, for mountains counted Not unduly, loom a-row — Keepers of Piers Plowman's visions through the sun- shine and the snow. Yet, in childhood, little prized I That fair walk and fair survey; 'Twas a straight walk unadvised by The least mischief worth a nay; Up and down — as dull as grammar on the eve of holiday. But the wood, all close and clenching Bough in bough and root in root, — No more sky (for over-branching) At your head than at your foot, — Oh, the wood drew me within it by a glamour past dispute! THE LOST BOWER. 1 9 Few and broken paths showed through it, Where the sheep had tried to run, — Forced with snowy wool to strew it Round the thickets, when anon They, with silly thorn-pricked noses, bleated back into the sun. But my childish heart beat stronger Than those thickets dared to grow: / could piece them! / could longer Travel on, methought, than so: Sheep for sheep-paths! braver children climb and creep where they would go. And the poets wander, (said I,) Over places all as rude: Bold Rinaldo's lovely lady Sat to meet him in a wood: Rosalinda, like a fountain, laughed out pure with solitude. And if Chaucer had not travelled Through a forest by a well. He had never dreamt nor marvelled At those ladies fair and fell Who lived smiling without loving in their island- citadel. Thus I thought of the old singers And took courage from their song, Till my little struggling fingers Tore asunder gyve and thong Of the brambles which entrapped me, and the barrier branches strong. 20 THE LOST BOWER. On a day, such pastime keeping, With a fawn's heart debonair, Under-crawling, overleaping Thorns that prick and boughs that bear, I stood suddenly astonied — I was gladdened un- aware. From the place I stood in, floated Back the covert dim and close, And the open ground was coated Carpet-smooth with grass and moss. And the blue-belFs purple presence signed it worthily across. Here a linden-tree stood, brightening All adown its silver rind; For as some trees draw the lightning, So this tree, unto my mind. Drew to earth the blessed sunshine from the sky where it was shrined. Tall the linden-tree, and near it An old hawthorn also grew; And wood-ivy like a spirit Hovered dimly round the two, Shaping thence that bower of beauty which I sing of thus to you. 'Twas a bower for garden fitter Than for any woodland wide: Though a fresh and dewy glitter Struck it through from side to side, Shaped and shaven was the freshness, as by garden- cunning plied. THE LOST BOWER. 21 Oh, a lady might have come there, Hooded fairly like her hawk, With a book or lute in summer, And a hope of sweeter talk, — Listening less to her own music than for footsteps on the walk! But that bower appeared a marvel In the wildness of the place; With such seeming art and travail, Finely fixed and fitted was Leaf to leaf, the dark-green ivy, to the summit from the base. And the ivy veined and glossy Was enwrought with eglantine; And the wild hop fibred closely. And the large-leaved columbine, Arch of door and window-mullion , did right sylvanly entwine. Rose-trees either side the door were Growing lithe and growing tall, Each one set, a summer warder For the keeping of the hall, — With a red rose and a white rose, leaning, nodding at the wall. As I entered, mosses hushing Stole all noises from my foot; And a green elastic cushion. Clasped within the linden's root. Took me in a chair of silence very rare and ab- solute. 22 THE LOST BOWER. All the floor was paved with glory, Greenly, silently inlaid (Through quick motions made before me) With fair counterparts in shade Of the fair serrated ivy-leaves which slanted over- head. "Is such pavement in a palace?" So I questioned in my thought: The sun, shining through the chalice Of the red rose hung without. Threw within a red libation, like an answer to my doubt. At the same time, on the linen Of my childish lap there fell Two white may-leaves, downward winning Through the ceiling's miracle. From a blossom, like an angel, out of sight yet blessing well. Down to floor and up to ceiling Quick I turned my childish face, With an innocent appealing For the secret of the place To the trees, which surely knew it in partaking of the grace. Where's no foot of human creature How could reach a human hand? And if this be work of nature. Why has nature turned so bland. Breaking ofl* from other wild- work? It was hard to understand. THE LOST BOWER. 2^ Was she weary of rough-doing, Of the bramble and the thorn ] Did she pause in tender rueing Here of all her sylvan scorn'? Or in mock of art's deceiving was the sudden mildness worn? Or could this same bower (I fancied) Be the work of Dryad strong, Who, surviving all that chanced In the world's old pagan wrong. Lay hid, feeding in the woodland on the last true poet's song'2 Or was this the house of fairies, Left, because of the rough ways, Unassoiled by Ave Marys Which the passing pilgrim prays, And beyond St Catherine's chiming on the blessed Sabbath days] So, young muser, I sat listening To my fancy's wildest word: On a sudden, through the glistening Leaves around, a little stirred, Came a sound, a sense of music which was rather felt than heard. Softly, finely, it enwound me; From the world it shut me in, — Like a fountain falling round me. Which with silver waters thin Clips a little water Naiad sitting smilingly within. 24 THE LOST BOWER. Whence the music came, who knoweth? / know nothing: but indeed Pan or Faunus never bloweth So much sweetness from a reed Which has sucked the milk of waters at the oldest river-head. Never lark the sun can waken With such sweetness! when the lark, The high planets overtaking In the half-evanished Dark, Casts his singing to their singing, like an arrow to the mark. Never nightingale so singeth: Oh, she leans on thorny tree And her poet-song she flingeth Over pain to victory! Yet she never sings such music, — or she sings it not to me. Never blackbirds, never thrushes Nor small finches sing so sweet. When the sun strikes through the bushes To their crimson clinging feet. And their pretty eyes look sideways to the summer heavens complete. If it were a bird, it seemed Most like Chaucer's, which, in sooth, He of green and azure dreamed, While it sat in spirit-ruth On that bier of a crowned lady, singing nigh her silent mouth. THE LOST BOWER. 2^ If it were a bird? — ah, sceptic, Give me "yea" or give me "nay" — Though my soul were nympholeptic As I heard that virelay. You may stoop your pride to pardon, for my sin is far away! I rose up in exaltation And an inward trembling heat. And (it seemed) in geste of passion Dropped the music to my feet Like a garment rustling downwards — such a silence followed it! Heart and head beat through the quiet Full and heavily, though slower: In the song, I think, and by it, Mystic Presences of power Had up-snatched me to the Timeless, then returned me to the Hour. In a child-abstraction lifted, Straightway from the bower I past, Foot and soul being dimly drifted Through the greenwood, till, at last. In the hill-top's open sunshine I all consciously was cast. Face to face with the true mountains I stood silently and still, Drawing strength from fancy's dauntings. From the air about the hill And from Nature's open mercies and most debonair goodwill. 26 THE LOST BOWER. Oh, the golden-hearted daisies Witnessed there, before my youth, To the truth of things, with praises Of the beauty of the truth; And I woke to Nature's real, laughing joyfully for both. And I said within me, laughing, "I have found a bower to-day, A green lusus, fashioned half in Chance and half in Nature's play; And a little bird sings nigh it, I will nevermore missay. "Henceforth, / will be the fairy Of this bower not built by one; I will go there, sad or merry. With each morning's benison. And the bird shall be my harper in the dream-hall I have won." So I said. But the next morning, ( — ^Child, look up into my face — 'Ware, oh sceptic, of your scorning! This is truth in its pure grace!) The next morning all had vanished, or my wandering missed the place. Bring an oath most sylvan-holy. And upon it swear me true — By the wind-bells swinging slowly Their mute curfews in the dew, By the advent of the snow-drop, by the rosemary and rue, — THE LOST BOWER. 2^ I affirm by all or any, Let the cause be charm or chance, That my wandering searches many Missed the bower of my romance — That I nevermore upon it turned my mortal coun- tenance. I affirm that, since I lost it. Never bower has seemed so fair; Never garden-creeper crossed it With so deft and brave an air. Never bird sung in the summer, as I saw and heard them there. Day by day, with new desire. Toward my wood I ran in faith. Under leaf and over brier. Through the thickets, out of breath; Like the prince who rescued Beauty from the sleep as long as death. But his sword of mettle clashed. And his arm smote strong, I ween, And her dreaming spirit flashed Through her body's fair white screen. And the light thereof might guide him up the cedar alleys green: But for me I saw no splendour — All my sword was my child-heart; And the wood refused surrender Of that bower it held apart, Safe as CEdipus's grave-place 'mid Colonels olives swart. 28 THE LOST BOWER. As Aladdin sought the basements His fair palace rose upon, And the four-and-twenty casements Which gave answers to the sun; So, in wilderment of gazing, I looked up and I looked down. Years have vanished since, as wholly As the little bower did then; And you call it tender folly That such thoughts should come again? Ah, I cannot change this sighing for your smiling, brother men! For this loss it did prefigure Other loss of better good, When my soul, in spirit vigour And in ripened womanhood. Fell from visions of more beauty than an arbour in a wood. I have lost — oh, many a pleasure. Many a hope and many a power — Studious health and merry leisure. The first dew on the first flower! But the first of all my losses was the losing of the bower. I have lost the dream of Doing, And the other dream of Done, The first spring in the pursuing, The first pride in the Begun, — First recoil from incompletion, in the face of what is won — THE LOST BOWER. 2g Exaltations in the far light Where some cottage only is; Mild dejections in the starlight, Which the sadder-hearted miss; And the child-cheek blushing scarlet for the very shame of bliss. I have lost the sound child-sleeping Which the thunder could not break; Something too of the strong leaping Of the staglike heart awake, Which the pale is low for keeping in the road it ought to take. Some respect to social fictions Has been also lost by me; And some generous genuflexions. Which my spirit offered free To the pleasant old conventions of our false humanity. All my losses did I tell you, Ye perchance would look away, — Ye would answer me, "Farewell! you Make sad company to-day. And your tears are falling faster than the bitter words you say." For God placed me like a dial In the open ground with power, And my heart had for its trial All the sun and all the shower: And I suffered many losses, — and my first was of the bower. 30 THE LOST BOWER. Laugh you'? If that loss of mine be Of no heavy-seeming weight — When the cone falls from the pine-tree, The young children laugh thereat; Yet the wind that struck it, riseth, and the tempest shall be great. One who knew me in my childhood In the glamour and the game, Looking on me long and mild, would Nev^er know me for the same. Come, unchanging recollections, where those changes overcame ! By this couch I weakly lie on. While I count my memories, — Through the fingers which, still sighing, I press closely on mine eyes, — Clear as once beneath the sunshine, I behold the bower arise. Springs the linden-tree as greenly. Stroked with light adown its rind; And the ivy-leaves serenely Each in either intertwined; And the rose-trees at the doorway, they have neither grown nor pined. From those overblown faint roses Not a leaf appeareth shed, And that little bud discloses Not a thorn's-breadth more of red For the winters and the summers which have passed me overhead. THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE. 3! And that music overfloweth, Sudden sweet, the sylvan eaves: Thrush or nightingale — who knowethi Fay or Faunus — who believes*? But my heart still trembles in me to the trembling of the leaves. Is the bower lost, then? who sayeth That the bower indeed is lost? Hark! my spirit in it prayeth Through the solstice and the frost, — And the prayer preserves it greenly, to the last and uttermost. Till another open for me In God's Eden-land unknown. With an angel at the doorway, White with gazing at His throne; And a saint's voice in the palm-trees, singing — "All is lost . . . and won!" THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE. A Knight of gallant deeds And a young page at his side. From the holy war in Palestine Did slow and thoughtful ride, As each were a palmer and told for beads The dews of the eventide. 32 THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE. "O young page," said the knight, "A noble page art thou! Thou fearest not to steep in blood The curls upon thy brow; And once in the tent, and twice in the fight, Didst ward me a mortal blow." "O brave knight," said the page, "Or ere we hither came. We talked in tent, we talked in field, Of the bloody battle-game; But here, below this greenwood bough, I cannot speak the same. "Our troop is far behind. The woodland calm is new; Our steeds, with slow grass-muffled hoofs, Tread deep the shadows through; And in my mind, some blessing kind Is dropping with the dew, "The woodland calm is pure — I cannot choose but have A thought from these, o' the beechen-trees Which in our England wave. And of the little finches fine Which sang there while in Palestine The warrior hilt we drave. "Methinks, a moment gone, I heard my mother pray! I heard, sir knight, the prayer for me Wherein she passed away; And I know the heavens are leaning down To hear what I shall say.'' THE ROMAUNt OF THE PAGE. 33 The page spake calm and high, As of no mean degree; Perhaps he felt in nature's broad Full heart, his own was free: And the knight looked up to his lifted eye, Then answered smilingly — "Sir page, I pray your grace! Certes, I meant not so To cross your pastoral mood, sir page, With the crook of the battle-bow; But a knight may speak of a lad3^s face, I ween, in any mood or place. If the grasses die or grow. "And this I meant to say — My lady's face shall shine As ladies' faces use to greet, My page from Palestine; Or, speak she fair or prank she gay, She is no lady of mine. "And this I meant to fear — Her bower may suit thee ill; For, sooth, in that same field and tent. Thy talk was somewhat still: And fitter thy hand for my knightly spear Than thy tongue for my lady's will!" Slowly and thankfully The young page bowed his head; His large eyes seemed to muse a smile, Until he blushed instead. And no lady in her bower, pardi^, Could blush more sudden red: EHzahth Brownings 3 34 THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE. "Sir Knight, — thy lady's bower to me Is suited well " he said. Beati^ heati mortui! From the convent on the sea, One mile off, or scarce so nigh, Swells the dirge as clear and high As if that, over brake and lea, Bodily the wind did carry The great altar of St. Mary, And the fifty tapers burning o'er it. And the lady Abbess dead before it. And the chanting nuns whom yesterweek Her voice did charge and bless, — Chanting steady, chanting meek, Chanting with a solemn breath Because that they are thinking less Upon the dead than upon death. Beati, heati mortui! Now the vision in the sound Wheeleth on the wind around; Now it sweepeth back, away — The uplands will not let it stay To dark the western sun: Mortui! — away at last, — Or ere the page's blush is past: And the knight heard all, and the page heard none. "A boon, thou noble knight, If ever I served thee! Though thou art a knight and I am a page, Now grant a boon to me; THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE. 35 And tell me sooth, if dark or bright, If little loved or loved aright Be the face of thy ladye." Gloomily looked the knight — "As a son thou hast served me, And would to none I had granted boon Except to only thee! For haply then I should love aright, For then I should know if dark or bright Were the face of my ladye. "Yet it ill suits my knightly tongue To grudge that granted boon. That heavy price from heart and life I paid in silence down; The hand that claimed it, cleared in fine My father's fame: I swear by mine, That price was nobly won! "Earl Walter was a brave old earl, He was my father's friend; And while I rode the lists at court And little guessed the end. My noble father in his shroud Against a slanderer lying loud He rose up to defend. "Oh, calm below the marble grey My father's dust was strown! Oh, meek above the marble grey His image prayed alone! 3* 36 THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE. The slanderer lied: the wretch was brave— For, looking up the minster-nave, He saw my father's knightly glaive Was changed from steel to stone. "Earl Walter's glaive was steel, With a brave old hand to wear it, And dashed the lie back in the mouth Which lied against the godly truth And against the knightly merit: The slanderer, 'neath the avenger's heel. Struck up the dagger in appeal From stealthy lie to brutal force — And out upon the traitor's corse Was yielded the true spirit. "I would mine hand had fought that fight And justified my father! I would mine heart had caught that wound And slept beside him rather! I think it were a better thing Than murdered friend and marriage-ring Forced on my life together. "Wail shook Earl Walter's house; His true wife shed no tear; She lay upon her bed as mute As the earl did on his bier: Till — ^Ride, ride fast,' she said at last, *And bring the avenged's son anear! Ride fast, ride free, as a dart can flee, For white of blee with waiting for me Is the corse in the next chamb^re.' THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE. 37 "I came, I knelt beside her bed; Her calm was worse than strife: *My husband, for thy father dear, Gave freely when thou wast not here His own and eke my life. A boon! Of that sweet child we make An orphan for thy father's sake, Make thou, for ours, a wife/ "I said, 'My steed neighs in the court, My bark rocks on the brine, And the warrior's vow I am under now To free the pilgrim's shrine; But fetch the ring and fetch the priest And call that daughter of thine, And rule she wide from my castle on Nyde While I am in Palestine.' "In the dark chamb^re, if the bride was fair, Ye wis, I could not see. But the steed thrice neighed, and the priest fast prayed. And wedded fast were we. Her mother smiled upon her bed As at its side we knelt to wed, And the bride rose from her knee And kissed the smile of her mother dead, Or ever she kissed me. "My page, my page, what grieves thee so. That the tears run down thy face?" — "Alas, alas! mine own sister Was in thy lady's case: But she laid down the silks she wore And followed him she wed before, 38 THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE. Disguised as his true servitor, To the very battle-place." And wept the page, but laughed the knight, A careless laugh laughed he: "Well done it were for thy sister, But not for my ladye! My love, so please you, shall requite No woman, whether dark or bright, Unwomaned if she be." The page stopped weeping and smiled cold- "Your wisdom may declare That womanhood is proved the best By golden brooch and glossy vest The mincing ladies wear; Yet is it proved, and was of old, Anear as well, I dare to hold. By truth, or by despair." He smiled no more, he wept no more, But passionate he spake — "Oh, womanly she prayed in tent, When none beside did wake! Oh, womanly she paled in fight. For one beloved's sake! — And her little hand, defiled with blood, Her tender tears of womanhood Most woman-pure did make!" — "Well done it were for thy sister, Thou tellest well her tale! But for my lady, she shall pray r the kirk of Nydesdale. THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE. 39 Not dread for me but love for me Shall make my lady pale; No casque shall hide her woman's tear; It shall have room to trickle clear Behind her woman's veil." — "But what if she mistook thy mind And followed thee to strife, Then kneeling did entreat thy love As paynims ask for life?" — "I would forgive, and evermore Would love her as my servitor. But little as my wife. "Look up — there is a small bright cloud Alone amid the skies! So high, so pure, and so apart, A woman's honour lies." The page looked up — the cloud was sheen — A sadder cloud did rush, I ween. Betwixt it and his eyes. Then dimly dropped his eyes away From welkin unto hill — Ha! who rides there *? — the page is 'ware. Though the cry at his heart is still: And the page seeth all and the knight seeth none, Though banner and spear do fleck the sun. And the Saracens ride at will. He speaketh calm, he speaketh low, — "Ride fast, my master, ride, Or ere within the broadening dark The narrow shadows hide." 40 THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE. ^^Yea, fast, my page, I will do so, And keep thou at my side." "Now nay, now nay, ride on thy way, Thy faithful page precede, For I must loose on saddle-bow My battle-casque that galls, I trow. The shoulder of my steed; And I must pray, as I did vow, For one in bitter need. "Ere night I shall be near to thee, — Now ride, my master, ride! Ere night, as parted spirits cleave To mortals too beloved to leave, I shall be at thy side." The knight smiled free at the fantasy. And adown the dell did ride. Had the knight looked up to the page's face. No smile the word had won; Had the knight looked up to the page's face, I ween he had never gone: Had the knight looked back to the page's geste, I ween he had turned anon. For dread was the woe in the face so young. And wild was the silent geste that flung Casque, sword to earth, as the boy down-sprung And stood — alone, alone. He clenched his hands as if to hold His soul's great agony — "Have I renounced my womanhood For wifehood unto theey THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE. 4I And is this the last, last look of thine That ever I shall see] "Yet God thee save, and may'st thou have A lady to thy mind, More woman-proud and half as true As one thou leav'st behind! And God me take with Him to dwell — For Him I cannot love too well, As I have loved my kind/' She looketh up, in earth's despair The hopeful heavens to seek; That little cloud still floateth there. Whereof her loved did speak: How bright the little cloud appears! Her eyelids fall upon the tears. And the tears down either cheek. The tramp of hoof, the flash of steel — The Paynims round her coming! The sound and sight have made her calm, — False page, but truthful woman; She stands amid them all unmoved: A heart once broken by the loved Is strong to meet the foeman. "Ho, Christian page! art keeping sheep, From pouring wine-cups resting?" — "I keep my master's noble name, For warring not for feasting! And if that here Sir Hubert were, My master brave, my master dear. Ye would not stay the questing." 42 THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE. "Where is thy master, scornful page, That we may slay or bind him?" — "Now search the lea and search the wood, And see if ye can find him! Nathless, as hath been often tried, Your Paynim heroes faster ride Before him than behind him." "Give smoother answers, lying page, Or perish in the lying!" — "I trow that if the warrior brand Beside my foot, were in my hand, 'Twere better at replying!" They cursed her deep, they smote her low, They cleft her golden ringlets through; The Loving is the Dying. She felt the scimitar gleam down, And met it from beneath With smile more bright in victory Than any sword from sheath, — Which flashed across her lips serene. Most like the spirit-light between The darks of life and death. Ingemisco, ingemisco! From the convent on the sea, Now it sweepeth solemnly, As over wood and over lea Bodily the wind did carry The great altar of St. Mary, And the fifty tapers paling o^er it. And the Lady Abbess stark before it, RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 43 And the weary nuns with hearts that faintly Beat along their voices saintly — Ingemisco, ingemisco! Dirge for abbess laid in shroud Sweepeth o'er the shroudless Dead, Page or lady, as we said. With the dews upon her head, All as sad if not as loud. Ingemisco, ingemisco! Is ever a lament begun By any mourner under sun, Which, ere it endeth, suits but one? RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. To the belfry, one by one, went the ringers from the sun. Toll slowly. And the oldest ringer said, " Ours is music for the Dead When the rebecks are all done." Six abeles i' the churchyard grow on the north side in a row, Toll slowly. And the shadows of their tops rock across the little slopes Of the grassy graves below. On the south side and the west a small river runs in haste, Toll slowly. And, between the river flowing and the fair green trees a-growing, Do the dead lie at their rest. 44 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. On the east I sat that day, up against a willow grey: Toll slowly. Through the rain of willow branches I could see the low hill-ranges And the river on its way. There I sat beneath the tree, and the bell tolled solemnly. Toll slowly. While the trees' and river's voices flowed between the solemn noises, — Yet death seemed more loud to me. There I read this ancient Rhyme while the bell did all the time Toll slowly. And the solemn knell fell in with the tale of life and sin, Like a rhythmic fate sublime. THE RHYME. Broad the forests stood (I read) on the hills of Linteged, Toll slowly. And three hundred years had stood mute adown each hoary wood, Like a full heart having prayed. And the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, Toll slowly. And but little thought was theirs of the silent antique years, In the building of their nest. RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 45 Down the sun dropt large and red on the towers of Linteged, — Toll slowly. Lance and spear upon the height, bristhng strange in fiery light, While the castle stood in shade. There the castle stood up black with the red sun at its back, Toll slowly. Like a sullen smouldering pyre with a top that flickers fire When the wind is on its track. And five hundred archers tall did besiege the castle wall, Toll slowly. And the castle, seethed in blood, fourteen days and nights had stood And to-night was near its fall. Yet thereunto, blind to doom, three months since, a bride did come, Toll slowly. One who proudly trod the floors and softly whispered in the doors, "May good angels bless our home." Oh, a bride of queenly eyes, with a front of constancies. Toll slowly. Oh, a bride of cordial mouth where the untired smile of youth Did light outward its own sighs! 46 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 'Twas a Duke's fair orphan-girl, and her uncle's ward — the Earl, Toll slowly. Who betrothed her twelve years old, for the sake of dowry gold. To his son Lord Leigh the churl. But what time she had made good all her years of womanhood, Toll slowly. Unto both these Lords of Leigh spake she out right sovranly, "My will runneth as my blood. "And while this same blood makes red this same right hand's veins," she said, Toll slowly, "'Tis my will as lady free, not to wed a Lord of Leigh^ But Sir Guy of Linteged." The old Earl he smiled smooth, then he sighed for wilful youth, — Toll slowly. "Good my niece, that hand withal looketh somewhat soft and small For so large a will, in sooth" She too smiled by that same sign, but her smile was cold and fine, — Toll slowly. ^'Little hand clasps muckle gold, or it were not worth the hold Of thy son, good uncle mine!" RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 47 Then the young lord jerked his breath, and sware thickly in his teeth, Toll slowly, "He would wed his own betrothed, an she loved him an she loathed, Let the life come or the death." Up she rose with scornful eyes, as her father's child might rise, — Toll slowly. "Thy hound's blood, my Lord of Leigh, stains thy knightly heel," quoth she, "And he moans not where he lies: "But a woman's will dies hard, in the hall or on the sward" — Toll slowly. "By that grave, my lords, which made me orphaned girl and dowered lady, I deny you wife and ward!" Unto each she bowed her head and swept past with lofty tread. Toll slowly. Ere the midnight-bell had ceased, in the chapel had the priest Blessed her, bride of Linteged. Fast and fain the bridal train along the night-storm rode amain: Toll slowly. Hard the steeds of lord and serf struck their hoofs out on the turf, In the pauses of the rain. 48 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. Fast and fain the kinsmen's train along the storm pursued amain, Toll slowly. Steed on steed-track, dashing off, — thickening, doub- ling hoof on hoof. In the pauses of the rain. And the bridegroom led the flight on his red-roan steed of might, Toll slowly. And the bride lay on his arm, still, as if she feared no harm. Smiling out into the night. "Dost thou fear?" he said at last: "Nay," she answered him in haste, — Toll slowly, "Not such death as we could find — only life with one behind. Ride on fast as fear, ride fasti" Up the mountain wheeled the steed — girth to ground, and fetlocks spread, — Toll slowly. Headlong bounds , and rocking flanks, — down he stag- gered, down the banks, To the towers of Linteged. High and low the serfs looked out, red the flambeaus tossed about, Toll slowly. In the courtyard rose the cry, "Live the Duchess and Sir Guy!" But she never heard them shout. RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 49 On the steed she dropped her cheek, kissed his mane and kissed his neck, — Toll slowly. "I had happier died by thee than lived on, a Lady- Leigh," Were the first words she did speak. But a three months' joyaunce lay 'twixt that moment and to-day. Toll slowly. When five hundred archers tall stand beside the castle wall To recapture Duchess May. And the castle standeth black with the red sun at its back, Toll slowly. And a fortnight's siege is done, and, except the duchess, none Can misdoubt the coming wrack. Then the captain, young Lord Leigh, with his eyes so grey of blee. Toll slowly. And thin lips that scarcely sheath the cold white gnashing of his teeth, Gnashed in smiling, absently, Cried aloud, "So goes the day, bridegroom fair of Duchess May!'' Toll slowly. "Look thy last upon that sun! if thou seest to-mor- row's one 'Twill be through a foot of clay. Elizabeth Browning. 4 50 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. "Ha, fair bride! dost hear no sound save that moan- ing of the hound?" Toll slowly. "Thou and I have parted troth, yet I keep my venge- ance-oath, And the other may come round. "Ha! thy will is brave to dare, and thy new love past compare," — Toll slowly. "Yet thine old love's faulchion brave is as strong a thing to have. As the will of lady fair. "Peck on blindly, netted dove! If a wife's name thee behove," Toll slowly. "Thou shalt wear the same to-morrow, ere the grave has hid the sorrow Of thy last ill-mated love. "O'er his fixed and silent mouth, thou and I will call back troth;" Toll slowly. "He shall altar be and priest, — and he will not cry at least ^I forbid you, I am lothl' "I will wring thy fingers pale in the gauntlet of my mail," Toll slowly. "'Little hand and muckle gold' close shall lie within my hold, As the sword did, to prevail." RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 5 I Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west. Toll slowly. Oh, and laughed the Duchess May, and her soul did put away All his boasting, for a jest. In her chamber did she sit, laughing low to think of it,— Toll slowly, "Tower is strong and will is free: thou canst boast, my lord of Leigh, But thou boastest little wit. In her tire-glass gazed she, and she blushed right womanly: Toll slowly. She blushed half from her disdain, half, her beauty was so plain, — "Oath for oath, my lord of Leigh! Straight she called her maidens in — "Since ye gave me blame herein," Toll slowly, "That a bridal such as mine should lack gauds to make it fine, Come and shrive me from that sin. "It is three months gone to-day since I gave mine hand away:" Toll slowly, "Bring the gold and bring the gem, we will keep bride-state in them, While we keep the foe at bay. 4* 52 RHYxME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. "On your arms I loose mine hair; comb it smooth and crown it fair:" Toll slowly, "I would look in purple pall from this lattice down the wall, And throw scorn to one that's there!" Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west: Toll slowly. On the tower the castle's lord leant in silence on his sword, With an anguish in his breast With a spirit-laden weight did he lean down passionate: Toll slowly. They have almost sapped the wall, — they will enter therewithal With no knocking at the gate. Then the sword he leant upon, shivered, snapped upon the stone, — Toll slowly, "Sword," he thought, with inward laugh, "ill thou servest for a staff When thy nobler use is done! "Sword, thy nobler use is done! tower is lost, and shame begun!" — Toll slowly, "If we met them in the breach, hilt to hilt or speech to speech. We should die there, each for one. RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 53 "If we met them at the wall, we should singly, vainly fall/' Toll slowly. But if / die here alone, — then I die who am but one, And die nobly for them all. "Five true friends lie for my sake in the moat, and in the brake'' Toll slowly, "Thirteen warriors lie at rest with a black wound in the breast, And not one of these will wake. "So no more of this shall be! heart-blood weighs too heavily," — Toll slowly, "And I could not sleep in grave, with the faithful and the brave Heaped around and over me. "Since young Clare a mother hath, and young Ralph a plighted faith," Toll slowly, "Since my pale young sister's cheeks blush like rose when Ronald speaks. Albeit never a word she saith — "These shall never die for me: life-blood falls too heavily:" Toll slowly, "And if/ die here apart, o'er my dead and silent heart They shall pass out safe and free. 54 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. "When the foe hath heard it said — 'Death holds Guy of Linteged,' " Toll slowly, "That new corse new peace shall bring, and a blessed, blessed thing Shall the stone be at its head. "Then my friends shall pass out free, and shall bear my memory," Toll slowly, "Then my foes shall sleek their pride, soothing fair my widowed bride Whose sole sin was love of me: "With their words all smooth and sweet, they will front her and entreat,'' Toll slowly, "And their purple pall will spread underneath her fainting head While her tears drop over it. "She will weep her woman's tears, she will pray her woman's prayers," Toll slowly, "But her heart is young in pain, and her hopes will spring again By the suntime of her years. "Ah, sweet May! ah, sweetest grief! — once I vowed thee my belief," Toll slowly, "That thy name expressed thy sweetness, — May of poets, in completeness! Now my May-day seemeth brief." RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 55 All these silent thoughts did swim o'er his eyes grown strange and dim, Toll slowly. Till his true men in the place, wished they stood there face to face With the foe instead of him. "One last oath, my friends that wear faithful hearts to do and dare!" / Toll slowly. "Tower must fall and bride be lost — swear me service worth the cost!" Bold they stood around to swear. "Each man clasp my hand and swear by the deed we failed in there," Toll slowly, "Not for vengeance, not for rght, will ye strike one blow to-night!" Pale they stood around to swear. "One last boon, young Ralph and Clare! faithful hearts to do and dare!" Toll slowly, "Bring that steed up from his stall, which she kissed before you all, Guide him up the turret-stair. " Ye shall harness him aright, and lead upward to this height;" Toll slowly, "Once in love and twice in war, hath he borne me strong and far: He shall bear me far to-night." 56 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. Then his men looked to and fro, when they heard him speaking so; Toll slowly, "'Las! the noble heart/' they thought, "he in sooth is grief-distraught: Would we stood here with the foe!" But a fire flashed from his eye, 'twixt their thought and their reply, — Toll slowly, "Have ye so much time to waste? We who ride, here, must ride fast As we wish our foes to fly." They have fetched the steed with care, in the harness he did wear. Toll slowly. Past the court and through the door, across the rushes of the floors. But they goad him up the stair. Then from out her bower chamb^re, did the Duchess May repair: Toll slowly. "Tell me now what is your need," said the lady, "of this steed. That ye goad him up the stair?" Calm she stood; unbodkined through, fell her dark hair to her shoe; Toll slowly. And the smile upon her face, ere she left the tiring- glass. Had not time enough to go. RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 57 "Get thee back, sweet Duchess May! hope is gone like yesterday." Toll slowly, "One half-hour completes the breach: and thy lord grows wild of speech — Get thee in, sweet lady, and pray! "In the east tower, highest of all, loud he cries for steed from stall:" Toll slowly. "He would ride as far," quoth he, "as for love and victory. Though he rides the castle-wall." "And we fetch the steed from stall, up where never a hoof did fall"— Toll slowly, "Wifely prayer meets deathly need: may the sweet Heavens hear thee plead If he rides the castle-wall!" Low she dropt her head, and lower, till her hair coiled on the floor, Toll slowly. And tear after tear you heard fall distinct as any word Which you might be listening for. "Get thee in, thou soft ladye! here is never a place for thee!" Toll slowly, "Braid thine hair and clasp thy gown, that thy beauty in its moan May find grace with Leigh of Leigh." 58 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY She stood up in bitter case, with a pale yet steady face, Toll slowly. Like a statue thunderstruck, which, though quivering, seems to look Right against the thunder-place. And her foot trod in, with pride, her own tears i' the stone beside, — Toll slowly. "Go to, faithful friends, go to! judge no more what ladies do. No, nor how their lords may ride!'' Then the good steed's rein she took, and his neck did kiss and stroke: Toll slowly. Soft he neighed to answer her, and then followed up the stair For the love of her sweet look: Oh, and steeply, steeply wound up the narrow stair around. Toll slowly. Oh, and closely, closely speeding, step by step beside her treading Did he follow, meek as hound. On the east tower, high'st of all, — there, where never a hoof did fall, — Toll slowly. Out they swept, a vision steady, noble steed and lovely lady. Calm as if in bower or stall. RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 59 Down she knelt at her lord's knee, and she looked up silently, Toll slowly. And he kissed her twice and thrice, for that look within her eyes Which he could not bear to see. Quoth he, "Get thee from this strife, and the sweet saints bless thy life!" Toll slowly, "In this hour I stand in need of my noble red-roan steed, But no more of my noble wife." Quoth she, "Meekly have I done all thy biddings under sun;" Toll slowly. "But by all my womanhood, which is proved so, true and good, I will never do this one. "Now by womanhood's degree and by wifehood's verity." Toll slowly, "In this hour if thou hast need of thy noble red-roan steed. Thou hast also need of me. By this golden ring ye see on this lifted hand pardi^." Toll slowly, "If this hour, on castle- wall can be room for steed from stall, Shall be also room for me. 6o RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. "So the sweet saints with me be," (did she utter solemnly,) Toll slowly. "If a man, this eventide, on this castle wall will ride, He shall ride the same with mer Oh, he sprang up in the selle and he laughed out bitter- well, — Toll slowly, "Wouldst thou ride among the leaves, as we used on other eves. To hear chime a vesper-bell?" She clung closer to his knee — "Ay, beneath the cypress tree!" Toll slowly. "Mock me not, for otherwhere than along the green- wood fair Have I ridden fast with thee. "Fast I rode with new-made vows from my angry kins- man's house:" Toll slowly. "What, and would you men should reck that I dared more for love's sake As a bride than as a spouse? "What, and would you it should fall, as a proverb, before all," Toll slowly. "That a bride may keep your side while through castle- gate you ride. Yet eschew the castle-wall?" RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 6 1 Ho! the breach yawns into ruin and roars up against her suing, Toll slowly. With the inarticulate din and the dreadful falling in — Shrieks of doing and undoing. Twice he wrung her hands in twain, but the small hands closed again. Toll slowly. Back he reined the steed — back, back! but she trailed along his track With a frantic clasp and strain. Evermore the foemen pour through the crash of window and door, Toll slowly. And the shouts of Leigh and Leigh, and the shrieks of "kill!" and "flee!" Strike up clear amid the roar. Thrice he wrung her hands in twain, but they closed and clung again. Toll slowly. While she clung, as one, withstood, clasps a Christ upon the rood. In a spasm of deathly pain. She clung wild and she clung mute with her shuddering lips half-shut; Toll slowly. Her head fallen as half in swound, hair and knee swept on the ground, She clung wild to stirrup and foot. 62 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. Back he reined his steed back-thrown on the slippery coping-stone; Toll slowly. Back the iron hoofs did grind on the battlement behind Whence a hundred feet went down: And his heel did press and goad on the quivering flank bestrode, — Toll slowly. "Friends and brothers, save my wife! Pardon, Sweet, in change for life, — But I ride alone to God." Straight as if the holy name had upbreathed her like a flame. Toll slowly. She upsprang, she rose upright, in his selle she sat in sight. By her love she overcame. And her head was on his breast where she smiled as one at rest, — Toll slowly. "Ring," she cried, "O vesper-bell in the beechwood's old chapelle — But the passing-bell rings best!" They have caught out at the rein which Sir Guy threw loose — in vain, Toll slowly. For the horse in stark despair, with his front hoofs poised in air. On the last verge rears amain. RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 63 Now he hangs, he rocks between, and his nostrils curdle in, Toll slowly. Now he shivers head and hoof, and the flakes of foam fall off, And his face grows fierce and thin: And a look of human woe from his staring eyes did go, Toll slowly. And a sharp cry uttered he, in a foretold agony Of the headlong death below, — And, "Ring, ring, thou passing bell," still she cried, "i' the old chapelle!" Toll slowly. Then back-toppling, crashing back — a dead weight flung out to wrack. Horse and riders overfell. Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, Toll slowly. And I read this ancient Rhyme, in the churchyard, while the chime Slowly tolled for one at rest. The abeles moved in the sun, and the river smooth did run, Toll slowly. And the ancient Rhyme rang strange, with its passion and its change. Here, where all done lay undone. 64 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. And beneath a willow tree I a little grave did see, Toll slowly. Where was graved, — Here, undefiled, lieth Maud, a three- year child, Eighteen hundred, forty-three. Then, O spirits, did I say, ye who rode so fast that day, Toll slowly. Did star-wheels and angel wings with their holy win- nowings Keep beside you all the way? Though in passion ye would dash with a blind and heavy crash. Toll slowly. Up against the thick-bossed shield of God's judgment in the field, — Though your heart and brain were rash, — Now, your will is all unwilled, now, your pulses are all stilled, Toll slowly. Now, ye lie as meek and mild (whereso laid) as Maud the child, Whose small grave was lately filled. Beating heart and burning brow, ye are very patient now, Toll slowly. And the children might be bold to pluck the kingcups from your mould Ere a month had let them grow. RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 65 And you let the goldfinch sing in the alder near in spring, Toll slowly. Let her build her nest and sit all the three weeks out on it, Murmuring not at anything* In your patience ye are strong, cold and heat ye take not wrong, Toll slowly. When the trumpet of the angel blows eternity's evangel, Time will seem to you not long. Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, Toll slowly » And I said in underbreath, — All our life is mixed with death, And who knoweth which is best? Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, Toll slowly » And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness, — Round our restlessness. His rest Elizabeth Brcivnin^. 66 BERTHA IN THE LANE. BERTHA IN THE LANE. Put the broidery- frame away, For my sewing is all done: The last thread is used to-day, And I need not join it on. Though the clock stands at the noon I am weary. I have sewn. Sweet, for thee, a wedding gown. Sister, help me to the bed. And stand near me, Dearest-sweet. Do not shrink nor be afraid. Blushing with a sudden heat! No one staudeth in the street? — By God's love I go to meet, Love I thee with love complete. Lean thy face down; drop it in These two hands, that I may hold 'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin, Stroking back the curls of gold: 'Tis a fair, fair face, in sooth — Larger eyes and redder mouth Than mine were in my first youth. BERTHA IN THE LANE. 67 Thou art younger by seven years: Ah! — so bashful at my gaze, That the lashes, hung with tears. Grow too heavy to upraise? I would wound thee by no touch Which thy shyness feels as such. Dost thou mind me, Dear, so much*? Have I not been nigh a mother To thy sweetness — tell me, Dearl Have we not loved one another Tenderly, from year to year. Since our dying mother mild Said with accents undefiled, "Child, be mother to this child!" Mother, mother, up in heaven. Stand up on the jasper sea, And be witness I have given All the gifts required of me, — Hope that blessed me, bliss that crowned. Love that left me with a wound. Life itself that tumeth round! Mother, mother, thou art kind. Thou art standing in the room. In a molten glory shrined That rays off into the gloom! But thy smile is bright and bleak Like cold waves — I cannot speak, I sob in it, and grow weak. 5* 68 BERTHA IN THE LANE. Ghostly mother, keep aloof One hour longer from my soul, For I still am thinking of Earth's warm-beating joy and dole! On my finger is a ring Which I still see glittering When the night hides everything. Little sister, thou art pale! Ah, I have a wandering brain — But I lose that fever-bale. And my thoughts grow calm again. Lean down closer — closer still! I have words thine ear to fill. And would kiss thee at my will. Dear, I heard thee in the spring. Thee and Robert — through the trees,- When we all went gathering Boughs of May-bloom for the bees. Do not start so! think instead How the sunshine overhead Seemed to trickle through the shade. What a day it was, that day! Hills and vales did openly Seem to heave and throb away At the sight of the great sky. And the silence, as it stood In the glory's golden flood, Audibly did bud, and bud. BERTHA IN THE LANE. 69 Through the winding hedgerows green, How we wandered, I and you, With the bowery tops shut in, And the gates that showed the view! How we talked there! thrushes soft Sang our praises out, or oft Bleatings took them, from the croft: Till the pleasure grown too strong Left me muter evermore, And, the winding road being long, I walked out of sight, before. And so, wTapt in musings fond. Issued (past the wayside pond) On the meadow-lands beyond. I sat down beneath the beech Which leans over to the lane. And the far sound of your speech Did not promise any pain; And I blessed you full and free. With a smile stooped tenderly O'er the May-flowers on my knee. But the sound grew into word As the speakers drew more near — Sweet, forgive me that I heard What you wished me not to hear. Do not weep so, do not shake, Oh, — I heard thee. Bertha, make Good true answers for my sake. 70 BERTHA IN THE LANE. Yes, and he too! let him stand In thy thoughts untouched by blame. Could he help it, if my hand He had claimed with hasty claim? That was wrong perhaps — but then Such things be — and will, again. Women cannot judge for men. Had he seen thee when he swore He would love but me alone? Thou wast absent, sent before To our kin in Sidmouth town. When he saw thee who art best Past compare, and loveliest, He but judged thee as the rest. Could we blame him with grave words, Thou and I, Dear, if we might? Thy brown eyes have looks like birds Flying straightway to the light: Mine are older. — Hush! — look out — Up the street! Is none without? How the poplar swings about! And that hour— beneath the beech, When I listened in a dream, And he said in his deep speech That he owed me all esteem^ — Each word swam in on my brain With a dim, dilating pain, Till it burst with that last strain. BERTHA IN THE LANE. J I I fell flooded with a dark, In the silence of a swoon. When I rose, still cold and stark, There was night; I saw the moon: And the stars, each in its place. And the May-blooms on the grass, Seemed to wonder what I was. And I walked as if apart From myself, when I could stand, And I pitied my own heart. As if I held it in my hand. Somewhat coldly, with a sense Of fulfilled benevolence. And a "Poor thing" negligence. And I answered coldly too. When you met me at the door; And I only heard the dew Dripping from me to the floor: And the flowers I bade you see. Were too withered for the bee, — As my life, henceforth, for me. Do not weep so — Dear — heart-warm! All was best as it befell. If I say he did me harm, I speak wild, — I am not well. All his words were kind and good — He esteemed me. Only, blood Runs so faint in womanhood! 7 2 BERTHA IN THE LANE. Then I always was too grave, — Like the saddest ballad sung, — With that look, besides, we have In our faces, who die young. I had died, Dear, all the same; Life's long, joyous, jostling game Is too loud for my meek shame. We are so unlike each other, Thou and I, that none could guess We were children of one mother, But for mutual tenderness. Thou art rose-lined from the cold, And meant verily to hold Life's pure pleasures manifold. I am pale as crocus grows Close behind a rose-tree's root; Whosoe'er would reach the rose. Treads the crocus underfoot. /, like May-bloom on thorn-tree, Thou, like merry summer-bee, — Fit that I be plucked for thee! Yet who plucks me? — no one mourns, I have lived my season out. And now die of my own thorns Which I could not live without Sweet, be merry! How the light Comes and goes! If it be night, Keep the candles in my sight ' BERTHA IN THE LANE. 73 Are there footsteps at the do'or'? Look out quickly. Yea, or nay? Some one might be waiting for Some last word that I might say. Nayl So best! — so angels would Stand off clear from deathly road. Not to cross the sight of God. Colder grow my hands and feet. When I wear the shroud I made, Let the folds lie straight and neat, And the rosemary be spread, That if any friend should come, (To see thee^ Sweet!) all the room May be lifted out of gloom. And, dear Bertha, let me keep On my hand this little ring. Which at nights, when others sleep, I can still see glittering. Let me wear it out of sight. In the grave, — where it will light All the dark up, day and night. On that grave drop not a tear! Else, though fathom-deep the place, Through the woollen shroud I wear I shall feel it on my face. Rather smile there, blessed one, Thinking of me in the sun. Or forget me — smiling on! 74 BERTHA IN THE LANE. Art thou near me? nearer! so — Kiss me close upon the eyes, That the earthly light may go Sweetly, as it used to rise When I watched the morning-grey Strike, betwixt the hills, the way He was sure to come that day. So, — no more vain words be said! The hosannas nearer roll. Mother, — smile now on thy Dead, I am death-strong in my soul. Mystic Dove alit on cross. Guide the poor bird of the snows Through the snow-wind above loss! Jesus, Victim, comprehending Love's divine self-abnegation. Cleanse my love in its self-spending, And absorb the poor libation! Wind my thread of life up higher. Up, through angels' hands of fire! I aspire while I expire. CATARINA TO CAMOENS. 75 CATARINA TO CAMOENS; DYING IN HIS ABSENCE ABROAD, AND REFERRING TO THE POEM IN WHICH HE RECORDED THE SWEETNESS OF HER EYES. On the door you will not enter, I have gazed too long: adieu! Hope withdraws her peradventure; Death is near me, — and not j^ou. Come, O lover, Close and cover These poor eyes, you called, I ween, "Sweetest eyes, were ever seen!" When I heard you sing that burden In my vernal days and bowers. Other praises disregarding, I but barkened that of yours — Only saying In heart-playing, "Blessed eyes mine eyes have been If the sweetest, his have seen!" But all changes. At this vesper. Cold the sun shines down the door. If you stood there, would you whisper "Love, I love you," as before, — 76 CATARINA TO CAMOENS. Death pervading Now, and shading Eyes you sang of, that yestreen, As the sweetest ever seeni Yes. I think, were you beside them, Near the bed I die upon, Though their beauty you denied them, As you stood there, looking down. You would truly Call them duly. For the love's sake found therein, "Sweetest eyes, were ever seen." And [{you looked down upon them, And if fhey looked up to jou, All the light which has foregone them Would be gathered back anew: They would truly Be as duly Love-transformed to beauty's sheen, "Sweetest eyes, were ever seen." But, ah me! you only see me. In your thoughts of loving man. Smiling soft perhaps and dreamy Through the wavings of my fan; And unweeting Go repeating. In your reverie serene, "Sweetest eyes, were ever seen — '' CATARINA TO CAMOENS. 77 While my spirit leans and reaches From my body still and pale, Fain to hear what tender speech is In your love to help my bale. O my poet, Come and show it! Come, of latest love, to glean "Sweetest eyes, were ever seen." O my poet, O my prophet, When you praised their sweetness so, Did you think, in singing of it, That it might be near to go Had you fancies From their glances, That the grave would quickly screen "Sweetest eyes, were ever seen*?" No reply. The fountain's warble In the courtyard sounds alone. As the water to the marble So my heart falls with a moan From love-sighing To this dying. Death forerunneth Love to win "Sweetest eyes, were ever seen" Will you come? When Fm departed Where all sweetnesses are hid. Where thy voice, my tender-hearted, Will not lift up either lid. 78 CATARINA TO CAMOENS. Cry, O lover, Love is over! Cry, beneath the cypress green, "Sweetest eyes, were ever seen!" When the angelus is ringing, Near the convent will you walk. And recall the choral singing Which brought angels down our talk'? Spirit-shriven I viewed Heaven, Till you smiled — "Is earth unclean. Sweetest eyes, were ever seen?" When beneath the palace-lattice You ride slow as you have done. And you see a face there, that is Not the old familiar one, — Will you oftly Murmur softly, "Here ye watched me morn and e'en. Sweetest eyes, were ever seen!" When the palace-ladies, sitting Round your gittern, shall have said, "Poet, sing those verses written For the lady who is dead," Will you tremble Yet dissemble, — Or sing hoarse, with tears between, "Sweetest eyes, were ever seen?" CATARINA TO CAMOENS. 7Q "Sweetest eyes!'^ how sweet in flowings The repeated cadence is! Though you sang a hundred poems, Still the best one would be this. I can hear it 'Twixt my spirit And the earth-noise intervene — "Sweetest eyes, were ever seen!" But the priest waits for the praying, And the choir are on their knees, And the soul must pass away in Strains more solemn high than these. Miserere For the weary! Oh, no longer for Catrine "Sweetest eyes, were ever seen!" Keep my riband, take and keep it, (I have loosed it from my hair,)* Feeling, while you overweep it, Not alone in your despair. Since with saintly Watch unfaintly Out of heaven shall o'er you lean "Sweetest eyes, were ever seen." But — but now — yet unremoved Up to heaven, they glisten fast; You may cast away. Beloved, In your future all my past: * She left him the riband from her hair. 8o CATARINA TO CAMOENS. Such old phrases May be praises For some fairer bosom-queen — "Sweetest eyes, were ever seen!" Eyes of mine, what are ye doing? Faithless, faithless, — praised amiss If a tear be of your showing, Dropt for any hope of his! Death has boldness Beside coldness. If unworthy tears demean "Sweetest eyes, were ever seen/^ I will look out to his future; I will bless it till it shine. Should he ever be a suitor Unto sweeter eyes than mine, Sunshine gild them. Angels shield them, Whatsoever eyes terrene Be the sweetest his have seen! LADY GERALDINE's COURTSHIP. 8 1 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. A ROMANCE OF THE AGE. A poet writes to his friend. Place — A room in Wyco7nbe Hall. Time — Late in the evening. Dear my friend and fellow-student, I would lean my spirit o'er you! Down the purple of this chamber tears should scarcely run at will. I am humbled who was humble. Friend, I bow my head before you: You should lead me to my peasants, but their faces are too still. There's a lady, an earl's daughter, — she is proud and she is noble, And she treads the crimson carpet and she breathes the perfumed air. And a kingly blood sends glances up, her princely eye to trouble. And the shadow of a monarch's crown is softened in her hair. She i^as halls among the woodlands, she has castles by the breakers, She has farms and she has manors, she can threaten and command, Elizabeth Browning. V 82 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. And the palpitating engines snort in steam across her acres, As they mark upon the blasted heaven the measure of the land. There are none of England's daughters who can show a prouder presence: Upon princely suitors praying, she has looked in her disdain. She was sprung of English nobles, I was born of English peasants; What was / that I should love her, save for competence to pain? I was only a poor poef, made for singing at her case- ment, As the finches or the thrushes, while she thought of other things. Oh, she walked so high above me, she appeared to my abasement, In her lovely silken murmur, like an angel clad in wmgs Many vassals bow before her as her carriage sweeps their doorways; She has blest their little children, as a priest or queen were she: Far too tender, or too cruel far, her smile upon the poor was. For I thought it was the same smile which she used to smile on me. LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 83 She has voters in the commons, she has lovers in the palace, And of all the fair court ladies, few have jewels half as fine; Oft the prince has named her beauty 'twixt the red wine and the chalice: Oh, and what was / to love her? my beloved, my Geraldine! Yet I could not choose but love her: I was born to poet-uses. To love all things set above me, all of good and all of fair. Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we are wont to call the Muses; And in nympholeptic climbing, poets pass from mount to star. And because I was a poet, and because the public praised me. With a critical deduction for the modern writer's fault, I could sit at rich men's tables, — though the courtesies that raised me. Still suggested clear between us the pale spectrum of the salt. And they praised me in her presence; — "Will your book appear this summer?" Then returning to each other — "Yes, our plans are for the moors," 6* 84 LADY GERALDINE's COURTSHIP. Then with whisper dropped behind me — ^^ There he is! the latest comer. Oh, she only likes his v rses! what is over, she en- dures. "Quite low-born, self-educated 1 somewhat gifted though by nature, And we make a point of asking him, — of being very kind. You may speak, he does not hear you! and besides, he writes no satire, — All these serpents kept by charmers leave the natural sting behind." I grew scornfuller, grew colder, as I stood up there among them, Till as frost intense will burn you, the cold scorning scorched my brow; When a sudden silver speaking, gravely cadenced, overrung them. And a sudden silken stirring touched my inner nature through. I looked upward and beheld her: with a calm and regnant spirit, Slowly round she swept her eyelids, and said clear before them all — "Have you such superfluous honour, sir, that able to confer it You will come down, Mister Bertram, as my guest to Wycombe Halir' LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 85 Here she paused; she had been paler at the first word of her speaking, But because a silence followed it, blushed somewhat, as for shame. Then, as scorning her own feeling, resumed calmly — "I am seeking More distinction than these gentlemen think worthy of my claim. "Nevertheless, you see, I seek it — not because I am a woman," (Here her smile sprang like a fountain and, so, over- flowed her mouth,) "But because my woods in Sussex have some purple shades at gloaming Which are worthy of a king in state, or poet in his youth. "I invite you. Mister Bertram, to no scene for worldly speeches — Sir, I scarce should dare — but only where God asked the thrushes first: And if _you will sing beside them, in the covert of my beeches, I will thank you for the woodlands, — for the human world, at worst." Then she smiled around right childly, then she gazed around right queenly. And I bowed — I could not answer; alternated light and gloom — 86 LADY GERALDINE's COURTSHIP. While as one who quells the lions, with a steady eye serenely, She, with level fronting eyelids, passed out stately from the room. Oh, the blessed woods of Sussex! I can hear them still around me. With their leafy tide of greenery still rippling up the wind. Oh, the cursed woods of Sussex! where the hunter's arrow found me. When a fair face and a tender voice had made me mad and blind! In that ancient hall of Wycombe thronged the nume- rous guests invited. And the lovely London ladies trod the floors with gliding feet; And their voices low with fashion, not with feeling, softly freighted All the air about the windows with elastic laughters sweet. For at eve the open windows flung their light out on the terrace Which the floating orbs of curtains did with gradual shadow sweep, While the swans upon the river, fed at morning by the heiress, Trembled downward through their snowy wings at music in their sleep. LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 87 And there evermore was music, both of instrument and singing, Till the finches of the shrubberies grew restless in the dark; But the cedars stood up motionless, each in a moon- light-ringing, And the deer, half in the glimmer, strewed the hol- lows of the park. And though sometimes she would bind me with her silver-corded speeches To commix my words and laughter with the converse and the jest. Oft I sat apart and, gazing on the river through the beeches. Heard, as pure the swans swam down it, her pure voice o'erfloat the rest. In the morning horn of huntsman, hoof of steed and laugh of rider, Spread out cheery from the court-yard till we lost them in the hills, While herself and other ladies, and her suitors left beside her. Went a-wandering up the gardens through the laurels and abeles. Thus, her foot upon the new-mown grass, bareheaded, with the flowing Of the virginal white vesture gathered closely to her throat. 88 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. And the golden ringlets in her neck just quickened by her going, And appearing to, breathe sun for air, and doubting if to float, — With a branch of dewy maple, which her right hand held above her. And which trembled a green shadow in betwixt her and the skies. As she turned her face in going, thus, she drew me on to love her. And to worship the divineness of the smile hid in her eyes. For her eyes alone smile constantly; her lips have serious sweetness, And her front is calm, the dimple rarely ripples on the cheek; But her deep blue eyes smile constantly, as if they jn discreetness Kept the secret of a happy dream she did not care to speak. Thus she drew me the first morning, out across into the garden, And I walked among her noble friends and could not keep behind. Spake she unto all and unto me — "Behold, I am the warden Of the song-birds in these lindens, which are cages to their mind. LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 89 "But within this swarded circle into which the lime- walk brings us, Whence the beeches, rounded greenly, stand away in reverent fear, I will let no music enter, saving what the fountain sings us Which the liHes round the basin may seem pure enough to hear. "The live air that waves the lilies waves the slender jet of water Like a holy thought sent feebly up from soul of fast- ing saint: Whereby lies a marble Silence, sleeping, (Lough the sculptor wrought her,) So asleep she is forgetting to say Hush! — a fancy quaint. %Mark how heavy white her eyelids! not a dream be- tween them lingers; And the left hand's index droppeth from the lips upon the cheek: While the right hand, — with the symbol-rose held slack within the fingers, — Has fallen backward in the basin — yet this Silence will not speak! "That the essential meaning growing may exceed the special symbol, Is the thought as I conceive it: it applies more high and low. go LADY GERALDINE S COURTSHIP. Our true noblemen will often through right nobleness grow humble, And assert an inward honour by denying outward show." "Nay, your Silence," said I, "truly, holds her symbol- rose but slackly, Yet she holds it, or would scarcely be a Silence to our ken: And your nobles wear their ermine on the outside, or walk blackly In the presence of the social law as mere ignoble men. "Let the poets dream such dreaming! madam, in these British islands Tis the substance that wanes ever, 'tis the symbol that exceeds. Soon we shall have nought but symbol: and, for statues like this Silence, Shall accept the rose's image — in another case, the weed's." "Not so quickly," she retorted, — "I confess, where'er you go, you Find for things, names — shows for actions, and pure gold for honour clear: But when all is run to symbol in the Social, I will throw you The world's book which now reads drily, and sit down with Silence here." LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 9 1 Half in playfulness she spoke, I thought, and half in indignation; Friends who listened, laughed her words off, while her lovers deemed her fair: A fair woman, flushed with feeling, in her noble-lighted station Near the statue's white reposing — and both bathed in sunny air! With the trees round, not so distant but you heard their vernal murmur. And beheld in light and shadow the leaves in and outward move, And the little fountain leaping toward the sun-heart to be warmer, Then recoiling in a tremble from the too much light above. 'Tis a picture for remembrance. And thus, morning after morning, Did I follow as she drew me by the spirit to her feet. Why, her greyhound followed also! dogs — we both were dogs for scorning — To be sent back when she pleased it and her path lay through the wheat. And thus, morning after morning, spite of vows and spite of sorrow. Did I follow at her drawing, while the week-days passed along. Just to feed the swans this noontide, or to see the fawns to-morrow. Or to teach the hill-side echo some sweet Tuscan in a song. 92 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. Ay, for sometimes on the hill- side, while we sat down in the gowans, With the forest green behind us and its shadows cast before. And the river running under, and across it from the rowans A brown partridge whirring near us till we felt the air it bore,— There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud the poems Made to Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various of our own; Read the pastoral parts of Spenser, or the subtle inter- flowings Found in Petrarch's sonnets — here's the book, the leaf is folded down! — Or at times a modern volume, Wordsworth's solemn- thoughted idyl, Howitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's enchanted re- verie, — Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which, if cut deep down the middle. Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity. Or at times I read there, hoarsely, some new poem of my making: Poets ever fail in reading their own verses to their worth, LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 93 For the echo in you breaks upon the words which you are speaking, And the chariot wheels jar in the gate through which you drive them forth. After, when we were grown tired of books, the silence round us flinging A slow arm of sweet compression, felt with beatings at the breast, She would break out on a sudden in a gush of wood- land singing. Like a child's emotion in a god — a naiad tired of rest. Oh, to see or hear her singing! scarce I know which is divinest, For her looks sing too — she modulates her gestures on the tune, And her mouth stirs with the song, like song; and when the notes are finest, 'Tis the eyes that shoot out vocal light and seem to swell them on. Then we talked — oh, how we talked! her voice, so cadenced in the talking, Made another singing — of the soul! a music without bars: While the leafy sounds of woodlands, humming round where we were walking. Brought interposition worthy-sweet, as skies about the stars. 94 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. And she spake such good thoughts natural, as if she always thought them; She had sympathies so rapid, open, free as bird on branch, Just as ready to fly east as west, whichever way besought them In the birchen- wood a chirrup, or a cock-crow in the grange. In her utmost lightness there is truth — and often she speaks lightly, Has a grace in being gay which even mournful souls approve, For the root of some grave earnest thought is under- struck so rightly As to justify the foliage and the waving flowers above. And she talked on — we talked, rather! upon all things, substance, shadow, Of the sheep that browsed the grasses, of the reapers in the corn, Of the little children from the schools, seen winding through the meadow. Of the poor rich world beyond them, still kept poorer by its scorn. So, of men, and so, of letters — books are men of higher stature. And the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear; So, of mankind in the abstract, which grows slowly into nature. Yet will lift the cry of "progress," as it trod from sphere to sphere. LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 95 And her custom was to praise me when I said, — "The Age culls simples, With a broad clown's back turned broadly to the glory of the stars. We are gods by our own reckoning, and may well shut up the temples. And wield on, amid the incense-steam, the thunder of our cars. "For we throw out acclamations of self- thanking, self- admiring, With, at every mile run faster, — ^O the wondrous, wondrous age!' Little thinking if we work our souls as nobly as our iron, Or if angels will commend us at the goal of pilgrimage. "Why, what is this patient entrance into nature's deep resources But the child's most gradual learning to walk upright without bane"? When we drive out, from the cloud of steam, majestical white horses. Are we greater than the first men, who led black ones by the mane? "If we trod the deeps of ocean, if we struck the stars in rising. If we wrapped the globe intently with one hot electric breath, 'Twere but power within our tether, no new spirit- power comprising, And in life we were not greater men, nor bolder men in death." g6 LADY geraldine's courtship. She was patient with my talking; and I loved her, loved her, certes As I loved all heavenly objects, with uplifted eyes and hands; As I loved pure inspirations, loved the graces, loved the virtues, In a Love content with writing his own name on de- sert sands. Or at least I thought so, purely; thought no idiot Hope was raising Any crown to crown Love's silence, silent Love that sat alone: Out, alas! the stag is like me, he that tries to go on grazing With the great deep gun- wound in his neck, then reels with sudden moan. It was thus I reeled. I told you that her hand had many suitors; But she smiles them down imperially as Venus did the waves, And with such a gracious coldness that they cannot press their futures On the present of her courtesy, which yieldingly enslaves. And this morning as I sat alone within the inner chamber With the great saloon beyond it, lost in pleasant thought serene, For I had been reading Camoens, that poem you re- member, Which his lady's eyes are praised in as the sweetest ever seen. LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 97 And the book lay open, and my thought flew from it, taking from it A vibration and impulsion to an end beyond its own, As the branch of a green osier, when a child would overcome it, Springs up freely from his clasping and goes swinging in the sun. As I mused I heard a murmur; it grew deep as it grew longer, Speakers using earnest language — "Lady Geraldine, you would!'' And I heard a voice that pleaded, ever on in accents stronger. As a sense of reason gave it power to make its rhetoric good. Well I knew that voice; it was an earFs, of soul that matched his station. Soul completed into lordship, might and right read on his brow; Very finely courteous; far too proud to doubt his domination Of the common people, he atones for grandeur by a bow. High straight forehead, nose of eagle, cold blue eyes of less expression Than resistance, coldly casting off the looks of other men, As steel, arrows; unelastic lips which seem to taste possession And be cautious lest the common air should injure or distrain. Elizabeth Broiunin^, 7 98 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. For the rest, accomplished, upright, — ay, and stand- ing by his order With a bearing not ungraceful; fond of art and letters too; Just a good man made a proud man, — as the sandy rocks that border A wild coast, by circumstances, in a regnant ebb and flow. Thus, I knew that voice, I heard it, and I could not help the hearkening: In the room I stood up blindly, and my burning heart within Seemed to seethe and fuse my senses till they ran on all sides darkening. And scorched, weighed like melted metal round my feet that stood therein. And that voice, I heard it pleading, for love's sake, for wealth, position, For the sake of liberal uses and great actions to be done — And she interrupted gently, "Nay, my lord, the old tradition Of your Normans, by some worthier hand than mine is, should be won." "Ah, that white hand!" he said quickly, — and in his he either drew it Or attempted — for with gravity and instance she replied, "Nay, indeed, my lord, this talk is vain, and we had best eschew it And pass on, like friends, to other points less easy to decide." LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 99 What he said again, I know not: it is likely that his trouble Worked his pride up to the surface; for she answered in slow scorn. "And your lordship judges rightly. Whom I marry, shall be noble, Ay, and wealthy. I shall never blush to think how he was born." There, I maddened! her words stung me. Life swept through me into fever. And my soul sprang up astonished, sprang full-statured in an hour. Know you what it is when anguish, with apocal)^tic NEVER, To a Pythian height dilates you, and despair sublimes to power? From my brain the soul-wings budded, waved a flame about my body. Whence conventions coiled to ashes. I felt self-drawn out, as man. From amalgamate false natures, and I saw the skies grow ruddy With the deepening feet of angels, and I knew what spirits can. I was mad, inspired — say either! (anguish worketh inspiration) Was a man or beast — perhaps so, for the tiger roars when speared; 7* lOO LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. And I walked on, step by step along the level of my passion — Oh my soul! and passed the doorway to her face, and never feared. He had left her, peradventure, when my footstep proved my coming, But for her — she half arose, then sat, grew scarlet and grew pale. Oh, she trembled! 'tis so always with a worldly man or woman In the presence of true spirits; what else can they do but quail? Oh, she fluttered like a tame bird, in among its forest- brothers Far too strong for it; then, drooping, bowed her face upon her hands; And I spake out wildly, fiercely, brutal truths of her and others: /, she planted in the desert, swathed her, windlike, with my sands. I plucked up her social fictions, bloody-rooted though leaf-verdant, Trod them down with words of shaming, — all the purple and the gold, All the "landed stakes" and lordships, all that spirits pure and ardent Are cast out of love and honour because chancing not to hold. LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. lOI "For myself I do not argue," said I, "though I love you, madam. But for better souls that nearer to the height of yours have trod: And this age shows, to my thinking, still more infidels to Adam Than directly, by profession, simple infidels to God. "Yet, O God," I said, "O grave," I said, "O mother's heart and bosom. With whom first and last are equal, saint and corpse and little child! We are fools to your deductions, in these figments of heart-closing; We are traitors to your causes, in these sympathies defiled. "Learn more reverence, madam, not for rank or wealth — that needs no learning, That comes quickly, quick as sin does, ay, and cul- minates to sin; But for Adam's seed, man! Trust me, 'tis a clay above your scorning. With God's image stamped upon it, and God's kindling breath within. "What right have you, madam, gazing in your palace- mirror daily. Getting so by heart your beauty which all others must adore, While you draw the golden ringlets down your fingers, to vow gaily You will wed no man that's only good to God, and nothing more? I02 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. "Why, what right have you, made fair by that same God, the sweetest woman Of all women He has fashioned, with your lovely spirit- face Which would seem too near to vanish if its smile were not so human, And your voice of holy sweetness, turning common words to grace, " What right can you have, God's other works to scorn, despise, revile them In the gross, as mere men, broadly — not as noble men, forsooth, — As mere Parias of the outer world, forbidden to assoil them In the hope of living, dying, near that sweetness of your mouth? "Have you any answer, madam? If my spirit were less earthly. If its instrument were gifted with a better silver string, I would kneel down where I stand, and say — Behold me! I am worthy Of thy loving, for I love thee. I am worthy as a king. "As it is — your ermined pride, I swear, shall feel this stain upon her. That /, poor, weak, tost with passion, scorned by me and you again. Love you, madam, dare to love you, to my grief and your dishonour, To my endless desolation, and your impotent disdain!" LADY GERALDINE's COURTSHIP. IO3 More mad words like these — mere madness! friend, I need not write them fuller, For I hear my hot soul dropping on the lines in showers of tears. Oh, a woman! friend, a woman! why, a beast had scarce been duller Than roar bestial loud complaints against the shining of the spheres. But at last there came a pause. I stood all vibrating with thunder Which my soul had used. The silence drew her face up like a call. Could you guess what word she uttered? She looked up, as if in wonder. With tears beaded on her lashes, and said — "Bertram!" it was all. If she had cursed me, and she might have, or if even with queenly bearing Which at need is used by women, she had risen up and said, "Sir, you are my guest, and therefore I have given you a full hearing: Now, beseech you, choose a name exacting somewhat less, instead!" — I had borne it: but that "Bertram" — why, it lies there on the paper A mere word, without her accent, and you cannot judge the weight 104 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP* Of the calm which crushed my passion: I seemed drowning in a vapour; And her gentleness destroyed me whom her scorn made desolate. So, struck backward and exhausted by that inward flow of passion Which had rushed on, sparing nothing, into forms of abstract truth, By a logic agonising through unseemly demonstration, And by youth's own anguish turning grimly grey the hairs of youth, — By the sense accursed and instant, that if even I spake wisely I spake basely — using truth, if what I spake indeed was true, To avenge wrong on a woman — her^ who sat there weighing nicely A poor manhood's worth, found guilty of such deeds as I could do! — By such wrong and woe exhausted — what I suffered and occasioned, — As a wild horse through the city runs with lightning in his eyes, And then dashing at a church's cold and passive wall, impassioned. Strikes the death into his burning brain, and blindly drops and dies — So I fell, struck down before her — do you blame me, friend, for weakness? 'Twas my strength of passion slew me! — fell before her like a stone; LADY GERALDINE's COURTSHIP. IO5 Fast the dreadful world rolled from me on its roaring wheels of blackness: When the light came I was lying in this chamber and alone. Oh, of course she charged her lacqueys to bear out the sickly burden, And to cast it from her scornful sight, but not beyond the gate; She is too kind to be cruel, and too haughty not to pardon Such a man as I; 'twere something to be level to her hate. But for me — you are conscious why, my friend, I write this letter. How my life is read all backward, and the charm of life undone. I shall leave her house at dawn; I would to-night, if I were better And I charge my soul to hold my body strengthened for the sun. When the sun has dyed the oriel, I depart, with no last gazes, No weak moanings, (one word only, left in writing for her hands,) Out of reach of all derision, and some unavailing praises, To make front against this anguish in the far and foreign lands. Blame me not. I would not squander life in grief — I am abstemious. I but nurse my spirif s falcon that its wing may soar again. I06 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. There's no room for tears of weakness in the blind eyes of a Phemius: Into work the poet kneads them, and he does not die //// then. CONCLUSION. Bertram finished the last pages, while along the silence ever Still in hot and heavy splashes fell the tears on every leaf. Having ended he leans backward in his chair, with lips that quiver From the deep unspoken, ay, and deep unwritten thoughts of grief. Soh! how still the lady standeth! 'Tis a dream — a dream of mercies! 'Twixt the purple lattice-curtains how she standeth still and pale! 'Tis a vision, sure, of mercies, sent to soften his self- curses, Sent to sweep a patient quiet o'er the tossing of his wail. "Eyes," he said, "now throbbing through me! are ye eyes that did undo me^ Shining eyes, like antique jewels set in Parian statue- stone ! Underneath that calm white forehead are ye ever burning torrid O'er the desolate sand-desert of my heart and life undone 1" LADY GERALDINE's COURTSHIP. I07 With a murmurous stir uncertain, in the air the purple curtain Swelleth in and swelleth out around her motionless pale brows, While the gliding of the river sends a rippling noise for ever Through the open casement whitened by the moonlight's slant repose. Said he — "Vision of a lady! stand there silent, stand there steady! Now I see it plainly, plainly, now I cannot hope or doubt — There, the brows of mild repression — there, the lips of silent passion. Curved like an archer's bow to send the^bitter arrows out." Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling, And approached him slowly, slowly, in a gliding measured pace; With her two white hands extended as if praying one offended. And a look of supplication gazing earnest in his face. Said he — "Wake me by no gesture, — sound of breath, or stir of vesture ! Let the blessed apparition melt not yet to its divine! No approaching — hush, no breathing! or my heart must swoon to death in The too utter life thou bringest, O thou dream of Geraldine!" I08 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling, But the tears ran over lightly from her eyes and ten- derly: — "Dost thou, Bertram, truly love me? Is no woman far above me Found more worthy of thy poet-heart than such a one as /?" Said he — "I would dream so ever, like the flowing of that river, Flowing ever in a shadow greenly onward to the sea! So, thou vision of all sweetness, princely to a full completeness Would my heart and life flow onward, deathward, through this dream of thee!" Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling, While the silver tears ran faster down the blushing of her cheeks; Then with both her hands enfolding both of his, she softly told him, "Bertram, if I say I love thee, . . . 'tis the vision only speaks/' Softened, quickened to adore her, on his knee he fell before her. And she whispered low in triumph, "It shall be as I have sworn. Very rich he is in virtues, very noble — noble, certes; And I shall not blush in knowing that men call him lowly born," LORD Walter's wife. 109 LORD WALTER'S WIFE. "But why do you go," said the lady, while both sat under the yew, And her eyes were alive in their depth, as the kraken beneath the sea-blue. "Because I fear you," he answered; — "because you are far too fair. And able to strangle my soul in a mesh of your gold- coloured hair." "Oh, that," she said, "is no reason! Such knots are quickly undone, And too much beauty, I reckon, is nothing but too much sun." "Yet farewell so," he answered; — "the sun-stroke 's fatal at times. I value your husband. Lord Walter, whose gallop rings still from the limes." "Oh, that," she said, "is no reason. You smell a rose through a fence: If two should smell it, what matters'? who grumbles, and Where's the pretence'?" "But I," he replied, "have promised another, when love was free. To love her alone, alone, who alone and afar loves me," no LORD Walter's wife. "Why, that," she said, "is no reason. Love 's always free, I am told. Will you vow to be safe from the headache on Tuesday, and think it will hold]" "But you," he replied, "have a daughter, a young little child, who was laid In your lap to be pure; so. Heave you: the angels would make me afraid." "Oh, that," she said, "is no reason. The angels keep out of the way; And Dora, the child, observes nothing, although you should please me and stay." At which he rose up in his anger, — "Why, now, you no longer are fair! Why, now, you no longer are fatal, but ugly and hateful, I swear." At which she laughed out in her scorn. — "These men! Oh, these men ovemice. Who are shocked if a colour, not virtuous, is frankly put on by a vice." Her eyes blazed upon him — '^ And you! You bring us your vices so near That we smell them! You think in our presence a thought 'twould defame us to hear! "What reason had you, and what right, — I appeal to your soul from my life, — To find me too fair as a woman? Why, sir, I am pure, and a wife. LORD Walter's wife. hi "Is the day-star too fair up above you? It burns you not. Dare you imply. I brushed you more close than the star does, when Walter had set me as high*? "If a man finds a woman too fair, he means simply adapted too much To uses unlawful and fatal. The praise! — shall I thank you for such? "Too fair? — not unless you misuse us! and surely if, once in a while, You attain to it, straightway you call us no longer too fair, but too vile. "A moment, I pray your attention! — I have a poor word in my head 1 must utter, though womanly custom would set it down better unsaid. "You grew, sir, pale to impertinence, once when I showed you a ring. You kissed my fan when I dropped it. No matter! — Tve broken the thing. "You did me the honour, perhaps, to be moved at my side now and then In the senses — a vice, I have heard, which is common to beasts and some men. "Love's a virtue for heroes! — as white as the snow on high hills, And immortal as every great soul is that struggles, endures, and fulfils. 112 LORD WALTER'S WIFE. "I love my Walter profoundly, — you, Maude, though you faltered a week, For the sake of . . what was it? an eyebrow "2 or, less still, a mole on a cheek? "And since, when all's said, you're too noble to stoop to the frivolous cant About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, betray and supplant, "I determined to prove to yourself that, whate'er you might dream or avow By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me than you have now. "There! look me full in the face! — in the face. Under- stand, if you can. That the eyes of such women as I am, are clean as the palm of a man. "Drop his hand, you insult him. Avoid us for fear we should cost you a scar — You take us for harlots, I tell you, and not for the women we are. "You wronged me: but then I considered . . . there's Walter! And so at the end, I vowed that he should not be mulcted, by me, in the hand of a friend. "Have I hurt you indeed? We are quits then. Nay, friend of my Walter, be mine! Come Dora, my darling, my angel, and help me to ask him to dine." BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES. I I : BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES. The cypress stood up like a church That night we felt our love would hold, And saintly moonlight seemed to search And wash the whole world clean as gold; The olives crystallized the vales' Broad slopes until the hills grew strong: The fireflies and the nightingales Throbbed each to either, flame and song. The nightingales, the nightingales. Upon the angle of its shade The cypress stood, self-balanced high; Half up, half down, as double made. Along the ground, against the sky. And we too! from such soul-height went Such leaps of blood, so blindly driven, We scarce knew if our nature meant Most passionate earth or intense heaven. The nightingales, the nightingales. We paled with love, we shook with love. We kissed so close we could not vow; Till Giulio whispered, "Sweet, above God's Ever guarantees this Now." Elizabeth Broivniiis^ O 114 BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES. And through his words the nightingales Drove straight and full their long clear call, Like arrows through heroic mails, And love was awful in it all. The nightingales, the nightingales. O cold white moonlight of the north, Refresh these pulses, quench this hell! O coverture of death drawn forth Across this garden-chamber . . well! But what have nightingales to do In gloomy England, called the free . . (Yes, free to die in! . .) when we two Are sundered, singing still to me? And still they sing, the nightingales. I think I hear him, how he cried "My own souFs life" between their notes. Each man has but one soul supplied, And that's immortal. Though his throat On fire with passion now, to her He can't say what to me he said! And yet he moves her, they aver. The nightingales sing through my head, The nightingales, the nightingales. He says to her what moves her most. He would not name his soul within Her hearing, — rather pays her cost With praises to her lips and chin. BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES. I I 5 Man has but one soul, 'tis ordained, And each soul but one love, I add; Yet souls are damned and love 's profaned. These nightingales will sing me mad! The nightingales, the nightingales. I marvel how the birds can sing. There's little difference, in their view. Betwixt our Tuscan trees that spring As vital flames into the blue, And dull round blots of foliage meant Like saturated sponges here To suck the fogs up. As content Is he too in this land, 'tis clear. And still they sing, the nightingales. My native Florence! dear, forgone! I see across the Alpine ridge How the last feast-day of St. John Shot rockets from Carraia bridge. The luminous city, tall with fire, Trod deep down in that river of ours. While many a boat with lamp and choir Skimmed birdlike over glittering towers. I will not hear these nightingales. I seem to float, we seem to float Down Arno's stream in festive guise; A boat strikes flame into our boat And up that lady seems to rise 8* Il6 BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES. As then she rose. The shock had flashed A vision on us! What a head, What leaping eyeballs! — beauty dashed To splendour by a sudden dread. And still they sing, the nightingales. Too bold to sin, too weak to die; Such women are so. As for me, I would we had drowned there, he and I, That moment, loving perfectly. He had not caught her with her loosed Gold ringlets . . rarer in the south . . Nor heard the "Grazie tanto" bruised To sweetness by her English mouth. And still they sing, the nightingales. She had not reached him at my heart With her fine tongue, as snakes indeed Kill flies; nor had I, for my part. Yearned after, in my desperate need. And followed him as he did her To coasts left bitter by the tide. Whose very nightingales, elsewhere Delighting, torture and deride! For still they sing, the nightingales. A worthless woman! mere cold clay As all false things are! but so fair, She takes the breath of men away Who gaze upon her unaware. BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES. I I 7 I would not play her larcenous tricks To have her looks! She lied and stole, And spat into my love's pure pyx The rank saliva of her soul. And still they sing, the nightingales. I would not for her white and pink, Though such he likes — her grace of limb. Though such he has praised — nor yet, I think. For life itself, though spent with him. Commit such sacrilege, affront God's nature which is love, intrude 'Twixt two affianced souls, and hunt Like spiders, in the altar's wood. I cannot bear these nightingales. If she chose sin, some gentler guise She might have sinned in, so it seems: She might have pricked out both my eyes. And I still seen him in my dreams! — Or drugged me in my soup or wine. Nor left me angry afterward: To die here with his hand in mine His breath upon me, were not hard. (Our Lady hush these nightingales!) But set a springe for him^ "mio ben," My only good, my first last love! — Though Christ knows well what sin is, when He sees some things done they must move Il8 THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. Himself to wonder. Let her pass. I think of her by night and day. Must / too join her . . out, alas! . . With Giulio, in each word I say? And evermore the nightingales! Giulio, my Giulio! — sing they so, And you be silent? Do I speak. And you not hear? An arm you throw Round some one, and I feel so weak? — Oh, owl-like birds! They sing for spite. They sing for hate, they sing for doom! They'll sing through death who sing through night, They'll sing and stun me in the tomb — The nightingales, the nightingales. THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. FIRST PART. "Onora, Onora,'' — her mother is calling, She sits at the lattice and hears the dew falling Drop after drop from the sycamores laden With dew as with blossom, and calls home the maiden, "Night cometh, Onora." She looks down the garden-walk caverned with trees, To the limes at the end where the green arbour is — "Some sweet thought or other may keep where it found her. While, forgot or unseen in the dreamlight around her, Night cometh — Onora!'' THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. IIQ She looks up the forest whose alleys shoot on Like the mute minster-aisles when the anthem is done, x\nd the choristers sitting with faces aslant Feel the silence to consecrate more than the chant — "Onora, Onora!'' And forward she looketh across the brown heath — "Onora, art coming?" — what is it she seeth? Nought, nought but the grey border-stone that is wist To dilate and assume a wild shape in the mist — "My daughter!" Then over The casement she leaneth, and as she doth so She is 'ware of her little son playing below: "Now where is Onora?" He hung down his head And spake not, then answering blushed scarlet-red, — "At the tryst with her lover." But his mother was wroth: in a sternness quoth she, "As thou play' St at the ball art thou playing with me? When we know that her lover to battle is gone, And the saints know above that she loveth but one And will ne'er wed another?" Then the boy wept aloud; 'twas a fair sight yet sad To see the tears run down the sweet blooms he had: He stamped with his foot, said — "The saints know I lied Because truth that is wicked is fittest to hide! Must I utter it, mother?" In his vehement childhood he hurried within And knelt at her feet as in prayer against sin. But a child at a prayer never sobbeth as he — "Oh! she sits with the nun of the brown rosary. At nights in the ruin — I20 THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. The old convent ruin the ivy rots off, Where the owl hoots by day and the toad is sun-proof, Where no singing-birds build and the trees gaunt and grey As in stormy sea-coasts appear blasted one way — But is this the wind's doing"? "A nun in the east wall was buried alive Who mocked at the priest when he called her to shrive. And shrieked such a curse, as the stone took her breath. The old abbess fell backward and swooned unto death With an Ave half-spoken. "I tried once to pass it, myself and my hound, Till, as fearing the lash, down he shivered to ground — A brave hound, my mother! a brave hound, ye wot! And the wolf thought the same with his fangs at her throat In the pass of the Brocken. "At dawn and at eve, mother, who sitteth there With the brown rosary never used for a prayer? Stoop low, mother, low! If we went there to see What an ugly great hole in that east wall must be At dawn and at even! "Who meet there, my mother, at dawn and at even? Who meet by that wall, never looking to heaven? sweetest my sister, what doeth with thee The ghost of a nun with a brown rosary And a face turned from heaven? "St. Agnes o'erwatcheth my dreams and erewhile 1 have felt through mine eyelids the warmth of her smile; But last night, as a sadness like pity came o'er her, She whispered — 'Say two prayers at dawn for Onora The Tempted is sinning/'' THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 121 "Onora, Onora!" they heard her not coming, Not a step on the grass, not a voice through the gloaming; But her mother looked up, and she stood on the floor Fair and still as the moonlight that came there before, And a smile just beginning: It touches her lips but it dares not arise To the height of the mystical sphere of her eyes, And the large musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry, Sing on like the angels in separate glory Between clouds of amber; For the hair droops in clouds amber-coloured till stirred Into gold by the gesture that comes with a word; While — O soft! — her speaking is so interwound Of the dim and the sweet, 'tis a twilight of sound And floats through the chamber. "Since thou shrivest my brother, fair mother," said she, "I count on thy priesthood for marrying of me; And I know by the hills that the battle is done, That my lover rides on, will be here with the sun, 'Neath the eyes that behold thee." Her mother sat silent — too tender, I wis. Of the smile her dead father smiled dying to kiss: But the boy started up pale with tears, passion- wrought — ^'O wicked fair sister, the hills utter nought! If he cometh, who told thee?" "I know by the hills," she resumed calm and clear, "By the beauty upon them, that he is anear: Did they ever look so since he bade me adieu? Oh, love in the waking, sweet brother, is true As St. Agnes in sleeping!" 122 THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. Half-ashamed and half softened the boy did not speak, And the blush met the lashes which fell on his cheek: She bowed down to kiss him: dear saints, did he see Or feel on her bosom the brown rosary, That he shrank away weeping? SECOND PART. A bed. Onora sleeping. Angels, but not near. First Angel. Must we stand so far, and she So very fair? Second AngeL As bodies be. First AngeL And she so mild? Second AngeL As spirits when They meeken, not to God, but men. First AngeL And she so young, that I who bring Good dreams for saintly children, might Mistake that small soft face to-night, And fetch her such a blessed thing That at her waking she would weep For childhood lost anew in sleep. How hath she sinned? Second AngeL In bartering love; God's love for man's. First AngeL We may reprove The world for this, not only her: THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. ' 1 23 Let me approach to breathe away This dust o' the heart with holy air. Second Angel, Stand off! She sleeps, and did not pray. First Angel, Did none pray for her! Second Angel, Ay, a child, — Who never, praying, wept before: While, in a mother undefiled, Prayer goeth on in sleep, as true And pauseless as the pulses do. First Angel, Then I approach. Second Angel, It is not WILLED. First Angel, One word: is she redeemed? Second Angel. No more! The place is filled. [Angels vanish. Evil Spirit in a Nun^s garb by the bed. Forbear that dream — forbear that dream! too near to heaven it leaned. Onora, in sleep. Nay, leave me this — but only this! 'tis but a dream, sweet fiend! Evil Spirit, It is a thought, Onora, in sleep, A sleeping thought — most innocent of good: It doth the Devil no harm, sweet fiend! it cannot, if it would. 124 THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. I say in it no holy hymn, I do no holy work, I scarcely hear the sabbath-bell that chimeth from the kirk. Evil Spi7^it, Forbear that dream — forbear that dream! Onora, in sleep. Nay, let me dream at least. That far-off bell, it may be took for viol at a feast: I only walk among the fields, beneath the autumn-sun, With my dead father, hand in hand, as I have often done. Evil Spirit, Forbear that dream — forbear that dream! Onora^ in sleep. Nay, sweet fiend, let me go: I never more can walk with him^ oh, never more but so! For they have tied my father's feet beneath the kirk- yard-stone. Oh, deep and straight, oh, very straight! they move at nights alone: And then he calleth through my dreams, he calleth tenderly, "Come forth, my daughter, my beloved, and walk the fields with me!" Evil Spirit. Forbear that dream, or else disprove its pureness by a sign. OnorUy in sleep. Speak on, thou shalt be satisfied, my word shall answer thine. I heard a bird which used to sing when I a child was praying, I see the poppies in the corn I used to sport away in; THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 1 25 What shall I do — tread down the dew and pull the blossoms blowing? Or clap my wicked hands to fright the finches from the roweni Evil Spirit, Thou shalt do something harder still. Stand up where thou dost stand Among the fields of Dreamland with thy father hand in hand, And clear and slow repeat the vow, declare its cause and kind, Which not to break, in sleep or wake thou bearest on thy mind. Ofiora, in sleep, I bear a vow of sinful kind, a vow for mournful cause, I vowed it deep, I vowed it strong, the spirits laughed applause: The spirits trailed along the pines low laughter like a breeze. While, high atween their swinging tops, the stars ap- peared to freeze. Evil Spirit. More calm and free, speak out to me why such a vow was made. Onora, in sleep. Because that God decreed my death and I shrank back afraid. Have patience, O dead father mine! I did not fear to die — I wish I were a young dead child and had thy com- pany! I wish I lay beside thy feet, a buried three-year child, 126 THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. And wearing only a kiss of thine upon my lips that smiled! The linden -tree that covers thee might so have shadowed twain, For death itself I did not fear — 'tis love that makes the pain: Love feareth death. I was no child, I was betrothed that day; I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I could not give away. How could I bear to lie content and still beneath a stone, And feel mine own betrothed go by — alas! no more mine own — Go leading by in wedding pomp some lovely lady brave. With cheeks that blushed as red as rose, while mine were white in grave? How could I bear to sit in heaven, on e'er so high a throne, And hear him say to her — to her! that else he loveth none? Though e'er so high I sat above, though e'er so low he spake, As clear as thunder I should hear the new oath he might take, That hers, forsooth, were heavenly eyes — ah me, while very dim Some heavenly eyes (indeed of heaven!) would darken down to him! Evil Spirit, Who told thee thou wast called to death? Onora, in sleep, I sat all night beside thee; THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 12 7 The grey owl on the ruined wall shut both his eyes to hide thee, And ever he flapped his heavy wing all brokenly and weak, And the long grass waved against the sky, around his gasping beak: I sat beside thee all the night, while the moonlight lay forlorn Strewn round us like a dead world's shroud in ghastly fragments torn: And through the night, and through the hush, and over the flapping wing. We heard beside the Heavenly Gate the angels mur- muring : We heard them say, "Put day to day, and count the days to seven, "And God will draw Onora up the golden stairs of heaven; "And yet the Evil ones have leave that purpose to defer, "For if she has no need of Him, He has no need of her." Evil Spirit, Speak out to me, speak bold and free. Onora, in sleep. And then I heard thee say — "I count upon my rosary brown the hours thou hast to stay; "Yet God permits us Evil ones to put by that decree, "Since if thou hast no need of Him, He has no need of thee : "And if thou wilt forego the sight of angels, verily "Thy true love gazing on thy face shall guess what angels be; 128 THE LAV OF THE BROWN ROSARY. "Nor bride shall pass, save thee'' . . . Alas! — my father's hand 's a-cold, The meadows seem . . . Evil Spirit, Forbear the dream, or let the vow be told. Onora, in sleep, I vowed upon thy rosary brown, this string of antique beads, By charnel lichens overgrown, and dank among the weeds, This rosary brown which is thine own, — lost soul of buried nun! Who, lost by vow, wouldst render now all souls alike undone, — I vowed upon thy rosary brown, — and, till such vow should break, A pledge always of living days 'twas hung around my neck — I vowed to thee on rosary (dead father, look not so!) / would not thank God in my weal^ nor seek God in my woe. Evil Spirit, And canst thou prove . . . Onora, in sleep, O love, my love! I felt him near again! I saw his steed on mountain-head, I heard it on the plain ! Was this no weal for me to feel? Is greater weal than this? Yet when he came, I wept his name — and the angels heard but his. Evil Spirit, Well done, well done! THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 1 29 Onora, in sleep. Ah me, the sun! the dreamlight 'gins to pine, — Ah me, how dread can look the Dead! Aroint thee, father mine! She starteth from slumber, she sitteth upright, And her breath comes in sobs while she stares through the night; There is nought; the great willow, her lattice before Large-drawn in the moon, lieth calm on the floor; But her hands tremble fast as their pulses, and, free From the death-clasp close over — the brown rosary. THIRD PART. 'Tis a mom for a bridal; the merry bride-bell Rings clear through the green-wood that skirts the chapelle. And the priest at the altar awaiteth the bride, And the sacristans slyly are jesting aside At the work shall be doing; While do\\Ti through the wood rides that fair company, The youths with the courtship, the maids with the glee, Till the chapel-cross opens to sight, and at once All the maids sigh demurely and think for the nonce, "And so endeth a wooing!" And the bride and the bridegroom are leading the way With his hand on her rein, and a word yet to say: Elizabeth Browning. 9 t^O THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. Her dropt eyelids suggest the soft answers beneath, And the little quick smiles come and go with her breath When she sigheth or speaketh. And the tender bride-mother breaks off unaware From an Ave, to think that her daughter is fair, Till in nearing the chapel and glancing before, She seeth her little son stand at the door: Is it play that he seeketh? Is it play, when his eyes wander innocent-wild And sublimed with a sadness unfitting a child? He trembles not, weeps not; the passion is done. And calmly he kneels in their midst, with the sun On his head like a glory. "O fair-featured maids, ye are many!" he cried, "But in fairness and vileness who matcheth the bride? O brave-hearted youths, ye are many, but whom For the courage and woe can ye match with the groom As ye see them before ye?" Out spake the bride's mother, "The vileness is thine If thou shame thine own sister, a bride at the shrine!" Out spake the bride's lover, "The vileness be mine If he shame mine own wife at the hearth or the shrine And the charge be unproved. "Bring the charge, prove the charge, brother! speak it aloud: Let thy father and hers hear it deep in his shroud!" — "O father, thou seest, for dead eyes can see, How she wears on her bosom a drown rosary, O my father beloved!" THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. I3I Then outlaughed the bridegroom, and outlaughed withal Both maidens and youths by the old chapel-wall: ^^So she weareth no love- gift, kind brother," quoth he, "She may wear an she listeth a brown rosary. Like a pure-hearted lady/' Then swept through the chapel the long bridal train; Though he spake to the bride she replied not again: On, as one in a dream, pale and stately she went Where the altar-lights bum o'er the great sacrament. Faint with daylight, but steady. But her brother had passed in between them and her, And calmly knelt down on the high altar-stair — Of an infantine aspect so stern to the view That the priest could not smile on the child's eyes of blue As he would for another. He knelt like a child marble-sculptured and white That seems kneeling to pray on the tomb of a knight, With a look taken up to each iris of stone From the greatness and death where he kneeleth, but none From the face of a mother. "In your chapel, O priest, ye have wedded and shriven Fair wives for the hearth, and fair sinners for heaven; But this fairest my sister, ye think now to wed, Bid her kneel where she standeth, and shrive her instead: O shrive her and wed not!" 132 THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. In tears, the bride's mother,— "Sir priest, unto thee Would he lie, as he lied to this fair company." In wrath, the bride's lover, — "The lie shall be clear! Speak it out, boy! the saints in their niches shall hear: Be the charge proved or said not!" Then serene in his childhood he lifted his face, And his voice sounded holy and fit for the place, — "Look down from your niches, ye still saints, and see How she wears on her bosom a brown rosary I Is it used for the praying?" The youths looked aside — to laugh there were a sin — And the maidens' lips trembled from smiles shut within: Quoth the priest, "Thou art wild, pretty boy! Blessed she Who prefers at her bridal a brown rosary To a worldly arraying." The bridegroom spake low and led onward the bride. And before the high altar they stood side by side: The rite-book is opened, the rite is begun, They have knelt down together to rise up as one. Who laughed by the altar] The maidens looked forward, the youths looked around, The bridegroom's eye flashed from his prayer at the sound; And each saw the bride, as if no bride she were. Gazing cold at the priest without gesture of prayer, As he read from the psalter. THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. I 33 The priest never knew that she did so, but still He felt a power on him too strong for his will, And whenever the Great Name was there to be read, His voice sank to silence — that could not be said, Or the air could not hold it. "I have sinned," quoth he, "I have sinned, I wot" — And the tears ran adown his old cheeks at the thought: They dropped fast on the book, but he read on the same, And aye was the silence where should be the Name, — As the choristers told it. The rite-book is closed, and the rite being done They who knelt down together, arise up as one: Fair riseth the bride — oh, a fair bride is she, But, for all (think the maidens) that brown rosary, No saint at her praying! What aileth the bridegroom? He glares blank and wide; Then suddenly turning he kisseth the bride; His lip stung her with cold; she glanced upwardly mute: "Mine own wife," he said, and fell stark at her foot In the word he was saying. They have lifted him up, but his head sinks away, And his face showeth bleak in the sunshine and grey. Leave him now where he lieth — for oh, never more Will he kneel at an altar or stand on a floor! Let his bride gaze upon him. 134 THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. Long and still was her gaze while they chaftd him there And breathed in the mouth whose last life had kissed her, But when they stood up — only they! with a start The shriek from her soul struck her pale lips apart: She has lived, and foregone him! And low on his body she droppeth adown — "Didst call me thine own wife, beloved — thine own? Then take thine own with thee! thy coldness is warm To the world's cold without thee. Come, keep me from harm In a calm of thy teaching!" She looked in his face eamest*long, as in sooth There were hope of an answer, and then kissed his mouth And with head on his bosom, wept, wept bitterly, — "Now, O God, take pity — take pity on me! God, hear my beseeching !'' She was 'ware of a shadow that crossed where she lay, She was 'ware of a presence that withered the day: Wild she sprang to her feet, — "I surrender to thee The broken vow's pledge, the accursed rosary, — I am ready for dying!" She dashed it in scorn to the marble-paved ground Where it fell mute as snow, and a weird music-sound Crept up, like a chill, up the aisles long and dim, — As the fiends tried to mock at the choristers' hymn And moaned in the trying. THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 1 35 FOURTH PART. Onora looketh listlessly adown the garden walk: "I am weary, O my mother, of thy tender talk. I am weary of the trees a-waving to and fro, Of the steadfast skies above, the running brooks below. All things are the same but I, — only I am dreary. And, mother, of my dreariness behold me very weary. "Mother, brother, pull the flowers I planted in the spring And smiled to think I should smile more upon their gathering: The bees will find out other flowers — oh, pull them, dearest mine, And carry them and carry me before St. Agnes' shrine!'' — Whereat they pulled the summer flowers she planted in the spring, And her and them all mournfully to Agnes' shrine did bring. She looked up to the pictured saint and gently shook her head — "The picture is too calm for me — too calm for me^^^ she said: "The little flowers we brought with us, before it we may lay, For those are used to look at heaven, — but / must turn away, Because no sinner under sun can dare or bear to gaze On God's or angel's holiness, except in Jesu's face." 136 THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. She spoke with passion after pause — "And were it wisely done If we who cannot gaze above, should walk the earth alone? If we whose virtue is so weak should have a will so strong, And stand blind on the rocks to choose the right path from the wrong? To choose perhaps a lovelit hearth, instead of love and heaven,— A single rose, for a rose-tree which beareth seven times seven? A rose that droppeth from the hand, that fadeth in the breast, — Until, in grieving for the worst, we learn what is the best!" Then breaking into tears, — "Dear God," she cried, "and must we see All blissful things depart from us or e'er we go to Thee? We cannot guess thee in the wood or hear thee in the wind? Our cedars must fall round us ere we see the light behind? Ay sooth, we feel too strong, in weal, to need thee on that road. But woe being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on *God/" Her mother could not speak for tears; she ever mused thus, '^The bees will find out other flowers^ — but what is left for us?'' A REED. 137 But her young brother stayed his sobs and knelt beside her knee, — "Thou sweetest sister in the world, hast never a word for mtV She passed her hand across his face, she pressed it on his cheek, So tenderly, so tenderly — she needed not to speak. The WTeath which lay on shrine that day, at vespers bloomed no more. The woman fair who placed it there, had died an hour before. Both perished mute for lack of root, earth's nourish- ment to reach. O reader, breathe (the ballad saith) some sweetness out of each! A REED. I AM no trumpet, but a reed; No flattering breath shall from me lead A silver sound, a hollow sound: I will not ring, for priest or king. One blast that in re-echoing Would leave a bondsman faster bound. I am no trumpet, but a reed, — A broken reed, the wind indeed Left flat upon a dismal shore; Yet if a little maid or child Should sigh within it, earnest-mild This reed will answer evermore. 138 TO FLUSH, MY DOG. I am no trumpet, but a reed; Go, tell the fishers, as they spread Their nets along the river's edge, I will not tear their nets at all. Nor pierce their hands, if they should fall: Then let them leave me in the sedge. TO FLUSH, MY DOG. Loving friend, the gift of one Who her own true faith has run Through thy lower nature, Be my benediction said With my hand upon thy head, Gentle fellow-creature! Like a lady's ringlets brown, Flow thy silken ears adown Either side demurely Of thy silver-suited breast Shining out from all the rest Of thy body purely. Darkly brown thy body is, Till the sunshine striking this Alchemize its dulness. When the sleek curls manifold Flash all over into gold With a burnished fulness. TO FLUSH, MY DOG. 1 39 Underneath my stroking hand, Startled eyes of hazel bland Kindling, growing larger, Up thou leapest with a spring. Full of prank and curveting, Leaping like a charger. Leap! thy broad tail waves a light. Leap! thy slender feet are bright, Canopied in fringes; Leap! those tasselled ears of thine Flicker strangely, fair and fine Down their golden inches. Yet, my pretty, sportive friend, Little is't to such an end That I praise thy rareness; Other dogs may be thy peers Haply in these drooping ears And this glossy fairness. But of thee it shall be said, This dog watched beside a bed Day and night unweary. Watched within a curtained room Where no sunbeam brake the gloom Round the sick and dreary. Roses, gathered for a vase, In that chamber died apace. Beam and breeze resigning; This dog only, waited on. Knowing that when light is gone Love remains for shining. 140 TO FLUSH, MY DOG. Other dogs in thymy dew Tracked the hares and followed through Sunny moor or meadow; This dog only, crept and crept Next a languid cheek that slept, Sharing in the shadow. Other dogs of loyal cheer Bounded at the whistle clear. Up the woodside hieing; This dog only watched in reach Of a faintly-uttered speech Or a louder sighing. And if one or two quick tears Dropped upon his glossy ears Or a sigh came double. Up he sprang in eager haste. Fawning, fondling, breathing fast In a tender trouble. And this dog was satisfied If a pale thin hand would glide Down his dewlaps sloping, — Which he pushed his nose within, After, — platforming his chin On the palm left open. This dog, if a friendly voice Call him now to blither choice Than such chamber-keeping, "Come out!" praying from the door, — Presseth backward as before. Up against me leaping. TO FLUSH, MY DOG. 14! Therefore to this dog will I, Tenderly not scornfully, Render praise and favour: With my hand upon his head, Is my benediction said Therefore and for ever. And because he loves me so, Better than his kind will do Often man or woman, Give I back more love again Than dogs often take of men, Leaning from my Human. Blessings on thee, dog of mine. Pretty collars make thee fine. Sugared milk make fat thee! Pleasures wag on in thy tail. Hands of gentle motion fail Nevermore, to pat thee! Downy pillow take thy head, Silken coverlid bestead, Sunshine help thy sleeping! No fly's buzzing wake thee up. No man break thy purple cup Set for drinking deep in. Whiskered cats arointed flee. Sturdy stoppers keep from thee Cologne distillations; Nuts lie in thy path for stones. And thy feast-day macaroons Turn to daily rations! 142 MY DOVES. Mock I thee, in wishing weal? — Tears are in my eyes to feel Thou art made so straitly, Blessing needs must straighten too,- Little canst thou joy or do, Thou who lovest greatly. Yet be blessed to the height Of all good and all delight Pervious to thy nature; Only loved beyond that line. With a love that answers thine, Loving fellow-creature! MY DOVES. My little doves have left a nest Upon an Indian tree Whose leaves fantastic take their rest Or motion from the sea; For, ever there the sea- winds go With sunlit paces to and fro. The tropic flowers looked up to it, The tropic stars looked down, And there my little doves did sit With feathers softly brown, And glittering eyes that showed their right To general Nature's deep delight MY DOVES. 143 And God them taught, at every close Of murmuring waves beyond And green leaves round, to interpose Their ehoral voices fond. Interpreting that love must be The meaning of the earth and sea. Fit ministers! Of living loves Theirs hath the calmest fashion, Their living voice the likest moves To lifeless intonation. The lovely monotone of springs And winds and such insensate things. My little doves were ta'en away From that glad nest of theirs, Across an ocean rolling grey. And tempest-clouded airs; My little doves, who lately knew The sky and wave by warmth and blue. And now, within the city prison, In mist and chillness pent. With sudden upward look they listen For sounds of past content. For lapse of water, swell of breeze, Or nut-fruit falling from the trees. The stir without the glow of passion, The triumph of the mart. The gold and silver as they clash on Man's cold metallic heart, The roar of wheels, the cry for bread. These only sounds are heard instead. 144 MY DOVES. Yet still, as on my human hand Their fearless heads they lean, And almost seem to understand What human musings mean, (Their eyes with such a plaintive shine Are fastened upwardly to mine) — Soft falls their chant as on the nest Beneath the sunny zone; For love that stirred it in their breast Has not aweary grown: And 'neath the city's shade can keep The well of music clear and deep. And love that keeps the music, fills With pastoral memories; All echoings from out the hills, All droppings from the skies, All Sowings from the wave and wind. Remembered in their chant, I find. So teach ye me the wisest part. My little doves! to move Along the city-ways with heart Assured by holy love, And vocal with such songs as own A fountain to the world unknown. 'Twas hard, to sing by BabeFs stream — More hard, in BabeFs street: But if the soulless creatures deem Their music not unmeet For sunless walls — let us begin. Who wear immortal wings within! I THE SEA-MEW. 1 45 To me, fair memories belong Of scenes that used to bless, For no regret, but present song And lasting thankfulness; And very soon to break away, Like types, in purer things than they. I will have hopes that cannot fade, For flowers the valley yields; I will have humble thoughts instead Of silent, dewy fields: My spirit and my God shall be My sea-ward hill, my boundless sea. THE SEA-MEW. How joyously the young sea-mew Lay dreaming on the waters blue Whereon our little bark had thrown A little shade, the only one, But shadows ever man pursue. Familiar with the waves and free As if their own white foam were he, His heart upon the heart of ocean Lay learning all its mystic motion, And throbbing to the throbbing sea. And such a brightness in his eye As if the ocean and the sky Within him had lit up and nurst A soul God gave him not at first, To comprehend their majesty. EUzaheth Br(nvuhis, 10 146 THE SEA-MEW. We were not cruel, yet did sunder His white wing from the blue waves under, And bound it, while his fearless eyes Shone up to ours in calm surprise, As deeming us some ocean wonder. We bore our ocean bird unto A grassy place where he might view The flowers that curtsey to the bees, The waving of the tall green trees, The falling of the silver dew. But flowers of earth were pale to him Who had seen the rainbow fishes swim; And when earth's dew around him lay He thought of ocean's winged spray, And his eye waxed sad and dim. The green trees round him only made A prison with their darksome shade; And dropped his wing, and mourned he For his own boundless glittering sea — Albeit he knew not they could fade. Then One her gladsome face did bring, Her gentle voice's murm^uring, In ocean's stead his heart to move And teach him what was human love: He thought it a strange mournful thing. He lay down in his grief to die, (First looking to the sea-like sky That hath no waves) because, alas! Our human touch did on him pass, And with our touch, our agony. THE SLEEP. 147 THE SLEEP. Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward into souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is, For gift or grace surpassing this — "He giveth His beloved, sleep]" What would we give to our beloved? The hero's heart to be unmoved. The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep. The patriot's voice to teach and rouse. The monarch's crown to light the browse- He giveth His beloved, sleep. What do we give to our beloved? A little faith all undisproved, A little dust to overweep, And bitter memories to make The whole earth blasted for our sake: He giveth His beloved, sleep. "Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say. Who have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep: But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when He giveth his beloved, sleep. 10* 148 THE SLEEP. O earth, so full of dreary noises! O men, with wailing in your voices! O delved gold, the wailers heap! strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! God strikes a silence through you all, And giveth His beloved, sleep. His dews drop mutely on the hill, His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap: More softly than the dew is shed. Or cloud is floated overhead. He giveth His beloved, sleep. Ay, men may wonder while they scan A living, thinking, feeling man Confirmed in such a rest to keep; But angels say, and through the word 1 think their happy smile is heard — "He giveth His beloved, sleep.'' For me, my heart that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show. That sees through tears the mummers leap. Would now its wearied vision close. Would childlike on His love repose Who giveth His beloved, sleep. And friends, dear friends, when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me. And round my bier ye come to weep. Let One, most loving of you all. Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall! "He giveth His beloved sleep." cowper's grave. 149 COWPER'S GRAVE. It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying; It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying: Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish: Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish. O poets, from a maniac's tongue was poured the death- less singing! O Christians, at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was clinging! O men, this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling, Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling! And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story. How discord on the music fell and darkness on the glory. And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wan- dering lights departed, He wore no less a loving face because so broken- hearted, — 150 cowper's grave. He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation, And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adora- tion; Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good for- saken. Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath taken. With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think upon him, With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose heaven hath won him. Who suffered once the madness-cloud to His own love to blind him. But gently led the blind along where breath and bird could find him; And wrought within his shattered brain such quick poetic senses As hills have language for, and stars, harmonious in- fluences: The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within its number. And silent shadows from the trees refreshed him like a slumber. Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to share his home-caresses, Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses: The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's ways removing. Its women and its men became, beside him, true and loving. cowper's grave. 151 And though, in bhndness, he remained unconscious of that guiding, And things provided came without the sweet sense of providing. He testified this solemn truth, while phrenzy desolated, — Nor man nor nature satisfies whom only God created. Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she blesses And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses, — That turns his fevered eyes around — "My mother! Where's my mother *?" — As if such tender words and deeds could come from any other! — The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o'er him, Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she bore him! — Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave him. Beneath those deep pathetic eyes which closed in death to save him. Thus] oh, not thus! no type of earth can image that awaking, Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs, round him breaking. Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted , But felt those eyes alone, and knew, — ''' My Saviour! not deserted!" 152 cowper's grave. Deserted! Who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested, Upon the Victim's hidden face no love was manifested? What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops averted ■? What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should be deserted? Deserted! God could separate from His own essence rather; And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and Father: Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry His universe hath shaken — It went up single, echoless, "My God, I am forsaken!" It went up from the Holy's lips amid His lost creation, That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation! That earth's worst phrenzies, marring hope, should mar not hope's fruition. And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture in a vision. CROWNED AND BURIED. 153 CROWNED AND BURIED. Napoleon! — years ago, and that great word Compact of human breath in hate and dread And exultation, skied us overhead — An atmosphere whose lightning was the sword Scathing the cedars of the world, — drawn down In burnings, by the metal of a crown. Napoleon! — nations, while they cursed that name, Shook at their own curse; and while others bore Its sound, as of a trumpet, on before. Brass-fronted legions justified its fame; And dying men on trampled battle-sods Near their last silence uttered it for God's. Napoleon! — sages, with high foreheads drooped. Did use it for a problem; children small Leapt up to greet it, as at manhood's call; Priests blessed it from their altars overstooped By meek-eyed Christs; and widows with a moan Spake it, when questioned why they sat alone. That name consumed the silence of the snows In Alpine keeping, holy and cloud-hid; The mimic eagles dared what Nature's did, And over-rushed her mountainous repose In search of eyries: and the Egyptian river Mingled the same word with its grand "For ever" 154 CROWNED AND BURIED. That name was shouted near the pyramidal Nilotic tombs, whose mummied habitants, Packed to humanity's significance. Motioned it back with stillness, — shouts as idle As hireling artists' work of myrrh and spice Which swathed last glories round the Ptolemies. The world's face changed to hear it; kingly men Came down in chidden babes' bewilderment From autocratic places, each content With sprinkled ashes for anointing: then The people laughed or wondered for the nonce, To see one throne a composite of thrones. Napoleon! — even the torrid vastitude Of India felt in throbbings of the air That name which scattered by disastrous blare All Europe's bound-lines, — drawn afresh in blood- Napoleon! — from the Russias west to Spain: And Austria trembled till ye heard her chain. And Germany was 'ware; and Italy Oblivious of old fames — her laurel-locked, High-ghosted Caesars passing uninvoked — Did crumble her own ruins with her knee. To serve a newer: ay! but Frenchmen cast A future from them nobler than her past: For verily though France augustly rose With that raised name, and did assume by such The purple of the world, none gave so much As she in purchase — to speak plain, in loss — Whose hands, toward freedom stretched, dropped paralyzed To wield a sword or fit an undersized CROWNED AND BURIED. 155 King's crown to a great man's head. And though along Her Paris streets, did float on frequent streams Of triumph, pictured or emmarbled dreams Dreamt right by genius in a world gone wrong, — No dream of all so won was fair to see As the lost vision of her liberty. Napoleon! — 'twas a high name lifted high: It met at last God's thunder sent to clear Our compassing and covering atmosphere And open a clear sight beyond the sky Of supreme empire; this of earth's was done — And kings crept out again to feel the sun. The kings crept out — the peoples sat at home, And finding the long-invocated peace (A pall embroidered with worn images Of rights divine) too scant to cover doom Such as they suffered, cursed the corn that grew Rankly, to bitter bread, on Waterloo. A deep gloom centered in the deep repose; The nations stood up mute to count their dead: And he who owned the name which vibrated Through silence, — trusting to its noblest foes When earth was all too grey for chivalry, Died of their mercies 'mid the desert sea. O wild St. Plelen! very still she kept him, With a green willow for all pyramid. Which stirred a little if the low wind did, A little more, if pilgrims overwept him, Disparting the lithe boughs to see the clay Which seemed to cover his for judgment-day. 156 CROWNED AND BURIED, Nay, not so long! France kept her old affection As deeply as the sepulchre the corse; Until, dilated by such lovers remorse To a new angel of the resurrection. She cried, "Behold, thou England! I would have The dead whereof thou wottest, from that grave." And England answered in the courtesy Which, ancient foes turned lovers, may befit, — "Take back thy dead! and when thou buriest it, Throw in all former strifes 'twixt thee and me." Amen, mine England! 'tis a courteous claim: But ask a little room too — for thy shame! Because it was not well, it was not well. Nor tuneful with thy lofty-chanted part Among the Oceanides, — that Heart To bind and bare and vex with vulture fell. I would, my noble England, men might seek All crimson stains upon thy breast — not cheek! I would that hostile fleets had scarred Torbay, Instead of the lone ship which waited moored Until thy princely purpose was assured. Then left a shadow, not to pass away — Not for to-night's moon, nor to-morrow's sun: Green watching hills, ye witnessed what was done! But since it was done, — in sepulchral dust We fain would pay back something of our debt To France, if not to honour, and forget How through much fear we falsified the trust Of a fallen foe and exile. We return Orestes to Electra — in his urn. CROWNED AND BURIED. 157 A little urn — a little dust inside, Which once outbalanced the large earth, albeit To-day a four-years child might carry it Sleek-browed and smiling, "Let the burden 'bide!" Orestes to Electra! — O fair town Of Paris, how the wild tears will run down And run back in the chariot-marks of time. When all the people shall come forth to meet The passive victor, death-still in the street He rode through 'mid the shouting and bell-chime And martial music, under eagles which Dyed their rapacious beaks at Austerlitz! Napoleon! he hath come again, borne home Upon the popular ebbing heart, — a sea Which gathers its own wrecks perpetually. Majestically moaning. Give him room! Room for the dead in Paris! welcome solemn And grave-deep, 'neath the cannon-moulded column! There, weapon spent and warrior spent may rest From roar of fields, — provided Jupiter Dare trust Saturnus to lie down so near His bolts! — and this he may: for, dispossessed Of any godship lies the godlike arm — The goat, Jove sucked, as likely to do harm. And yet . . . Napoleon! — the recovered name Shakes the old casements of the world; and we Look out upon the passing pageantry. Attesting that the Dead makes good his claim To a French grave, — another kingdom won, The last, of few spans — by Napoleon. 158 CROWNED AND BURIED. Blood fell like dew beneath his sunrise — sooth! But glittered dew-like in the covenanted Meridian light. He was a despot — granted! But the aviog of his autocratic mouth Said yea i' the people's French; he magnified The image of the freedom he denied: And if they asked for rights, he made reply "Ye have my glory!" — and so, drawing round them His ample purple, glorified and bound them In an embrace that seemed identity. He ruled them like a tyrant — true! but none Were ruled like slaves: each felt Napoleon. I do not praise this man: the man was flawed For Adam — much more, Christ! his knee unbent, His hand unclean, his aspiration pent Within a sword-sweep — pshaw! — but since he had The genius to be loved, why let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave. I think this nation's tears thus poured together, Better than shouts. I think this funeral Grander than crownings, though a Pope bless all. I think this grave stronger than thrones. But whether The crowned Napoleon or the buried clay Be worthier, I discern not: angels may. A RHAPSODY OF LIFE's PROGRESS. 1 59 A RHAPSODY OF LIFE'S PROGRESS. We are borne into life — it is sweet, it is strange. We lie still on the knee of a mild Mystery Which smiles with a change; But we doubt not of changes, we know not of spaces, The heavens seem as near as our own mother's face is, And we think we could touch all the stars that we see; And the milk of our mother is white on our mouth; And, with small childish hands, we are turning around The apple of Life which another has found; It is warm with our touch, not with sun of the south, And we count, as we turn it, the red side for four. O Life, O Beyond, Thou art sweet, thou art strange evermore! Then all things look strange in the pure golden aether; We walk through the gardens with hands linked together. And the lilies look large as the trees; And as loud as the birds, sing the bloom-loving bees. And the birds sing like angels, so mystical-fine. And the cedars are brushing the archangels' feet, And time is eternity, love is divine. And the world is complete. Now, God bless the child, — father, mother, respond! O Life, O Beyond, Thou art strange, thou art sweet. Then we leap on the earth with the armour of youth, And the earth rings again; l6o A RHAPSODY OF LIFERS PROGRESS. And we breathe out, "O beauty!" we cry out, "O truth!'* And the bloom of our lips drops with wine, And our blood runs amazed 'neath the calm hyaline; The earth cleaves to the foot, the sun bums to the brain, — What is this exultation? and what this despair? — The strong pleasure is smiting the nerves into pain. And we drop from the Fair as we climb to the Fair, And we lie in a trance at its feet; And the breath of an angel cold-piercing the air Breathes fresh on our faces in swoon^ And we think him so near he is this side the sun. And we wake to a whisper self-murmured and fond, O Life, O Beyond, Thou art strange, thou art sweet! And the winds and the waters in pastoral measures Go winding around us, with roll upon roll, Till the soul lies within in a circle of pleasures Which hideth the soul: And we run with the stag, and we leap with the horse. And we swim with the fish through the broad water- course, And we strike with the falcon, and hunt with the hound, And the joy which is in us flies out by a wound. And we shout so aloud, "We exult, we rejoice," That we lose the low moan of our brothers around : And we shout so adeep down creation's profound, We are deaf to God's voice. And we bind the rose-garland on forehead and ears Yet we are not ashamed. And the dew of the roses that runneth unblamed Down our cheeks, is not taken for tears. A RHAPSODY OF LIFE's PROGRESS. l6l Help us, God! trust us, man, love us, woman! "I hold Thy small head in my hands, — with its grapelets of gold Growing bright through my fingers, — like altar for oath, 'Neath the vast golden spaces like witnessing faces That watch the eternity strong in the troth — I love thee, I leave thee, Live for thee, die for thee! I prove thee, deceive thee, Undo evermore thee! Help me, God! slay me, man! — one is mourning for both. And we stand up though young near the funeral-sheet Which covers old Caesar and old Pharamond, And death is so nigh us, life cools from its heat. O Life, O Beyond, Art thou fair, art thou sweet? Then we act to a purpose, we spring up erect: We will tame the wild mouths of the wilderness-steeds. We will plough up the deep in the ships double-decked. We will build the great cities, and do the great deeds. Strike the steel upon steel, strike the soul upon soul. Strike the dole on the weal, overcoming the dole. Let the cloud meet the cloud in a grand thunder-roll ! "While the eagle of Thought rides the tempest in scorn. Who cares if the lightning is burning the corn? Let us sit on the thrones In a purple sublimity. And grind down men's bones To a pale unanimity. Speed me, God! serve me, man! I am God over men; When I speak in my cloud, none shall answer again; 'Neath the stripe and the bond. Lie and mourn at my feet!" Elizabeth Brcnvnlng. II 1 62 A RHAPSODY OF LIFERS PROGRESS. O Life, O Beyond, Thou art strange, thou art sweet! Then we grow into thought, and with inward ascensions Touch the bounds of our Being. We He in the dark here, swathed doubly around With our sensual relations and social conventions, Yet are Vare of a sight, yet are 'ware of a sound Beyond Hearing and Seeing, — • Are aware that a Hades rolls deep on all sides With its infinite tides About and above us, — until the strong arch Of our life creaks and bends as if ready for falling, And through the dim rolling we hear the sweet calling Of spirits that speak in a soft under-tongue The sense of the mystical march: And we cry to them softly, "Come nearer, come nearer, And lift up the lap of this dark, and speak clearer, And teach us the song that ye sung!" And we smile in our thought as they answer or no. For to dream of a sweetness is sweet as to know. Wonders breathe in our face And we ask not their name; Love takes all the blame Of the world's prison-place. And we sing back the songs as we guess them, aloud^ And we send up the lark of our music that cuts Untired through the cloud To beat with its wings at the lattice Heaven shuts; Yet the angels look down and the mortals look up As the little wings beat, And the poet is blessed with their pity or hope. 'Twixt the heavens and the earth can a poet despond? A RHAPSODY OF LIFE'S PROGRESS. 1 63 O Life, O Beyond, Thou art strange, thou art sweet! Then we wring from our souls their applicative strength, And bend to the cord the strong bow of our ken, And bringing our lives to the level of others Hold the cup we have filled, to their uses at length. "Help me, God! love me, man! I am man among men. And my life is a pledge Of the ease of another's!" From the fire and the water we drive out the steam With a rush and a roar and the speed of a dream; And the car without horses, the car without wings, Roars onward and flies On its grey iron edge 'Neath the heat of a Thought sitting still in our eyes: And our hand knots in air, with the bridge that it flings. Two peaks far disruptured by ocean and skies. And, lifting a fold of the smooth-flowing Thames, Draws under the world with its turmoils and pothers, While the swans float on softly, untouched in their calms, By humanity's hum at the root of the springs. And with reachings of Thought we reach down to the deeps Of the souls of our brothers. We teach them full words with our slow-moving lips, "God," "Liberty," "Truth,"— which they hearken and think And work into harmony, link upon link. Till the silver meets round the earth gelid and dense, Shedding sparks of electric responding intense On the dark of eclipse. II* 164 A RHAPSODY OF LIFE'S PROGRESS. Then we hear through the silence and glory afar, As from shores of a star In aphelion, the new generations that cry Disenthralled by our voice to harmonious reply, "God,'' "Liberty," "Truth!" We are glorious forsooth. And our name has a seat, Though the shroud should be donned. O Life, O Beyond, Thou art strange, thou art sweet 1 Help me, God! help me, man! I am low, I am weak, Death loosens my sinews and creeps in my veins, My body is cleft by these wedges of pains From my spirit's serene, And I feel the exteme and insensate creep in On my organized clay; I sob not, nor shriek. Yet I faint fast away: I am strong in the spirit, — deep-thoughted, clear-eyed, — I could walk, step for step, with an angel beside, On the heaven-heights of truth. Oh, the soul keeps its youth! But the body faints sore, it is tired in the race, It sinks from the chariot ere reaching the goal, It is weak, it is cold, The rein drops from its hold. It sinks back, with the death in its face. On, chariot! on, soul! Ye are all the more fleet — Be alone at the goal Of the strange and the sweet! THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 1 65 Love US, God! love us, man! we believe, we achieve: Let us love, let us live, For the acts correspond; We are glorious, and die: And again on the knee of a mild Mystery That smiles with a change. Here we lie. O Death, O Beyond, Thou art sweet, thou art strange! THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years'? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers. And f/iaf cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows. The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west — • But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in the sorrow Why their tears are falling so*? The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago; X66 THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest. The old hope is hardest to be lost: But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland*^ They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see. For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy; "Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary," "Our young feet," they say, "are very weak; Few paces have we taken, yet are weary — Our grave-rest is very far to seek: Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children, For the outside earth is cold. And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering. And the graves are for the old." "True," say the children, "it may happen That we die before our time: Little Alice died last year, her grave is shapen Like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her: Was no room for any work in the close clay! From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, ^Get up, little Alice! it is day.' If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries; THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 1 67 Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her. For the smile has time for growing in her eyes: And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud by the kirk-chime." "It is good when it happens," say the children, "That we die before our time." Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have: They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city, Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do; Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty, Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through! But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds anear the mine] Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, From your pleasures fair and fine! "For oh," say the children, "we are weary. And we cannot run or leap; If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping. We fall upon our faces, trying to go; And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For, all day, we drag our burden tiring Through the coal-dark, underground; Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round* 1 68 THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN, "For all day, the wheels are droning, turning; Their wind comes in our faces, Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses burning. And the walls turn in their places: Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, Turns the long light that drops adown the wall. Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling All are turning, all the day, and we with all. And all day, the iron wheels are droning. And sometimes we could pray, ^O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning) 'Stop! be silent for to-day!'" Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth! Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals: Let them prove their living souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, O wheels! Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward. Grinding life down from its mark; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers. To look up to Him and pray; So the blessed One who blesseth all the others. Will bless them another day. They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us, While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred "^ THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 1 69 When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word. And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door: Is it likely God, with angels singing round him, Hears our weeping any more? "Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, And at midnighf s hour of harm, ^Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber. We say softly for a charm. We know no other words except ^Our Father,' And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather. And hold both within His right hand which is strong. ^Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely (For they call Him good and mild) Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, ^Come and rest with me, my child.'" "But, no!" say the children, weeping faster, "He is speechless as a stone: And they tell us, of His image is the master Who commands us to work on. Go to!" say the children, — "up in heaven. Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving: We look up for God, but tears have made us blind." Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach? For God's possible is taught by His world's loving, And the children doubt of each. 170 THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. And well may the children weep before you! They are weary ere they run; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun. They know the grief of man, without its wisdom; They sink in man's despair, without its calm; Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm: Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly The harvest of its memories cannot reap, — Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly. Let them weep! let them weep! They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their look is dread to see. For they mind you of their angels in high places. With eyes turned on Deity. "How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation. Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's hearty- Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper. And your purple shows your path! But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper Than the strong man in his wrath." A SONG FOR THE RAGGED SCHOOLS OF LONDON. 17I A SONG FOR THE RAGGED SCHOOLS OF LONDON. WRITTEN IN ROME. I AM listening here in Rome. "England ^s strong," say many speakers, "If she winks, the Czar must come, Prow and topsail, to the breakers." "England 's rich in coal and oak," Adds a Roman, getting moody, "If she shakes a travelling cloak, Down our Appian roll the scudi." "England 's righteous," they rejoin, "Who shall grudge her exaltations. When her wealth of golden coin Works the welfare of the nations?" I am listening here in Rome. Over Alps a voice is sweeping — "England 's cruel! save us some Of these victims in her keeping!" As the cry beneath the wheel Of an old triumphal Roman Cleft the people's shouts like steel, While the show was spoilt for no man, 172 A SONG FOR THE Comes that voice. Let others shout, Other poets praise my land here: I am sadly sitting out, Praying, "God forgive her grandeur/'' Shall we boast of empire, where Time with ruin sits commissioned? In God's liberal blue air Peter's dome itself looks wizened; And the mountains, in disdain. Gather back their lights of opal From the dumb, despondent plain, Heaped with jawbones of a people. Lordly English, think it o'er, Caesar's doing is all undone! You have cannons on your shore, And free parliaments in London, Princes' parks, and merchants' homes. Tents for soldiers, ships for seamen,-— Ay, but ruins worse than Rome's In your pauper men and women. Women leering through the gas, (Just such bosoms used to nurse you) Men, turned wolves by famine — pass! Those can speak themselves, and curse you. But these others — children small. Spilt like blots about the city, Quay, and street, and palace-wall — Take them up into your pity! RAGGED SCHOOLS OF LONDON. I 73 Ragged children with bare feet, Whom the angels in white raiment Know the names of, to repeat When they come on you for payment. Ragged children, hungry-eyed, Huddled up out of the coldness On your doorsteps, side by side. Till your footman damns their boldness. In the alleys, in the squares, Begging, lying little rebels In the noisy thoroughfares. Struggling on with piteous trebles. Patient children — think what pain Makes a young child patient — ponder! Wronged too commonly to strain After right, or wish, or wonder. Wicked children, with peaked chins, And old foreheads! there are many With no pleasures except sins. Gambling with a stolen penny. Sickly children, that whine low To themselves and not their mothers, From mere habit, — never so Hoping help or care from others. Healthy children, with those blue English eyes, fresh from their Maker, Fierce and ravenous, staring through At the brown loaves of the baker. 174 A SONG FOR THE I am listening here in Rome, And the Romans are confessing, "English children pass in bloom All the prettiest made for blessing. ^^AngU angeli!^^ (resumed From the mediaeval story) "Such rose angelhoods, emplumed In such ringlets of pure glory!" Can we smooth down the bright hair, O my sisters, calm, unthrilled in Our hearts' pulses? Can we bear The sweet looks of our own children, While those others, lean and small. Scurf and mildew of the city. Spot our streets, convict us all Till we take them into pityl "Is it our fault?" you reply, "When, throughout civilization. Every nation's empery Is asserted by starvation? "All these mouths we cannot feed. And we cannot clothe these bodies." Well, if man 's so hard indeed, Let them learn at least what God is! Little outcasts from life's fold, The grave's hope they may be joined in, By Christ's covenant consoled For our social contract's grinding. RAGGED SCHOOLS OF LONDON. 175 If no better can be done, Let us do but this, — endeavour That the sun behind the sun Shine upon them while they shiver! On the dismal London flags. Through the cruel social juggle, Put a thought beneath their rags To ennoble the hearths struggle. O my sisters! not so much Are we asked for — not a blossom From our children's nosegay, such As we gave it from our bosom, — Not the milk left in their cup. Not the lamp while they are sleeping, Not the little cloak hung up While the coat's in daily keeping, — But a place in Ragged Schools, Where the outcasts may to-morrow Learn by gentle words and rules Just the uses of their sorrow. O my sisters! children small, Blue-eyed, wailing through the city — Our own babes cry in them all, Let us take them into pity! 176 A LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE. A LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE, A ROSE once grew within A garden April-green, In her loneness, in her loneness, And the fairer for that oneness. A white rose delicate On a tall bough and straight: Early comer, early comer, Never waiting for the summer. Her pretty gestes did win South winds to let her in, In her loneness, in her loneness. All the fairer for that oneness. "For if I wait," said she, "Till time for roses be. For the moss-rose and the musk-rose Maiden-blush and royal dusk-rose. "What glory then for me In such a company? — Roses plenty, roses plenty. And one nightingale for twenty! "Nay, let me in," said she "Before the rest are free. In my loneness, in my loneness, All the fairer for that oneness. A LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE. 177 "For I would lonely stand Uplifting my white hand^ On a mission, on a mission, To declare the coming vision. "Upon which lifted sign, What worship will be mine! What addressing, what caressing, And what thanks and praise and blessing! "A windlike joy will rush Through every tree and bush, Bending softly in affection And spontaneous benediction. "Insects that only may Live in a sunbright ray. To my whiteness, to my whiteness, Shall be drawn as to a brightness, — "And every moth and bee, Approach me reverently, Wheeling o'er me, wheeling o'er me, Coronals of motioned glory. "Three larks shall leave a cloud, To my whiter beauty vowed, Singing gladly all the moontide. Never waiting for the suntide. "Ten nightingales shall flee Their woods for love of me. Singing sadly all the suntide, Never waiting for the moontide. Elizabeth Broivnin^, 12 178 A LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE. "I ween the very skies, Will look down with surprise, When below on earth they see me With my starry aspect dreamy. "And earth will call her flowers To hasten out of doors, By their curtsies and sweet-smelling, To give grace to my foretelling." So praying did she win South winds to let her in, In her loneness, in her loneness, And the fairer for that oneness. But ah, — alas for her! No thing did minister To her praises, to her praises, More than might unto a daisy's. No tree nor bush was seen To boast a perfect green, Scarcely having, scarcely having One leaf broad enough for waving. The little flies did crawl Along the southern wall, Faintly shifting, faintly shifting Wings scarce long enough for lifting. The lark, too high or low, I ween, did miss her so. With his nest down in the gorses, And his song in the star-courses. A LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE. 1 79 The nightingale did please To loiter beyond seas: Guess him in the Happy islands, Learning music from the silence! Only the bee, forsooth. Came in the place of both, Doing honour, doing honour To the honey-dews upon her. The skies looked coldly down As on a royal crown; Then with drop for drop, at leisure, They began to rain for pleasure. Whereat the earth did seem To waken from a dream. Winter-frozen, winter-frozen. Her unquiet eyes unclosing — Said to the Rose, "Ha, snow! And art thou fallen so? Thou, who wast enthroned stately AH along my mountains lately? "Holla, thou world-wide snow! And art thou wasted so. With a little bough to catch thee. And a little bee to watch thee?'' — Poor Rose, to be misknown! Would she had ne'er been blown. In her loneness, in her loneness, All the sadder for that oneness! l8o A LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE. Some word she tried to say, Some no ... ah y wellaway! But the passion did overcome her, And the fair frail leaves dropped from her. — Dropped from her, fair and mute. Close to a poef s foot. Who beheld them, smiling slowly. As at something sad yet holy, — Said, "Verily and thus It chances too with us Poets, singing sweetest snatches While that deaf men keep the watches: "Vaunting to come before Our own age evermore, In a loneness, in a loneness. And the nobler for that oneness. "Holy in voice and heart. To high ends, set apart: All unmated, all unmated, Just because so consecrated. "But if alone we be. Where is our empery? And if none can reach our stature, Who can mete our lofty nature "2 "What bell will yield a tone, Swung in the air alone? If no brazen clapper bringing, Who can hear the chimed ringing? A LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE. lb I "What angel but would seem To sensual eyes, ghost-dim 1 And without assimilation, Pain is inter-penetration. "And thus, what can we do, Poor rose and poet too, Who both antedate our mission In an unprepared season? "Drop, leaf! be silent, song! Cold things we come among: We must warm them, we must warm them, Ere we ever hope to charm them. "Howbeit" (here his face Lightened around the place. So to mark the outward turning Of its spirit's inward burning) "Something it is, to hold In God's worlds manifold, First revealed to creature- duty, Some new form of His mild Beauty. "Whether that form respect The sense or intellect. Holy be, in mood or meadow. The Chief Beauty's sign and shadow! "Holy, in me and thee. Rose fallen from the tree, — Though the world stand dumb around us. All unable to expound us. 1 82 A LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE. "Though none us deign to bless, Blessed are we, natheless; Blessed still and consecrated In that, rose, we were created. "Oh, shame to poefs lays Sung for the dole of praise,^ — Hoarsely sung upon the highway With that obolum da mihi! "Shame, shame to poefs soul Pining for such a dole. When Heaven-chosen to inherit The high throne of a chief spirit! "Sit still upon your thrones, O ye poetic ones! And if, sooth, the world decry you. Let it pass unchallenged by you. "Ye to yourselves suffice. Without its flatteries. Self-contentedly approve you Unto Him who sits above you, — "In prayers, that upward mount Like to a fair-sunned fount Which, in gushing back upon you, Hath an upper music won you, — "In faith, that still perceives No rose can shed her leaves. Far less, poet fall from mission, With an unfulfilled fruition, — A LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE. 1 83 "In hope, that apprehends An end beyond these ends, And great uses rendered duly By the meanest song sung truly, — "In thanks, for all the good By poets understood. For the sound of seraphs moving Down the hidden depths of loving,— "For sights of things away Through fissures of the clay, Promised things which shall be given And sung over, up in Heaven, — "For life, so lovely vain. For death, which breaks the chain, For this sense of present sweetness, And this yearning to completeness!'' i/ I 184 WINE OF CYPRUS. WINE OF CYPRUS. GIVEN TO ME BY H. S. BOYD, AUTHOR OF ''SELECT PASSAGES FROM THE GREEK FATHERS," ETC., TO WHOM THESE STANZAS ARE ADDRESSED. If old Bacchus were the speaker He would tell you with a sigh, Of the Cyprus in this beaker I am sipping like a fly, — Like a fly or gnat on Ida At the hour of goblet-pledge, By Queen Juno brushed aside. Full white arm-sweep, from the edge. Sooth, the drinking should be ampler When the drink is so divine, And some deep-mouthed Greek exemplar Would become your Cyprus wine: Cyclops' mouth might plunge aright in, While his one eye over-leered, Nor too large were mouth of Titan Drinking rivers down his beard. Pan might dip his head so deep in. That his ears alone pricked out, Fauns around him pressing, leaping Each one pointing to his throat; WINE OF CYPRUS. While the Naiads, like Bacchantes, Wild, with urns thrown out to waste, Cry, "O earth, that thou wouldst grant us Springs to keep, of such a taste!" But for me, I am not worthy After gods and Greeks to drink, And my lips are pale and earthy To go bathing from this brink: Since you heard them speak the last time, They have faded from their blooms. And the laughter of my pastime Has learnt silence at the tombs. Ah, my friend! the antique drinkers Crowned the cup and crowned the brow. Can I answer the old thinkers In the forms they thought of, now*? Who will fetch from garden-closes Some new garlands while I speak. That the forehead, crowned with roses. May strike scarlet down the cheek? Do not mock me! with my mortal. Suits no wreath again, indeed; I am sad-voiced as the turtle Which Anacreon used to feed: Yet as that same bird demurely Wet her beak in cup of his. So, without a garland, surely I may touch the brim of this. 1 86 WINE OF CYPRUS. Go, — let others praise the Chian! This is soft as Muses' string, This is tawny as Rhea's lion, This is rapid as his spring, Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met us, Light as ever trod her feet; And the brown bees of Hymettus Make their honey not so sweet. Very copious are my praises, Though I sip it like a fly! Ah — but, sipping, — times and places Change before me suddenly: As Ulysses' old libation Drew the ghosts from every part. So your Cyprus wine, dear Grecian, Stirs the Hades of my heart. And I think of those long mornings Which my thought goes far to seek. When, betwixt the folio's turnings, Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek: Past the pane the mountain spreading, Swept the sheep's-bells tinkling noise. While a girlish voice was reading. Somewhat low for ais and ois. Then, what golden hours were for us! While we sat together there. How the white vests of the chorus Seemed to wave up a live air! WINE OF CYPRUS. 1 87 How the cothurns trod majestic Down the deep iambic lines, And the rolling anapaestic Curled like vapour over shrines! Oh, our -^schylus, the thunderous, How he drove the bolted breath Through the cloud, to wedge it ponderous In the gnarled oak beneath! Oh, our Sophocles, the royal, Who was born to monarch's place, .And who made the whole world loyal. Less by kingly power than grace! Our Euripides, the human, With his droppings of warm tears. And his touches of things common Till they rose to touch the spheres! Our Theocritus, our Bion, And our Pindar's shining goals! — These were cup-bearers undying. Of the wine that's meant for souls. And my Plato, the divine one. If men know the gods aright By their motions as they shine on With a glorious trail of light! And your noble Christian bishops. Who mouthed grandly the last Greek! Though the sponges on their hyssops Were distent with wine — too weak. WINE OF CYPRUS. Yet, your Chrysostom, you praised him As a liberal mouth of gold; And your Basil, you upraised him To the height of speakers old: And we both praised Heliodorus For his secret of pure lies, — Who forged first his linked stories In the heat of lady's eyes. And we both praised your Synesius For the fire shot up his odes, Though the Church was scarce propitious As he whistled dogs and gods. And we both praised Nazianzen For the fervid heart and speech: Only I eschewed his glancing At the lyre hung out of reach. Do you mind that deed of At^ Which you bound me to so fast, — Reading "De Virginitate" From the first line to the last? How I said at ending, solemn As I turned and looked at you. That St. Simeon on the column Had had somewhat less to do? For we sometimes gently wrangled, Very gently, be it said, Since our thoughts were disentangled By no breaking of the thread: WINE OF CYPRUS. 1 89 And I charged you with extortions On the nobler fames of old — Ay, and sometimes thought your Persons Stained the purple they would fold. For the rest — a mystic moaning, Kept Cassandra at the gate, With wild eyes the vision shone in, And wide nostrils scenting fate. And Prometheus, bound in passion By brute Force to the blind stone. Showed us looks of invocation Turned to ocean and the sun. And Medea we saw burning At her nature's planted stake: And proud GEdipus fate-scorning While the cloud came on to break — While the cloud came on slow, slower. Till he stood discrowned, resigned, — But the reader's voice dropped lower When the poet called him blind. Ah, my gossip! you were older. And more learned, and a man; Yet that shadow, the enfolder Of your quiet eyelids, ran Both our spirits to one level: And I turned from hill and lea And the summer-sun's green revel. To your eyes that could not see. 1 90 WINK OF cvrKus. Mow Christ bless you with the one light Which goes shining night and day! ]May the flowers which grow in sunlight Shed their fragrance in your way I Is it not right to remember All your kindness, friend of mine, When we two sat in tlie chamber, And the poets poured us wine? So, to come back to the drinking Of this Cyprus, — it is well. But those memories, to my thinking. Make a better ocnomel; And whoever be the speaker, None can murmur with a sigh That, in drinking from that beaker, I am sipping like a fly. XH£ CYCLOPS. 191 THE CYCLOPS. (Theocritus, Idyll XI). And so an easier life our Cyclops drew, The ancient Polyphemus, who in youth Loved Galatea while the manhood grew Ado\\Ti his cheeks and darkened round his mouth. No jot he cared for apples, olives, roses; Love made him mad: the whole world was neglected, The very sheep went backward to their closes From out the fair green pastures, self-directed. And singing Galatea, thus, he wore The sunrise down along the weedy shore. And pined alone, and felt the cruel wound Beneath his heart, which Cypris' arrow bore, With a deep pang; but, so, the cure was found; And sitting on a lofty rock he cast His eyes upon the sea, and sang at last: — ^•O whitest Galatea, can it be That thou shouldst spurn me off who love thee so] MoTQ white than curds, my girl, thou art to see, More meek than lambs, more full of leaping glee Than kids, and brighter than the early glow 192 , THE CYCLOPS. On grapes that swell to ripen, — sour like thee! Thou comest to me with the fragrant sleep, And with the fragrant sleep thou goest from me; Thou fliest . . fliest, as a frightened sheep Flies the grey wolf! — yet Love did overcome me, So long; — I loved thee, maiden, first of all When down the hills (my mother fast beside thee) I saw thee stray to pluck the summer-fall Of hyacinth bells, and went myself to guide thee: And since my eyes have seen thee, they can leave thee No more, from that day's light! But thou . . by Zeus, Thou wilt not care for that^ to let it grieve thee! I know thee, fair one, why thou springest loose From my arm round thee. Why? I tell thee. Dear! One shaggy eyebrow draws its smudging road Straight through my ample front, from ear to ear, — One eye roils underneath; and yawning, broad Flat nostrils feel the bulging lips too near. Yet . . ho, ho! — /, — whatever I appear, — Do feed a thousand oxen! When I have done, I milk the cows, and drink the milk thafs best! I lack no cheese, while summer keeps the sun; And after, in the cold, it's ready prest! And then, I know to sing, as there is none Of all the Cyclops can, . . a song of thee, Sweet apple of my soul, on love's fair tree, And of myself who love thee . . till the west Forgets the light, and all but I have rest. I feed for thee, besides, eleven fair does. And all in fawn; and four tame whelps of bears. Come to me, Sweet! thou shalt have all of those In change for love! I will not halve the shares. THE CYCLOPS. 193 Leave the blue sea, with pure white arms extended To the dry shore; and, in my cave's recess, Thou shalt be gladder for the noonlight ended, — For here be laurels, spiral cypresses, Dark ivy, and a vine whose leaves enfold Most luscious grapes; and here is water cold, The wooded ^tna pours down through the trees From the white snows, — which gods were scarce too bold To drink in turn with nectar. Who with these Would choose the salt wave of the lukewarm seas'? Nay, look on me! If I am hairy and rough, I have an oak's heart in me; there's a fire In these grey ashes which burns hot enough; And when I burn for fhee, I grudge the pyre No fuel . . not my soul, nor this one eye, — Most precious thing I have, because thereby I see thee, Fairest! Out, alas! I wish My mother had borne me finned like a fish. That I might plunge down in the ocean near thee. And kiss thy glittering hand between the weeds, If still thy face were turned; and I would bear thee Each lily white, and poppy fair that bleeds Its red heart down its leaves! — one gift, for hours Of summer, — one, for winter; since, to cheer thee, I could not bring at once all kinds of flowers. Even now, girl, now, I fain would learn to swim. If stranger in a ship sailed nigh, I wis, — That I may know how sweet a thing it is To live down with you, in the deep and dim! Come up, O Galatea, from the ocean. And having come, forget again to go! As I, who sing out here my heart's emotion. Could sit for ever. Come up from below! EUza-heih BrozvKing. 13 194 THE CYCLOPS. Come, keep my flocks beside me, milk my kine, — Come, press my cheese, distrain my whey and curd! Ah, mother! she alone . . that mother of mine . . Did wrong me sore! I blame her! — Not a word Of kindly intercession did she address Thine ear with for my sake; and nevertheless She saw me wasting, wasting, day by day; Both head and feet were aching, I will say. All sick for grief, as I myself was sick. O Cyclops, Cyclops, whither hast thou sent Thy soul on fluttering wings? If thou wert bent On turning bowls, or pulling green and thick The sprouts to give thy lambkins, — thou wouldst make thee A wiser Cyclops than for what we take thee. Milk dry the present! Why pursue too quick That future which is fugitive aright? Thy Galatea thou shalt haply find, — Or else a maiden fairer and more kind; For many girls do call me through the night. And, as they call, do laugh out silverly. /, too, am something in the world, I see!" While thus the Cyclops love and lambs did fold, Ease came with song, he could not buy with gold. SONG OF THE ROSE. I95 SONG OF THE ROSE. ATTRIBUTED TO SAPPHO: FROM ACHILLES TATIUS. If Zeus chose us a king of the flowers in his mirth, He would call to the rose and would royally crown it; For the rose, ho, the rose! is the grace of the earth, Is the light of the plants that are growing upon it: For the rose, ho, the rose! is the eye of the flowers, Is the blush of the meadows that feel themselves fair. Is the lightning of beauty that strikes through the bowers On pale lovers who sit in the glow unaware. Ho, the rose breathes of love! ho, the rose lifts the cup To the red lips of Cypris invoked for a guest! Ho, the rose, having curled its sweet leaves for the world, Takes delight in the motion its petals keep up. As they laugh to the wind as it laughs from the west! 134 icjo anacreon's ode to the swallow. ANACREON'S ODE TO THE SWALLOW. Thou indeed, little Swallow, A sweet yearly comer, Art building a hollow New nest every summer, And straight dost depart Where no gazing can follow, Past Memphis, down Nile Ah, but Love all the while Builds his nest in my heart, Through the cold winter- weeks: And as one Love takes flight. Comes another, O Swallow, In an egg warm and white, And another is callow! And the large gaping beaks Chirp all day and all night: And the Loves who are older Help the young and the poor Loves, And the young Loves grown bolder Increase by the score Loves — Why, what can be done? If a noise comes from one, Can I bear all this rout of a hundred and more Loves? ' THE DEAD PAN. 1 97 THE DEAD PAN. Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas, Can ye listen in your silence? Can your mystic voices tell us Where ye hide? In floating islands, With a wind that evermore Keeps you out of sight of shore? Pan, Pan is dead. In what revels are ye sunken, In old Ethiopia? Have the Pygmies made you drunken, Bathing in mandragora Your divine pale lips, that shiver Like the lotus in the river? Pan, Pan is dead. Do ye sit there still in slumber, In gigantic Alpine rows? The black poppies out of number Nodding, dripping from your brows To the red lees of your wine, And so kept alive and fine? Pan, Pan is dead. 198 THE DEAD PAN. Or He crushed your stagnant corses Where the silver spheres roll on, Stung to life by centric forces Thrown like rays out from the sun? — While the smoke of your old altars Is the shroud that round you welters? Great Pan is dead "Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas," Said the old Hellenic tongue, — Said the hero-oaths, as well as Poets^ songs the sweetest sung: Have ye grown deaf in a day? Can ye speak not yea or nay, Since Pan is dead? Do ye leave your rivers flowing All alone, O Naiades, While your drenched locks dry slow in This cold feeble sun and breeze? Not a word the Naiads say. Though the rivers run for aye; For Pan is dead. From the gloaming of the oak-wood, O ye Dryads, could ye flee? At the rushing thunderstroke, would No sob tremble through the tree? Not a word the Dryads say, Though the forests wave for aye; For Pan is dead. THE DEAD PAN. IQQ Have ye left the mountain places, Oreads wild, for other tryst 1 Shall we see no sudden faces Strike a glory through the mist? Not a sound the silence thrills Of the everlasting hills: Pan, Pan is dead. O twelve gods of Plato's vision, Crowned to starry wanderings, With your chariots in procession. And your silver clash of wings ! Very pale ye seem to rise. Ghosts of Grecian deities. Now Pan is dead! Jove, that right hand is unloaded. Whence the thunder did prevail, While in idiocy of godhead Thou art staring the stars pale! And thine eagle, blind and old, Roughs his feathers in the cold. Pan, Pan is dead. Where, O Juno, is the glory Of thy regal look and tread? Will they lay, for evermore, thee. On thy dim, straight, golden bed? Will thy queendom all lie hid Meekly under either lid? Pan, Pan is dead. 200 THE DEAD PAN. Ha, Apollo! floats his golden Hair all mist-like where he stands, While the Muses hang enfolding Knee and foot with faint wild hands'? 'Neath the clanging of thy bow, Niobe looked lost as thou! Pan, Pan is dead. Shall the casque with its brown iron, Pallas' broad blue eyes, eclipse. And no hero take inspiring From the god-Greek of her lips? 'Neath her olive dost thou sit, Mars the mighty, cursing it? Pan, Pan is dead. Bacchus, Bacchus! on the panther He swoons, bound with his own vines; And his Maenads slowly saunter, Head aside, among the pines. While they murmur dreamingly, "Evohe — ah — evohe — ! " Ah, Pan is dead! Neptune lies beside the trident. Dull and senseless as a stone; And old Pluto deaf and silent Is cast out into the sun: Ceres smileth stern thereat, "We all now are desolate Now Pan is dead." THE DEAD PAN. 201 Aphrodite! dead and driven As thy native foam, thou art; With the cestus long done heaving On the white calm of thine heart! At Adorns! at that shriek, Not a tear runs down her cheek — Pan, Pan is dead. And the Loves, we used to know from One another, huddled lie, Frore as taken in a snow-storm, Close beside her tenderly; As if each had weakly tried Once to kiss her as he died. Pan, Pan is dead. What, and Hermes? Time enthralleth All thy cunning, Hermes, thus, And the ivy blindly crawleth Round thy brave caduceus? Hast thou no new message for us, Full of thunder and Jove-glories'? Nay, Pan is dead. Crowned Cybele's great tun-et Rocks and crumbles on her head; Roar the lions of her chariot Toward the wilderness, unfed: Scornful children are not mute, — "Mother, mother, walk afoot Since Pan is dead!^' 202 THE DEAD PAN. In the fiery-hearted centre Of the solemn universe, Ancient Vesta, — who could enter To consume thee with this curse*? Drop thy grey chin on thy knee, O thou palsied Mystery! For Pan is dead. Gods, we vainly do adjure you,— Ye return nor voice nor sign! Not a votary could secure you Even a grave for your Divine: Not a grave, to show thereby. Here these grey old gods do lie. Pan, Pan is dead. Even that Greece who took your wages. Calls the obolus outworn; And the hoarse deep-throated ages Laugh your godships unto scorn: And the poets do disclaim you. Or grow colder if they name you — And Pan is dead. Gods bereaved, gods belated, With your purples rent asunder! Gods discrowned and desecrated, Disinherited of thunder! Now, the goats may climb and crop The soft grass on Ida's top — Now, Pan is dead. THE DEAD PAN. 203 Calm, of old, the bark went onward, When a cry more loud than wind, Rose up, deepened, and swept sunward, From the piled Dark behind; And the sun shrank and grew pale. Breathed against by the great wail — "Pan, Pan is dead." And the rowers from the benches Fell, each shuddering on his face, While departing Influences Struck a cold back through the place; And the shadow of the ship Reeled along the passive deep — "Pan, Pan is dead." And that dismal cry rose slowly And sank slowly through the air, Full of spirif s melancholy And eternity's despair! And they heard the words it said — Pan is dead — Great Pan is dead — Pan, Pan is dead. 'Twas the hour when One in Sion Hung for love's sake on a cross; When His brow was chill with dying, And His soul was faint with loss; When His priestly blood dropped downward. And His kingly eyes looked throneward — Then, Pan was dead. 204 THE DEAD PAN. By the love He stood alone in, His sole Godhead rose complete, And the false gods fell down moaning, Each from off his golden seat; All the false gods with a cry Rendered up their deity — Pan, Pan was dead. Wailing wide across the islands. They rent, vest-like, their Divine; And a darkness and a silence Quenched the light of every shrine; And Dodona's oak swang lonely Henceforth, to the tempest only: Pan, Pan was dead. Pythia staggered, feeling o'er her Her lost god's forsaking look; Straight her eyeballs filmed with horror. And her crispy fillets shook. And her lips gasped through their foam, For a word that did not come. Pan, Pan was dead. O ye vain false gods of Hellas, Ye are silent evermore! And I dash down this old chalice Whence libations ran of yore. See, the wine crawls in the dust Wormlike — as your glories must, Since Pan is dead. THE DEAD PAN. 205 Get to dust, as common mortals. By a common doom and track! Let no Schiller from the portals Of that Hades call you back, Or instruct us to weep all At your antique funeral. Pan, Pan is dead. By your beauty, which confesses Some chief Beauty conquering you, — By our grand heroic guesses Through your falsehood at the True, — We will weep not! earth shall roll Heir to each god's aureole — And Pan is dead. Earth outgrows the mythic fancies Sung beside her in her youth. And those debonair romances Sound but dull beside the truth. Phoebus' chariot-course is run: Look up, poets, to the sun! Pan, Pan is dead. Christ hath sent us down the angels; And the whole earth and the skies Are illumed by altar-candles Lit for blessed mysteries; And a Priest's hand through creation Waveth calm and consecration: And Pan is dead. 206 THE DEAD PAN. Truth is fair: should we forego it? Can we sigh right for a wrong? God himself is the best Poet, And the Real is His song. Sing His truth out fair and full, And secure His beautiful. Let Pan be dead. Truth is large: our aspiration Scarce embraces half we be. Shame, to stand in His creation And doubt truth's sufficiency! — To think God's song unexcelling The poor tales of our own telling — When Pan is dead. What is true and just and honest, What is lovely, what is pure, All of praise that hath admonisht. All of virtue, shall endure; These are themes for poet's uses. Stirring nobler than the Muses, Ere Pan was dead. O brave poets, keep back nothing, Nor mix falsehood with the whole; Look up Godward; speak the truth in Worthy song from earnest soul: Hold, in high poetic duty. Truest Truth the fairest Beauty! Pan, Pan is dead. SONNETS. 207 SONNETS. THE soul's expression. With stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right That music of my nature j day and night, With dream and thought and feeling interwound, And inly answering all the senses round With octaves of a mystic depth and height Which step out grandly to the infinite From the dark edges of the sensual ground. This song of soul I struggle to outbear Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole, And utter all myself into the air: But if I did it, — as the thunder-roll Breaks its own cloud, my flesh would perish there. Before that dread apocalypse of soul. 208 SONNETS. PERPLEXED MUSIC. AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO E. J. Experience, like a pale musician, holds A dulcimer of patience in his hand, Whence harmonies we cannot understand, Of God's will in His worlds, the strain unfolds In sad, perplexed minors: deathly colds Fall on us while we hear, and countermand Our sanguine heart back from the fancy-land With nightingales in visionaiy wolds. We murmur, "Where is any certain tune Or measured music in such notes as these T' But angels, leaning from the golden seat. Are not so minded; their fine ear hath won The issue of completed cadences. And, smiling down the stars, they whisper — Sweet, WORK. What are we set on earth for? Say, to toil; Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines For all the heat o' the day, till it declines. And Death's mild curfew shall from work assoil. God did anoint thee with His odorous oil. To wrestle, not to reign; and He assigns All thy tears over, like pure crystallines. For younger fellow-workers of the soil To wear for amulets. So others shall Take patience, labour, to their heart and hand, From thy hand and thy heart and thy brave cheer. And God's grace fructify through thee to all. The least flower, with a brimming cup may stand; And share its dew-drop with another near. SONNETS. 209 PAIN IN PLEASURE. A Thought lay like a flower upon mine heart, And drew around it other thoughts like bees For multitude and thirst of sweetnesses; Whereat rejoicing, I desired the art Of the Greek whistler, who to wharf and mart Could lure those insect swarms from orange-trees, That I might hive with me such thoughts and please My soul so, always. Foolish counterpart Of a weak man's vain wishes! While I spoke, The thought I called a flower grew nettle-rough. The thoughts, called bees, stung me to festering: Oh, entertain (cried Reason as she woke,) Your best and gladdest thoughts but long enough. And they will all prove sad enough to sting! FLUSH OR FAUNUS. You see this dog; it was but yesterday I mused forgetful of his presence here Till thought on thought drew downward tear on tear: When from the pillow where wet-cheeked I lay, A head as hairy as Faunus thrust its way Right sudden against my face, two golden-clear Great eyes astonished mine, a drooping ear Did flap me on either cheek to dry the spray! I started first as some Arcadian Amazed by goatly god in twilight grove, But as the bearded vision closelier ran My tears off, I knew Flush, and rose above Surprise and sadness, — thanking the true Pan Who by low creatures leads to heights of love. Elizabeth Broivning, 1 4 210 SONNETS. FINITE AND INFINITE. The wind sounds only in opposing straits, The sea, beside the shore; man's spirit rends Its quiet only up against the ends Of wants and oppositions, loves and hates, Where, worked and worn by passionate debates, And losing by the loss it apprehends. The flesh rocks round and every breath it sends Is ravelled to a sigh. All tortured states Suppose a straitened place. Jehovah Lord, Make room for rest, around me! out of sight Now float me, of the vexing land abhorred. Till in deep calms of space my soul may right Her nature, shoot large sail on lengthening cord, And rush exultant on the Infinite. TO GEORGE SAND. A DESIRE. Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man, Self-called George Sand! whose soul, amid the lions Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance And answers roar for roar, as spirits can: I would some mild miraculous thunder ran Above the applauded circus, in appliance Of thine own nobler nature's strength and science. Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan. From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place With holier light! that thou to woman's claim And man's, might'st join beside the angel's grace Of a pure genius sanctified from blame, Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame. SONNETS. 211 TO GEORGE SAND. A RECOGNITION. True genius, but true woman! dost deny The woman's nature with a manly scorn, And break away the gauds and armlets worn By weaker women in captivity? Ah, vain denial! that revolted cry Is sobbed in by a woman's voice forlorn, — Thy woman's hair, my sister, all unshorn Floats back dishevelled strength in agony. Disproving thy man's name: and while before The world thou burnest in a poet-fire. We see thy woman-heart beat evermore Through the large flame. Beat purer, heart, and higher, Till God unsex thee on the heavenly shore Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire! LIFE. Each creature holds an insular point in space; Yet what man stirs a finger, breathes a sound. But all the multitudinous beings round, In all the countless worlds with time and place For their conditions, down to the central base. Thrill, haply, in vibration and rebound — Life answering life across the vast profound, In full antiphony, by a common grace? I think this sudden joyaunce which illumes A child's mouth sleeping, unaware may run From some soul newly loosened from earth's tombs: I think this passionate sigh, which half-begun I stifle back, may reach and stir the plumes Of God's calm angel standing in the sun. 14* 212 QUESTION AND ANSWER. QUESTION AND ANSWER. Love you seek for, presupposes Summer heat and sunny glow. Tell me, do you find moss-roses Budding, blooming in the snow? Snow might kill the rose-tree's root — Shake it quickly from your foot, Lest it harm you as you go. From the ivy where it dapples A grey ruin, stone by stone, Do you look for grapes or apples. Or for sad green leaves alone? Pluck the leaves off, two or three — Keep them for morality When you shall be safe and gone. INCLUSIONS. 2 1 3 INCLUSIONS. Oh, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine? As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and pine. Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, unfit to plight with thine. Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own*? My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a tear run down. Now leave a little space, Dear, lest it should wet thine own. Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul? — Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand; the part is in the whole: Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to soul. 214 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years. Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was Vare, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, — "Guess now who holds theel" — "Death," I said. But, there. The silver answer rang, — "Not Death, but Love." SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 2 I 5 11. But only three in all God's universe Have heard this word thou hast said, — Himself, beside Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied One of us . . . that was God, . . . and laid the curse So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce My sight from seeing thee, — that if I had died, The death-weights, placed there, would have signified Less absolute exclusion. "Nay" is worse From God than from all others, O my friend! Men could not part us with their worldly jars. Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend; Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars: And, heaven being rolled betw^een us at the end. We should but vow the faster for the stars. III. Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart! Unlike our uses and our destinies. Our ministering two angels look surprise On one another, as they strike athwart Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art A guest for queens to social pageantries. With gages from a hundred brighter eyes Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part Of chief musician. What hast thou to do With looking from the lattice-lights at me, A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree*? The chrism is on thine head, — on mine, the dew,- And Death must dig the level where these agree. 2l6 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE, IV. Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor, Most gracious singer of high poems! where The dancers will break footing, from the care Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more. And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear To let thy music drop here unaware In folds of golden fulness at my door? Look up and see the casement broken in, The bats and owlets builders in the roof! My cricket chirps against thy mandolin. Hush, call no echo up in further proof Of desolation! there's a voice within That weeps ... as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof. V. I LIFT my heavy heart up solemnly, As once Electra her sepulchral urn, And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see What a great heap of grief lay hid in me, And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn Through the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scorn Could tread them out to darkness utterly, It might be well perhaps. But if instead Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow The grey dust up, . . . those laurels on thine head, O my Beloved, will not shield thee so, That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred The hair beneath. Stand further off then! go. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 21? VI. Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life, I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand Serenely in the sunshine as before, Without the sense of that which I forbore — Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double. What I do And what I dream include thee, as the wine Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue God for myself. He hears that name of thine, And sees within my eyes the tears of two. VII. The face of all the world is changed, I think, Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink, Was caught up into love, and taught the whole Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink. And praise its sweetness. Sweet, with thee anear. The names of country, heaven, are changed away For where thou art or shalt be, there or here; And this . . . this lute and song . . . loved yesterday, (The singing angels know) are only dear Because thy name moves right in what they say. 2l8 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. VIII. What can I give thee back, O liberal And princely giver, who hast brought the gold And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold, And laid them on the outside of the wall For such as I to take or leave withal, In unexpected largesse? am I cold, Ungrateful, that for these most manifold High gifts, I render nothing back at all? Not so; not cold, — but very poor instead. Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run The colours from my life, and left so dead And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done To give the same as pillow to thy head. Go farther! let it serve to trample on. IX. Can it be right to give what I can give? To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years Re-sighing on my lips renunciative Through those infrequent smiles which fail to liv^ For all thy adjurations? O my fears. That this can scarce be right! We are not peers, So to be lovers; and I own, and grieve. That givers of such gifts as mine are, must Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas! I will not soil thy purple with my dust, Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass, Nor give thee any love — which were unjust. Beloved, I only love thee! let it pass. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 2ig Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright, Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed: And love is fire. And when I say at need / love thee . . . mark! . . . / love thee — in thy sight I stand transfigured, glorified aright. With conscience of the new rays that proceed Out of my face toward thine. There's nothing low Li love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures Who love God, God accepts while loving so. And what Ifeel, across the inferior features Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show How that great work of Love enhances Nature's. XL And therefore if to love can be desert, I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale As these you see, and trembling knees that fail To bear the burden of a heavy heart, — This weary minstrel-life that once was girt To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail To pipe now 'gainst the valley nightingale A melancholy music, — why advert To these things'? O Beloved, it is plain I am not of thy worth nor for tiiy place ! And yet, because I love thee, I obtain From that same love this vindicating grace, To live on still in love, and yet in vain, — To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face. 220 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. XII. Indeed this very love which is my boast, And which, when rising up from breast to brow, Doth crown me with a ruby large enow To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost, — This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost, I should not love withal, unless that thou Hadst set me an example, shown me how, When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed, And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak Of love even, as a good thing of my own: Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak. And placed it by thee on a golden throne, — And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!) Is by thee only, whom I love alone. XIII. And wilt thou have me fashion into speech The love I bear thee, finding words enough. And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough, Between our faces, to cast light on each? — I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach My hand to hold my spirit so far off From myself — me — that I should bring thee proof In words, of love hid in me out of reach. Nay, let the silence of my womanhood Commend my woman-lpve to thy belief, — Seeing that I stand unwon, however wooed. And rend the garment of my life, in brief. By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude. Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 22 1 XIV. If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say "I love her for her smile — her look — her way Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day" — For these things in themselves, Beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee, — and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, — A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity. XV. Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wear Too calm and sad a face in front of thine; For we two look two ways, and cannot shine With the same sunlight on our brow and hair. On me thou lookest with no doubting care. As on a bee shut in a crystalline; Since sorrow hath shut me safe in love's divine, And to spread wing and fly in the outer air Were most impossible failure, if I strove To fail so. But I look on thee — on thee — Beholding, besides love, the end of love. Hearing oblivion beyond memory; As one who sits and gazes from above, Over the rivers to the bitter sea. 222 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. XVI. And yet, because thou overcomest so, Because thou art more noble and like a king. Thou canst prevail against my fears and fling Thy purple round me, till my heart shall grow Too close against thine heart henceforth to know How it shook when alone. Why, conquering May prove as lordly and complete a thing In lifting upward, as in crushing low! And as a vanquished soldier yields his sword To one who lifts him from the bloody earth. Even so, Beloved, I at last record. Here ends my strife. If thou invite me forth, I rise above abasement at the word. Make thy love larger to enlarge my worth. XVII. My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes God set between His After and Before, And strike up and strike off the general roar Of the rushing worlds a melody that floats In a serene air purely. Antidotes Of medicated music, answering for Mankind's forlornest uses, thou canst pour From thence into their ears. God's will devotes Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine. How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use? A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse? A shade, in which to sing — of palm or pine? A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 22^ XVIII. I NEVER gave a lock of hair away To a man, Dearest, except this to thee, WTiich now upon my fingers thoughtfully I ring out to the full brown length and say **Take it." My day of youth went yesterday; My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee, Nor plant I it from rose- or myrtle-tree, As girls do, any more: it only may Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears. Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral-shears Would take this first, but Love is justified, — Take it thou, — finding pure, from all those years, The kiss my mother left here when she died. XIX. The souFs Rialto hath its merchandize; I barter curl for curl upon that mart, And from my poet's forehead to my heart Receive this lock which outweighs argosies, — As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyes The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart The nine white Muse-brows. For this counterpart, . The bay-crown's shade. Beloved, I surmise. Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black! Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath, I tie the shadows safe from gliding back. And lay the gift where nothing hindereth; Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack No natural heat till mine gi'ows cold in death. 224 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE XX. Beloved, my Beloved, when I think That thou wast in the world a year ago. What time I sat alone here in the snow And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink No moment at thy voice, but, link by link, Went counting all my chains as if that so They never could fall off at any blow Struck by thy possible hand, — why, thus I drink Of life's great cup of wonder! Wonderful, Never to feel thee thrill the day or night With personal act or speech, — nor ever cull Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull, Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight. XXI. Say over again, and yet once over again. That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it. Remember, never to the hill or plain. Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed. Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted By a doubtful spirit- voice , in that doubt's pain Cry, "Speak once more — thou lovest!" Who can fear Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll, Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year? Say thou dost love me, love me, love me — toll The silver iterance! — only minding, Dear, To love me also in silence with thy soul. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 225 XXII. When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire At either curved point, — what bitter wrong Can the earth do to us, that we should not long Be here contented? Think. In mounting higher, The angels would press on us and aspire To drop some golden orb of perfect song Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay- Rather on earth. Beloved, — where the unfit Contrarious moods of men recoil away And isolate pure spirits, and permit A place to stand and love in for a day. With darkness and the death-hour rounding it xxm. Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead, Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine? And would the sun for thee more coldly shine Because of grave-damps falling round my head? I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine — But . . so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range. Then, love me. Love! look on me — breathe on me! As brighter ladies do not count it strange. For love, to give up acres and degree, I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange My near sweet view of heaven, for earth with thee! Elizabeth Browning. 1 5 226 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE, XXIV. Let the world's sharpness like a clasping knife Shut in upon itself and do no harm In this close hand of Love, now soft and warm, And let us hear no sound of human strife After the click of the shutting. Life to life — I lean upon thee, Dear, without alarm. And feel as safe as guarded by a charm Against the stab of worldlings, who if rife Are weak to injure. Very whitely still The lilies of our lives may reassure Their blossoms from their roots, accessible Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer; Growing straight, out of man's reach, on the hill. God only, who made us rich, can make us poor. XXV. A heavy heart, Beloved, have I borne From year to year until I saw thy face. And sorrow after sorrow took the place Of all those natural joys as lightly worn As the stringed pearls, each lifted in its turn By a beating heart at dance-time. Hopes apace Were changed to long despairs, till God's own grace Could scarcely lift above the world forlorn My heavy heart. Then thou didst bid me bring And let it drop adown thy calmly great Deep being! Fast it sinketh, as a thing Which its own nature does precipitate. While thine doth close above it, mediating Betwixt the stars and the unaccomplished fate. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 22^ XXVI. I LIVED with visions for my company Instead of men and women, years ago, And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know A sweeter music than they played to me. But soon their trailing purple was not free Of this world's dust, their lutes did silent grow, And I myself grew faint and blind below Their vanishing eyes. Then thou didst come — to be. Beloved, what they seemed. Their shining fronts, Their songs, their splendours, (better, yet the same. As river-water hallowed into fonts) Met in thee, and from out thee overcame My soul with satisfaction of all wants: Because God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame. XXVII. My own Beloved, who hast lifted me From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown, And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully Shines out again, as all the angels see. Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own, Who camest to me when the world was gone, And I who looked for only God, found thee! I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad. „ As one who stands in dewless asphodel, Looks backward on the tedious time he had In the upper life, — so I, with bosom-swell, Make witness, here, between the good and bad. That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well 15* 2 28 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. XXVIII. My letters! all dead paper, mute and white! And yet they seem alive and quivering Against my tremulous hands which loose the string And let them drop down on my knee to-night. This said, — he wished to have me in his sight Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring To come and touch my hand ... a simple thing, Yet I wept for it! — this, . . . the paper's light . . . Said, Dear I love thee; and I sank and quailed As if God's future thundered on my past. This said, / am thine — and so its ink has paled With lying at my heart that beat too fast. And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed If, what this said, I dared repeat at last! XXIX. I THINK of thee! — my thoughts do twine and bud About thee, as wild vines, about a tree. Put out broad leaves, and soon there's nought to see Except the straggling green which hides the wood. Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood I will not have my thoughts instead of thee Who art dearer, better! Rather, instantly Renew thy presence; as a strong tree should, Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare, And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee, Drop heavily down, — burst, shattered, everywhere! Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee And breathe within thy shadow a new air, I do not think of thee — I am too near thee, SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 229 XXX. I SEE thine image through my tears to-night, And yet to-day I saw thee smiling. How Eefer the cause? — Beloved, is it thou Or I, who makes me sad*? The acolyte Amid the chanted joy and thankful rite May so fall flat, with pale insensate brow, On the altar-stair. I hear thy voice and vow. Perplexed, uncertain, since thou art out of sight, As he, in his swooning ears, the choir's amen. Beloved, dost thou love? or did I see all The glory as I dreamed, and fainted when Too vehement light dilated my ideal, For my souFs eyesl Will that light come again. As now these tears come — falling hot and real? XXXI. Thou comest! all is said without a word. I sit beneath thy looks, as children do In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble through Their happy eyelids from an unaverred Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I erred In that last doubt! and yet I cannot rue The sin most, but the occasion — that we two Should for a moment stand unministered By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near and close. Thou dove-like help! and, when my fears would rise. With thy broad heart serenely interpose; Brood down with thy divine sufficiencies These thoughts which tremble when bereft of those, Like callow birds left desert to the skies. 230 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. XXXII. The first time that the sun rose on thine oath To love me, I looked forward to the moon To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon And quickly tied to make a lasting troth. Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe And, looking on myself, I seemed not one For such mean's love! — more like an out-of-tune Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste, Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note. I did not wrong myself so, but I placed A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float 'Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced, — And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat. XXXIII. Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hear The name I used to run at, when a child, From innocent play, and leave the cowslips piled, To glance up in some face that proved me dear With the look of its eyes. I miss the clear Fond voices which, being drawn and reconciled Into the music of Heaven's undefiled, Call me no longer. Silence on the bier, While I call God— call God!— So let thy mouth Be heir to those who are now exanimate. Gather the north flowers to complete the south, And catch the early love up in the late. Yes, call me by that name, — and I, in truth, With the same heart, will answer and not wait. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 23 1 XXXIV. With the same heart, I said, Til answer thee As those, when thou shalt call me by my name- — Lo, the vain promise! is the same, the same. Perplexed and ruffled by life's strategy? When called before, I told how hastily I dropped my flowers or brake off from a game. To run and answer with the smile that came At play last moment, and went on with me Through my obedience. When I answer now, I drop a grave thought, break from solitude; Yet still my heart goes to thee — ponder how — Not as to a single good, but all my good! Lay thy hand on it, best one, and allow That no child's foot could run fast as this blood. XXXV. If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me*? Shall I never miss Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange. When I look up, to drop on a new range Of walls and floors, another home than this? Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change? That's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried. To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove. For grief indeed is love and grief beside. Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. Yet love me — wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove. 2^2 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE, XXXVI. When we met first and loved, I did not build Upon the event with marble. Could it mean To last, a love set pendulous between Sorrow and sorrow? Nay, I rather thrilled, Distrusting every light that seemed to gild The onward path, and feared to overlean A finger even. And, though I have grown serene And strong since then, I think that God has willed A still renewable fear . . . O love, O troth . . . Lest these enclasped hands should never hold, This mutual kiss drop down between us both As an unowned thing, once the lips being cold. And Love, be false ! if he, to keep one oath, Must lose one joy, by his life's star foretold. xxxvn. Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make Of all that strong divineness which I know For thine and thee, an image only so Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break. It is that distant years which did not take Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow. Have forced my swimming brain to undergo Their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake Thy purity of likeness and distort Thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit. As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port, His guardian sea-god to commemorate, Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 233 XXXVIII. First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And ever since, it grew more clean and white, Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "Oh, list," When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst I could not wear here, plainer to my sight. Than that first kiss. The second passed in height The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed. Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed! That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown, With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed, I have been proud and said, "My love, my own." XXXIX. Because thou hast the power and own'st the grace To look through and behind this mask of me, (Against which, years have beat thus blanchingly With their rains,) and behold my soul's true face, The dim and weary witness of life's race, — Because thou hast the faith and love to see. Through that same soul's distracting lethargy, The patient angel waiting for a place In the new Heavens, — because nor sin nor woe. Nor God's infliction, nor death's neighbourhood. Nor all which others viewing, turn to go. Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed, — Nothing repels thee, . . . Dearest, teach me so To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good! 234 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. XL. Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours! I will not gainsay love, called love forsooth: I have heard love talked in my early youth. And since, not so long back but that the flowers Then gathered, smell still. Mussulmans and Giaours Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have no ruth For any weeping. Polypheme's white tooth Slips on the nut if, after frequent showers. The shell is over-smooth, — and not so much Will turn the thing called love, aside to hate Or else to oblivion. But thou art not such A lover, my Beloved! thou canst wait Through sorrow and sickness, to bring souls to touch And think it soon when others cry "Too late." XLI. I THANK all who have loved me in their hearts, With thanks and love from mine. Deep thanks to all Who paused a little near the prison-wall To hear my music in its louder parts Ere they went onward, each one to the mart's Or temple's occupation, beyond call. But thou, who, in my voice's sink and fall When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot To harken what I said between my tears, . . . Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, to shoot My soul's full meaning into future years. That they should lend it utterance, and salute Love that endures, from Life that disappears! SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 235 XLII. ^^ My future ivill not copy fair my past ^^ — I. wrote that once; and thinking at my side My ministering life-angel justified The word by his appealing look upcast To the white throne of God, I turned at last, And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried By natural ills, received the comfort fast. While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim's staff Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled. I seek no copy now of life's first half: Leave here the pages with long musing curled. And write me new my future's epigraph. New angel mine, unhoped for in the world! XLIII. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath. Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. 236 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. XLIV. Belove£), thou hast brought me many flowers Plucked in the garden, all the summer through And winter, and it seemed as if they grew In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers. So, in the like name of that love of ours, Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too, And which on warm and cold days I withdrew From my heart's ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue, And wait thy weeding; yet here's eglantine, Here 's ivy ! — take them, as I used to do Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine. Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true, And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine. CALLS ON THE HEART. 237 CALLS ON THE HEART. Free Heart, that singest to-day Like a bird on the first green spray, Wilt thou go forth to the world Where the hawk hath his wing unfurled To follow, perhaps, thy wayl Where the tamer thine own will bind, And, to make thee sing, will blind. While the little hip grows for the free behind? Heart, wilt thou go? —"No, no! "Free hearts are better so." The world, thou hast heard it told. Has counted its robber-gold. And the pieces stick to the hand; The world goes riding it fair and grand, While the truth is bought and sold; World-voices east, world-voices west. They call thee. Heart, from thine early rest, "Come hither, come hither and be our guest.'' Heart, wilt thou go? —"No, no! "Good hearts are calmer so." l^S CALLS ON THE HEART. Who calleth thee, Heart? World's Strife, With a golden heft to his knife; World's Mirth, with a finger fine That draws on a board in wine Her blood-red plans of life; World's Gain, with a brow knit down; World's Fame, with a laurel crown Which rustles most as the leaves turn brown: Heart, wilt thou go? —"No, no! "Calm hearts are wiser so." Hast heard that Proserpina (Once fooling) was snatched away To partake the dark king's seat. And the tears ran fast on her feet To think how the sun shone yesterday? With her ankles sunken in asphodel She wept for the roses of earth which fell From her lap when the wild car drave to hell. Heart, wilt thou go? —"No, no! "Wise hearts are warmer so." And what is this place not seen. Where Hearts may hide serene? "'Tis a fair still house well-kept, "Which humble thoughts have swept, **And holy prayers made clean. "There, I sit with Love in the sun, "And we two never have done CALLS ON THE HEART. 239 "Singing sweeter songs than are guessed by oney Heart, wilt thou gol —"No, no! "Warm hearts are fuller so " O Heart, O Love, — I fear That Love may be kept too near. Hast heard, O Heart, that tale, How Love may be false and frail To a Heart once holden dear*? — "But this true Love of mine "Clings fast as the clinging vine, "And mingles pure as the grapes in wine." Heart, wilt thou go*? —"No, no! "Full hearts beat higher so." O Heart, O Love, beware! Look up, and boast not there, For who has twirled at the pin? 'Tis the World, between Death and Sin,~ The World and the World's Despair! And Death has quickened his pace To the hearth, with a mocking face. Familiar as Love, in Love's own place. Heart, wilt thou go% —"Still, no! "High hearts must grieve even so." The house is waste to-day, — The leaf has dropt from the spray, The thorn, prickt through to the song: If summer doeth no wronsr 240 CALLS ON THE HEART. The winter will, they say. Sing, Heart! what heart replies? In vain we were calm and wise. If the tears unkissed stand on in our eyes. Heart, wilt thou go? —"Ah, no! "Grieved hearts must break even so." Howbeit all is not lost. The warm noon ends in frost. And worldly tongues of promise. Like sheep-bells die oif from us On the desert hills cloud-crossed: Yet through the silence shall Pierce the death-angeFs call. And "Come up hither," recover all. Heart, wilt thou go? —"I go! "Broken hearts triumph so." n CONFESSIONS. 24 1 CONFESSIONS. Face to face in my chamber, my silent chamber, I saw her: God and she and I only, there I sat down to draw her Soul through the clefts of confession, — "Speak, I am holding thee fast. As the angel of resurrection shall do it at the last!^' "My cup is blood-red With my sin," she said, "And I pour it out to the bitter lees, As if the angels of judgment stood over me strong at the last Or as thou wert as these." When God smote His hands together, and struck out thy soul as a spark Into the organized glory of things, from deeps of the dark, — Say, didst thou shine, didst thou burn, didst thou honour the power in the form. As the star does at night, or the fire-fly, or even the little ground-worm? "I have sinned," she said, "For my seed-light shed Eilzaheth Broiv?iii'!^. 10 242 CONFESSIONS. Has smouldered away from His first decrees. The cypress praiseth the fire-fly, the ground-leaf praiseth the worm; I am viler than these." When God on that sin had pity, and did not trample thee straight With His wild rains beating and drenching thy light found inadequate; When He only sent thee the north- wind, a little searching and chill, To quicken thy flame — didst thou kindle and flash to the heights of His will? "I have sinned," she said, "Unquickened, unspread My nre dropt down, and I wept on my knees: I only said of His winds of the north as I shrank from their chill. What delight is in these r' When God on that sin had pity, and did not meet it as such, But tempered the wind to thy uses, and softened the world to thy touch, At least thou wast moved in thy soul, though unable to prove it afar, Thou couldst carry thy light like a jewel, not giving it out like a star? "I have sinned " she said, "And not merited CONFESSIONS. 243 The gift He gives, by the grace He sees! The mine-cave praiseth the jewel, the hill-side praiseth the star; I am viler than these." Then I cried aloud in my passion, — Unthankful and impotent creature, To throw up thy scorn unto God tlii'ough the rents in thy beggarly nature! If He, the all-giving and loving, is served so unduly, what then Hast thou done to the weak and the false and the changing, — thy fellows of men] "I have lovedy'' she said, (Words bowing her head As the wind the wet acacia-trees,) "I saw God sitting above me, but I ... I sat among men, And I have loved these." Again with a lifted voice, like a choral trumpet that takes The lowest note of a viol that trembles, and triumphing breaks On the air with it solemn and clear, — "Behold! I have sinned not in this! Where I loved, I have loved much and well, — I have verily loved not amiss. Let the living," she said, "Inquire of the dead. 244 CONFESSIONS. In the house of the pale-fronted images: My own true dead will answer for me, that I have not loved amiss In my love for all these. "The least touch of their hands in the morning, I keep it by day and by night; Their least step on the stair, at the door, still throbs through me, if ever so light; Their least gift, which they left to my childhood, far off in the long-ago years, Is now turned from a toy to a relic, and seen through the crystals of tears. Dig the snow," she said, "For my churchyard bed. Yet I, as I sleep, shall not fear to freeze, If one only of these my beloveds, shall love me with heart-warm tears. As I have loved these! 'Tf I angered any among them, from thenceforth my own life was sore; If I fell by chance from their presence, I clung to their memory more: Their tender I often felt holy, their bitter I sometimes called sweet; And whenever their heart has refused me, I fell down straight at their feet. I have loved," she said, — "Man is weak, God is dread. CONFESSIONS. 245 Yet the weak man dies with his spirit at ease, Having poured such an unguent of love but once on the Saviour's feet, As I lavished for these." Go, I cried, thou hast chosen the Human, and left the Divine! Then, at least, have the Human shared with thee their wild berry- wine? Have they loved, back thy love, and when strpaigers approached thee with blame. Have they covered thy fault with their kisses, and loved thee the same? But she shxrunk and said, "God, over my head. Must sv/eep in the wrath of His judgment-seas. If He shall deal with me sinning, but only indeed the same And no gentler than these," 246 A man's requirements. A MAN'S REQUIREMENTS. Love me, Sweet, with all thou art^ Feeling, thinking, seeing; Love me in the lightest part, Love me in full being. Love me with thine open youth In its frank surrender; With the vowing of thy mouth, With its silence tender. Love me with thine azure eyes, Made for earnest granting; Taking colour from the skies, Can Heaven's truth be wanting? Love me with their lids, that fall Snow-like at first meeting; Love me with thine heart, that all Neighbours then see beating. Love me with thine hand stretched out Freely — open-minded : Love me with thy loitering foot,-— Hearing one behind it. ' A man's requirements. 247 Love me with thy voice, that turns Sudden faint above me; Love me with thy blush that burns When I murmur, Love me! Love me with thy thinking soul, Break it to love-sighing; Love me with thy thoughts that roll On through living — dying. Love me in thy gorgeous airs, When the world has crowned thee; Love me, kneeling at thy prayers, With the angels round thee. Love me pure, as musers do, Up the woodlands shady; Love me gaily, fast and true, As a winsome lady. Through all hopes that keep us brave, Further off or nigher, Love me for the house and grave, And for something higher. Thus, if thou wilt prove me, Dear, Woman's love no fable, / will love thee — half a year — As a man is able. 248 THE lady's yes. THE LADFS YES. "Yes," I answered you last night; "No," this morning, sir, I say: Colours seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day. When the viols played their best, Lamps above and laughs below, Love me sounded like a jest, Fit for^^^ or fit for no. Call me false or call me free, Vow, whatever light may shine,— No man on your face shall see Any grief for change on mine. Yet the sin is on us both; Time to dance is not to woo; Wooing light makes fickle troth, Scorn of me recoils on you. Learn to win a lady's faith Nobly as the thing is high, Bravely, as for life and death, With a loyal gravity. may's love. 249 Lead her from the festive boards^ Point her to the starry skies; Guard her, by your truthful words, Pure from courtship's flatteries. By your truth she shall be true, Ever true, as wives of yore; And her j/es, once said to you, Shall be Yes for evermore. MAY'S LOVE. You love all, you say, Round, beneath, above me: Find me then some way Better than to love me, Me, too, dearest May! O world-kissing eyes Which the blue heavens melt to! I, sad, overwise, Loathe the sweet looks dealt to All things — men and flies. You love all, you say: Therefore, Dear, abate me Just your love, I pray! Shut your eyes and hate me — Only me — fair May! 250 amy's cruelty. AMY^S CRUELTY. Fair Amy of the terraced house, Assist me to discover Why you who would not hurt a mouse Can torture so your lover. You give your coffee to the cat, You stroke the dog for coming, And all your face grows kinder at The little brown bee's humming. But when he haunts your door . . the town Marks coming and marks going . . You seem to have stitched your eyelids down To that long piece of sewing! You never give a look, not you. Nor drop him a "Good-morning," To keep his long day warm and blue, So fretted by your scorning. She shook her head — "The mouse and bee For crumb or flower will linger: The dog is happy at my knee, The cat purrs at my finger. "But ^^ . . to him^ the least thing given Means great things at a distance; He wants my world, my sun, my heaven, Soul, body, whole existence. amy's cruelty. 251 "They say love gives as well as takes; But Vm a simple maiden, — My mother's first smile when she wakes I still have smiled and prayed in. "I only know my mother's love Which gives all and asks nothing; And this new loving sets the groove Too much the way of loathing. "Unless he gives me all in change, I forfeit all things by him: The risk is terrible and strange — I tremble, doubt, . . deny him. "He's sweetest friend, or hardest foe. Best angel, or worst devil; I either hate or . . love him so, I can't be merely civil! "You trust a woman who puts forth. Her blossoms thick as summer's 1 You think she dreams what love is worth, Who casts it to new-comers'? "Such love's a cowslip-ball to fling, A moment's pretty pastime; / give . . all me, if anything, The first time and the last time. "Dear neighbour of the trellised house, A man should murmur never, Though treated worse than dog and mouse, Till doted on for ever!" 252 MY KATE. MY KATE. She was not as pretty as women I know, And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways, While she^s still remembered on warm and cold days — • My Kate. Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace; You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face: And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth, You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth — My Kate. Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke, You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke: When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone, Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone — My Kate. I doubt if she said to you much that could act As a thought or suggestion: she did not attract In the sense of the brilliant or wise: I infer 'Twas her thinking of others, made you think of her — My Kate. MY KATE. 253 She never found fault with you, never implied Your wrong by her right; and yet men at her side Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole town The children were gladder that pulled at her gown — My Kate. None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall; They knelt more to God than they used, — that was all; If you praised her as charming, some asked what you meant. But the charm of her presence was felt when she went — My Kate. The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude, She took as she found them, and did them all good; It always was so with her: see what you have! She has made the grass greener even here . . wdth her grave — My Kate. My dear one! — when thou wast alive with the rest, I held thee the sweetest and loved thee the best: And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sw^eet Heart — My Kate] 254 -^ FALSE STEFo A FALSE STEP. Sweet, thou hast trod on a heart. Pass! there's a world full of men, And women as fair as thou art Must do such things now and then. Thou only hast stepped unaware, — Malice, not one can impute; And why should a heart have been there In the way of a fair woman's foot? It was not a stone that could trip, Nor was it a thorn that could rend: Put up thy proud underlip! 'Twas merely the heart of a friend. And yet peradventure one day Thou, sitting alone at the glass, Remarking the bloom gone away. Where the smile in its dimplement was. And seeking around thee in vain From hundreds who flattered before. Such a word as, "Oh, not in the main Do I hold thee less precious, but more!' Thou'It sigh, very like, on thy part, "Of all I have known or can know, I wish I had only that Heart I trod upon ages ago!" THE MASK. 255 THE MASK. I HAVE a smiling face, she said, I have a jest for all I meet, I have a garland for my head And all its flowers are sweet, — And so you call me gay, she said. Grief taught to me this smile, she said, And Wrong did teach this jesting bold; These flowers were plucked from garden-bed While a death-chime was tolled: And what now will you say] she said. Behind no prison-grate, she said, Which slurs the sunshine half a mile, Live captives so uncomforted As souls behind a smile. God's pity let us pray, she said. I know my face is bright, she said, — Such brightness dying suns difl'use: I bear upon my forehead shed The sign of what I lose, Tiie ending of my day. she said. 256 THE MASK. If I dared leave this smile, she said, And take a moan upon my mouth, And tie a cypress round my head, And let my tears run smooth, It were the happier way, she said. And since that must not be, she said, I fain your bitter world would leave. How calmly, calmly, smile the dead, Who do not, therefore, grieve! The yea of Heaven is yea, she said. But in your bitter world, she said, Face-joy 's a costly mask to wear; 'Tis bought with pangs long nourished. And rounded to despair: Griefs earnest makes life's play, she said. Ye weep for those who weep? she said — Ah fools! I bid you pass them by. Go, weep for those whose hearts have bled What time their eyes were dry. Whom sadder can I say? she said. A year's spinning. 257 A YEAR'S SPINNING. He listened at the porch that day, To hear the wheel go on, and on; And then it stopped, ran back away, While through the door he brought the sun. But now my spinning is all done. He sat beside me, with an oath That love ne'er ended, once begun: I smiled — believing for us both, What was the truth for only one. And now my spinning is all done. My mother cursed me that I heard A young man's wooing as I spun: Thanks, cruel mother, for that word, — • For I have, since, a harder known! And now my spinning is all done. I thought — O God! — my first-born's cry Both voices to mine ear would drown: I listened in mine agony — It was the silence made me groan! And now my spinning is all done. Elizabeth Browning. 17 >58 A year's spinning. Bury me 'twixt my mother's grave (Who cursed me on her death-bed lone) And my dead baby's (God it save!) Who, not to bless me, would not moan. And now my spinning is all done. A stone upon my heart and head, But no name written on the stone! Sweet neighbours, whisper low instead, "This sinner was a loving one — And now her spinning is all done." And let the door ajar remain, In case he should pass by anon; And leave the wheel out very plain,-— That HE, when passing in the sun, May see the spinning is all done. CHANGE UPON CHANGE. 259 CHANGE UPON CHANGE. Five months ago, the stream did flow, The lilies bloomed within the sedge, And we were lingering to and fro, Where none will track thee in this snow, Along the stream, beside the hedge. Ah, Sweet, be free to love and go! For if I do not hear thy foot, The frozen river is as mute, The flowers have dried down to the root: And why, since these be changed since May, Shouldst thou change less than they? And slow, slow as the winter snow. The tears have drifted to mine eyes; And my poor cheeks, five months ago Set blushing at thy praises so. Put paleness on for a disguise. Ah, Sweet, be free to praise and go! For if my face is turned too pale, It was thine oath that first did fail, — It was thy love proved false and frail: And why, since these be changed enow, Should / change less than thou? 17* 260 THAT DAY. THAT DAY. I STAND by the river where both of us stood, And there is but one shadow to darken the flood; And the path leading to it, where both used to pass, Has the step but of one, to take dew from the grass, — One forlorn since that day. The flowers of the margin are many to see; None stoops at my bidding to pluck them for me. The bird in the alder sings loudly and long, — My low sound of weeping disturbs not his song. As thy vow did, that day. I stand by the river, I think of the vow; Oh, calm as the place is, vow-breaker, be thou! I leave the flower growing, the bird unreproved; Would I trouble thee rather than them, my beloved, — And my lover that day? Go, be sure of my love, by that treason forgiven; Of my prayers, by the blessings they win thee from Heaven; Of my grief — (guess the length of the sword by the sheath's) By the silence of life, more pathetic than death's! Go, — be clear of that day! VOID IN LAW. 25 1 VOID IN LAW. Sleep, little babe, on my knee. Sleep, for the midnight is chill, And the moon has died out in the tree. And the great human world goeth ill. Sleep, for the wicked agree: Sleep, let them do as they will. Sleep. Sleep, thou hast drawn from my breast The last drop of milk that was good; And now, in a dream, suck the rest. Lest the real should trouble thy blood. Suck, little lips dispossessed. As we kiss in the air whom we would. Sleep. O lips of thy father! the same. So like! Very deeply they swore When he gave me his ring and his name. To take back, I imagined, no more! And now is all changed like a game. Though the old cards are used as of yore? Sleep. lb 2 VOID IN LAW. "Void in law/' said the courts. Something wrong In the forms? Yet, "Till death part us two, I, James, take thee, Jessie," was strong. And One witness competent. True Such a marriage was worth an old song. Heard in Heaven, though, as plain as the New. Sleep. Sleep, little child, his and mine! Her throat has the antelope curve, And her cheek just the colour and line Which fade not before him nor swerve: Yet she has no child! — the divine Seal of right upon loves that deserve. Sleep. My child! though the world take her part, Saying, "She was the woman to choose, He had eyes, was a man in his heart,"- — We twain the decision refuse: We . . . weak as I am, as thou art, ... Cling on to him, never to loose. Sleep. He thinks that, when done with this place, All's ended "^ he'll new-stamp the ore? Yes, Caesar's — but not in our case. Let him learn we are waiting before The grave's mouth, the Heaven's gate God's face, With implacable love evermore. Sleep VOID IN LAW. 26c He's ours, though he kissed her but now; He's ours, though she kissed in reply; He's ours, though himself disavow, And God's universe favour the lie; Ours to claim, ours to clasp, ours below Ours above, ... if we live, if we die. Sleep. Ah baby, my baby, too rough Is my lullaby"? What have I said? Sleep! When I've wept long enough I shall learn to weep softly instead, And piece with some alien stuff My heart to lie smooth for thy head. Sleep. Two souls met upon thee, my sweet; Two loves led thee out to the sun: Alas, pretty hands, pretty feet, If the one who remains (only one) Set her grief at thee, turned in a heat To thine enemy, — were it well done? Sleep. May He of the manger stand near And love thee! An infant He came To His own who rejected Him here, But the Magi brought gifts all the same. / hurry the cross on my Dear! M)^ gifts are the griefs I declaim! Sleep. 264 MY HEART AND I. MY HEART AND L Enough! we're tired, my heart and L We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason's knife, As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life With which we're tired, my heart and I. You see we're tired, my heart and I. We dealt with books, we trusted men, And in our own blood drenched the pen. As if such colours could not fly. We walked too straight for fortune's end. We loved too true to keep a friend; At last we're tired, my heart and L How tired we feel, my heart and I! We seem of no use in the world; Our fancies hang grey and uncurled About men's eyes indifferently; Our voice which thrilled you so, will let You sleep; our tears are only wet: What do we here, my heart and I? MY HEi^RT AND I. 265 So tired, so tired, my heart and I! It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me ^neath the lime To watch the sunset from the sky. "Dear love, you're looking tired," he said, I, smiling at him, shook my head: 'Tis now we're tired , my heart and L So tired, so tired, my heart and I! Though now none takes me on his arm To fold me close and kiss me warm Till each quick breath end in a sigh Of happy languor. Now, alone. We lean upon this graveyard stone, Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I. Tired out we are, my heart and I. Suppose the world brought diadems To tempt us, crusted with loose gems Of powers and pleasures'? Let it try. We scarcely care to look at even A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, We feel so tired, my heart and I. Yet who complains*? My heart and II In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were loved, used,— well enough, I think, we've fared, my heart and I. 266 THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD. THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD. What's the best thing in the world? June-rose, by May-dew impearled; Sweet south-wind, that means no rain; Truth, not cruel to a friend; Pleasure, not in haste to end; Beauty, not self-decked and curled Till its pride is over-plain; Light, that never makes you wink; Memory, that gives no pain; Love, when, so, you're loved again. What's the best thing in the world? — Something out of it, I think. ''DIED ..." 267 "DIED . . /' (The ''Times'' Obituary,) What shall we add now? He is dead. And I who praise and you who blame, With wash of words across his name, Find suddenly declared instead — ''On Sunday^ third of August y deadJ^ Which stops the whole we talked to-day. I, quickened to a plausive glance At his large general tolerance By common people's narrow way, Stopped short in praising. Dead, they say. And you, who had just put in a sort Of cold deduction — "rather, large Through weakness of the continent marge, Than greatness of the thing contained" — Broke off. Dead! — there, you stood restrained. As if we had talked in following one Up some long gallery. "Would you choose An air like that? The gait is loose — Or noble." Sudden in the sun An oubliette winks. Where is he? Gone. 268 "DIED ../' Dead. Man's «I was'' by God's "I am"— All hero-worship comes to that. High heart, high thought, high fame, as flat As a gravestone. Bring your facet jam — The epitaph's an epigram. Dead. There's an answer to arrest All carping. Dust's his natural place? He'll let the flies buzz round his face And, though you slander, not protest] — From such an one, exact the Best? Opinions gold or brass are null. We chuck our flattery or abuse. Called Caesar's due, as Charon's dues, r the teeth of some dead sage or fool, To mend the grinning of a skull. Be abstinent in praise or blame. The man's still mortal, who stands first, And mortal only, if last and worst. Then slowly lift so frail a fame. Or softly drop so poor a shame. ONLY A CURL. 269 ONLY A CURL. Friends, of faces unknown and a land Unvisited over the sea, Who tell me how lonely you stand With a single gold curl in the hand Held up to be looked at by me, — While you ask me to ponder and say What a father and mother can do, With the bright fellow-locks put away Out of reach, beyond kiss, in the clay Where the violets press nearer than you. Shall I speak like a poet, or run Into weak woman's tears for relief 1 Oh, children! — I never lost one, — Yet my arm's round my own little son, And Love knows the secret of Grief. And I feel what it must be and is, When God draws a new angel so Through the house of a man up to His, With a murmur of music, you miss, And a rapture of light, you forego. S70 ONLY A CURL. How you think, staring on at the door, Where the face of your angel flashed in, That its brightness, familiar before. Burns off from you ever the more For the dark of your sorrow and sin. "God lent him and takes him," you sigh —Nay, there let me break with your pain: God's generous in giving, say I, — And the thing which He gives, I deny That He ever can take back again. He gives what He gives. I appeal To all who bear babes — in the hour When the veil of the body we feel Rent round us, — while torments reveal The motherhood's advent in power. And the babe cries! — has each of us known By apocalypse (God being there Full in nature) the child is our own. Life of life, love of love, moan of moan, Through all changes, all times, everywhere. He's ours and for ever. Believe, O father! — O mother, look back To the first love's assurance. To give Means with God not to tempt or deceive With a cup thrust in Benjamin's sack. He gives what He gives. Be content! He resumes nothing given, — be sure! God lend? Where the usurers lent In His temple, indignant He went And scourged away all those impure. ONLY A CURL. 27 1 He lends not; but gives to the end, As He loves to the end. If it seem That He draws back a gift, comprehend 'Tis to add to it rather, — amend. And finish it up to your dream, — Or keep, — as a mother will toys Too costly, though given by herself. Till the room shall be stiller from noise, And the children more fit for such joys. Kept over their heads on the shelf. So look up, friends! you, who indeed Have possessed in your house a sweet piece Of the Heaven which men strive for, must need Be more earnest than others are, — speed Where they loiter, persist where they cease. You know how one angel smiles there. Then weep not. 'Tis easy for you To be drawn by a single gold hair Of that curl, from earth's storm and despair, To the safe place above us. Adieu. 272 A child's grave at FLORENCE. A CIULD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCK A. A. E. C. Born, July 1848. Died, November 1849. Of English blood, of Tuscan birth, What country should we give her? Instead of any on the earth. The civic Heavens receive her. And here among the English tombs In Tuscan ground we lay her, While the blue Tuscan sky endomes Our English words of prayer. A little child! — how long she lived, By months, not years, is reckoned: Born in one July, she survived Alone to see a second. Bright- featured, as the July sun Her little face still played in. And splendours, with her birth begun, Had had no time for fading. So, Lily, from those July hours, No wonder we should call her; She looked such kinship to the flowers, Was but a little taller. A child's grave at FLORENCE. 273 A Tuscan Lily, — only white, As Dante, in abhorrence Of red corruption, wished aright The lilies of his Florence. We could not wish her whiter, — her Who perfumed with pure blossom The house — a lovely thing to wear Upon a mother's bosom! This July creature thought perhaps Our speech not worth assuming; She sat upon her parents' laps And mimicked the gnat's humming; Said "father," "mother"— then left off, For tongues celestial, fitter: Her hair had grown just long enough To catch Heaven's jasper-glitter. Babes! Love could always hear and see Behind the cloud that hid them. "Let little children come to Me, And do not thou forbid them." So, unforbidding, have we met, And gently here have laid her, Though winter is no time to get The flowers that should o'erspread her: We should bring pansies quick with spring. Rose, violet, daffodilly, And also, above everything, White lilies for our Lily. Elizabeth Brov.mi?ig: I S 2 74 A child's grave at FLORENCE. Nay, more than flowers, this grave exacts,— Glad, grateful attestations Of her sweet eyes and pretty acts, With calm renunciations. Her very mother with light feet Should leave the place too earthy. Saying, "The angels have thee, Sweet, Because we are not worthy." But winter kills the orange-buds, The gardens in the frost are. And all the heart dissolves in floods, Remembering we have lost her. Poor earth, poor heart, — too weak, too weak To miss the July shining! Poor heart! — what bitter words we speak When God speaks of resigning! Sustain this heart in us that faints. Thou God, the self-existent! We catch up wild at parting saints, And feel Thy heaven too distant. The wind that swept them out of sin. Has ruffled all our vesture: On the shut door that let them in, We beat with frantic gesture, — "To us, us also, open straight! The outer life is chilly; Are we too, like the earth, to wait Till next year for our Lily?" A child's grave at FLORENCE. 275 — Oh, my own baby on my knees, My leaping, dimpled treasure. At every word I write like these. Clasped close with stronger pressure! Too well my own heart understands, — At every word beats fuller — My little feet, my little hands, And hair of Lily's colour! But God gives patience, Love learns strength, And Faith remembers promise. And Hope itself can smile at length On other hopes gone from us. Love, strong as Death, shall conquer Death, Through struggle, made more glorious: This mother stills her sobbing breath, Renouncing yet victorious. Arms, empty of her child, she lifts With spirit unbereaven, — "God will not all take back His gifts; My Lily 's mine in Heaven. "Still mine! maternal rights serene Not given to another! The crystal bars shine faint between The souls of child and mother. "Meanwhile," the mother cries, "content! Our love was well divided: Its sweetness following where she went. Its anguish stayed where I did. 276 A child's grave at FLORENCE. "Well done of God, to halve the lot, And give her all the sweetness; To us, the empty room and cot, — To her, the Heaven's completeness. "To us, this grave, — to her, the rows The mystic palm-trees spring in; To us, the silence in the house,- — To her, the choral singing. "For her, to gladden in God's view, — For us, to hope and bear on. Grow, Lily, in thy garden new, Beside the Rose of Sharon! "Grow fast in Heaven, sweet Lily clipped, In love more calm than this is, And may the angels dewy-lipped Remind thee of our kisses! "While none shall tell thee of our tears. These human tears now falling. Till, after a few patient years, One home shall take us all in — "Child, father, mother — who, left out? Not mother, and not father! And when, our dying couch about, The natural mists shall gather, "Some smiling angel close shall stand In old Correggio's fashion, And bear a Lily in his hand. For death's annunciation." LITTLE MATTIE. 2/7 LITTLE MATTIE. Dead! Thirteen a month ago! Short and narrow her life's walk Lover's love she could not know Even by a dream or talk: Too young to be glad of youth, Missing honour, labour, rest, And the warmth of a babe's mouth At the blossom of her breast. Must you pity her for this And for all the loss it is, You, her mother, with wet face. Having had all in your case? Just so young but yesternight. Now she is as old as death. Meek, obedient in your sight, Gentle to a beck or breath Only on last Monday! Yours, Answering you like silver bells Lightly touched! An hour matures: You can teach her nothing else. She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt's pyramid: By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows 578 LITTLE MATTIE. Cross her quiet hands, and smooth Down her patient locks of silk, Cold and passive as in truth You your fingers in spilt milk Drew along a marble floor; But her lips you cannot wring Into saying a word more, "Yes," or "No," or such a thing: Though you call and beg and wreak Half your soul out in a shriek, She will lie there in default And most innocent revolt. Ay, and if she spoke, may be She would answer like the Son, "What is now 'twixt thee and me?" Dreadful answer! better none. Yours on Monday, God's to-day! Yours, your child, your blood, your heart, Called . . you called her, did you say, "Little Mattie" for your part? Now already it sounds strange. And you wonder, in this change, What He calls His angel-creature, Higher up than you can reach her. 'Twas a green and easy world As she took it; room to play, (Though one's hair might get uncurled At the far end of the day). What she suffered she shook off* In the sunshine; what she sinned LITTLE MATTIE. 279 She could pray on high enough To keep safe above the wind. If reproved by God or you, 'Twas to better her, she knew; And if crossed, she gathered still 'Twas to cross out something ill. You, you had the right, you thought, To survey her with sweet scorn. Poor gay child, who had not caught Yet the octave-stretch forlorn Of your larger wisdom! Nay, Now your places are changed so, In that same superior way She regards you dull and low As you did herself exempt From life's sorrows. Grand contempt Of the spirits risen awhile, Who look back with such a smile! There's the sting oft. That, I think, Hurts the most a thousandfold. To feel sudden, at a wink, Some dear child we used to scold, Praise, love both ways, kiss and tease, Teach and tumble as our own. All its curls about our knees, Rise up suddenly full-grown. Wlio could wonder such a sight Made a woman mad outright? Show me Michael with the sword Rather than such angels. Lord! 2 8o NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. NAPOLEON III. m ITALY. Emperor, Emperor! From the centre to the shore, From the Seine back to the Rhine, Stood eight millions up and swore By their manhood's right divine So to elect and legislate, This man should renew the line Broken in a strain of fate And leagued kings at Waterloo, When the people's hands let go. Emperor Evermore. With a universal shout They took the old regalia out, From an open grave that day; From a grave that would not close. Where the first Napoleon lay Expectant, in repose, As still as Merlin, w^ith his conquering face Turned up in its unquenchable appeal To m.en and heroes of the advancing race,- Prepared to set the seal Of what has been on what shall be. Emperor Evermore. NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY 28 r The thinkers stood aside To let the nation act. Some hated the new-constituted fact Of empire, as pride treading on their pride. Some quailed, lest what was poisonous in the past Should graft itself in that Druidic bough On this green Now. Some cursed, because at last The open heavens to which they had looked in vain For many a golden fall of marvellous rain Were closed in brass; and some Wept on because a gone thing could not come; And some were silent, doubting all things for That popular conviction, — evermore Emperor. That day I did not hate Nor doubt, nor quail nor curse. I, reverencing the people, did not bate My reverence of their deed and oracle, Nor vainly prate Of better and of worse. Against the great conclusion of their will. And yet, O voice and verse. Which God set in me to acclaim and sing Conviction, exaltation, aspiration. We gave no music to the patent thing, Nor spared a holy rhythm to throb and swim About the name of him Translated to the sphere of domination By democratic passion! I was not used, at least, 282 NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. Nor can be, now or then, To stroke the ermine beast On any kind of throne, (Though builded by a nation for its own), And swell the surging choir for kings of men — ^^ Emperor Evermore." But now, Napoleon, now That, leaving far behind the purple throng Of vulgar monarchs, thou Tread'st higher in thy deed Than stair of throne can lead, To help in the hour of wrong The broken hearts of nations to be strong, — Now, lifted as thou art To the level of pure song, We stand to meet thee on these Alpine snows! And while the palpitating peaks break out Ecstatic from somnambular repose With answers to the presence and the shout, We, poets of the people, who take part With elemental justice, natural right, Join in our echoes also, nor refrain. We meet thee, O Napoleon, at this height At last, and find thee great enough to praise. Receive the poet's chrism, which smells beyond The priesfs, and pass thy ways; — An English poet warns thee to maintain God's word, not England's:— let His truth be true And all men liars! with His truth respond To all men's lie. Exalt the sword and smite NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. 283 On that long anvil of the Apennine Where Austria forged the Italian chain in view Of seven consenting nations, sparks of fine Admonitory light, Till men's eyes wink before convictions new. Flash in God's justice to the world's amaze, Sublime Deliverer! — after many days Found worthy of the deed thou art come to do — Emperor Evermore. But Italy, my Italy, Can it last, this gleam? Can she live and be strong, Or is it another dream Like the rest we have dreamed so long? And shall it, must it be. That after the battle-cloud has broken She v/ill die off again Like the rain, Or like a poet's song Sung of her, sad at the end Because her name is Italy, — Die and count no friend ] Is it true, — may it be spoken, — That she who has lain so still, With a w^ound in her breast. And a flower in her hand, And a grave-stone under her head, While every nation at will Beside her has dared to stand, And flout her with pity and scorn, 284 NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. Saying J "She is at rest, She is fair, she is dead, And, leaving room in her stead To Us who are later bom, This is certainly best!" Saying, "Alas, she is fair. Very fair, but dead, — give place. And so we have room for the race." — Can it be true, be true. That she lives anew? That she rises up at the shout of her sons, At the trumpet of France, And lives anew? — is it true That she has not moved in a trance, As in Forty-eight? When her eyes were troubled with blood Till she knew not friend from foe, Till her hand was caught in a strait Of her cerement and baffled so From doing the deed she would; And her weak foot stumbled across The grave of a king. And down she dropt at heavy loss, And we gloomily covered her face and said, "We have dream.ed the thing; She is not alive, but dead." Now, shall we say Our Italy lives indeed? And if it were not for the beat and bray Of drum and trump of martial men. Should we feel the underground heave and strain, NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. 285 Where heroes left their dust as a seed Sure to emerge one day? And if it were not for the rhythmic march Of France and Piedmont's double hosts. Should we hear the ghosts Thrill through ruined aisle and arch, Throb along the frescoed wall, Whisper an oath by that divine They left in picture, book, and stone, That Italy is not dead at all? Ay, if it were not for the tears in our eyes, These tears of a sudden passionate joy, Should we see her arise From the place where the wicked are overthrown^ Italy, Italy? loosed at length From the tyrant's thrall, Pale and calm in her strength? Pale as the silver cross of Savoy W^hen the hand that bears the flag is brave, And not a breath is stirring, save What is blown Over the war-trump's lip of brass, Ere Garibaldi forces the pass! Ay, it is so, even so. Ay, and it shall be so. Each broken stone that long ago She flung behind her as she went In discouragement and bewilderment Tlirough the cairns of Time, and missed her way Between to-day and yesterday. Up springs a living man. 286 NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. And each man stands with his face in the light Of his own drawn sword, Ready to do what a hero can. Wall to sap, or river to ford, Cannon to fronts or foe to pursue, Still ready to do, and sworn to be true, As a man and a patriot can. Piedmontese, Neapolitan, Lombard, Tuscan, Romagnole, Each man's body having a soul, — Count how many they stand. All of them sons of the land. Every live man there Allied to a dead man below. And the deadest with blood to spare To quicken a living hand In case it should ever be slow. Count how many they come To the beat of Piedmont's drum, With faces keener and grayer Than swords of the Austrian slayer, All set against the foe. "Emperor Evermore." Out of the dust, where they ground them, Out of the holes, where they dogged them. Out of the hulks, where they wound them In iron, tortured and flogged them; Out of the streets, where they chased them. Taxed them, and then bayoneted them, — Out of the homes, where they spied on them, NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. 287 (Using their daughters and wives), Out of the church, where they fretted them, Rotted their souls and debased them, Trained them to answer with knives. Then cursed them all at their prayers! — Out of cold lands, not theirs, Where they exiled them, starved them, lied on them; Back they come like a wind, in vain Cramped up in the hills, that roars its road The stronger into the open plain; Or like a fire that bums the hotter And longer for the crust of cinder, Serving better the ends of the potter; Or like a restrained word of God, Fulfilling itself by what seems to hinder. "Emperor Evermore." Shout for France and Savoy! Shout for the helper and doer. Shout for the good sword's ring. Shout for the thought still truer. Shout for the spirits at large Who passed for the dead this spring. Whose living glory is sure. Shout for France and Savoy! Shout for the council and charge! Shout for the head of Cavour; And shout for the heart of a King That's great with a nation's joy! Shout for France and Savoy! 2 88 NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. Take up the child, Macmahon, though Thy hand be red From Magenta's dead, And riding on, in front of the troop, In the dust of the whirlwind of war Through the gate of the city of Milan, stoop And take up the child to thy saddle-bow, Nor fear the touch as soft as a flower of his smile as clear as a star! Thou hast a right to the child, we say, Since the women are weeping for joy as they Who, by thy help and from this day. Shall be happy mothers indeed. They are raining flowers from terrace and roof: Take up the flower in the child. While the shout goes up of a nation freed And heroically self-reconciled. Till the snow on that peaked Alp aloof Starts, as feeling God's finger anew. And all those cold white marble fires Of mounting saints on the Duomo-spires Flicker against the Blue. "Emperor Evermore.'' Ay, it is He, Who rides at the King's right hand! Leave room to his horse and draw to the side. Nor press too near in the ecstasy Of a newly delivered impassioned land: He is moved, you see, He who has done it all. . NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. 289 They call it a cold stem face; But this is Italy Who rises up to her place! — For this he fought in his youth*, Of this he dreamed in the past; The lines of the resolute mouth Tremble a little at last. Cry, he has done it all! "Emperor Evermore." It is not strange that he did it, Though the deed may seem to strain To the wonderful, unpermitted. For such as lead and reign. But he is strange, this man: The people's instinct found him (A wind in the dark that ran Through a chink where was no door), And elected him and crowned him Emperor Evermore. Autocrat? let them scoff, Who fail to comprehend That a ruler incarnate of The people, must transcend All common king-born kings. These subterranean springs A sudden outlet winning Have special virtues to spend. The people's blood runs through him, Dilates from head to foot, EUzaheth BroivHing. 1 9 290 NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. Creates him absolute, And from this great beginning Evokes a greater end To justify and renew him — Emperor Evermore. What! did any maintain That God or the people (think!) Could make a marvel in vain? — Out of the water-jar there, Draw wine that none could drink? Is this a man like the rest, This miracle, made unaware By a rapture of popular air, And caught to the place that was best? You think he could barter and cheat As vulgar diplomates use, With the people's heart in his breast? Prate a lie into shape Lest truth should cumber the road; Play at the fast and loose Till the world is strangled with tape; Maim the souPs complete To fit the hole of a toad; And filch the dogman's meat To feed the offspring of God? Nay, but he, this wonder, He cannot palter nor prate, Though many around him and under, With intellects trained to the curve, Distrust him in spirit and nerve NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. 29! Because his meaning is straight. Measure him ere he depart AVith those who have governed and led Larger so much by the heart, Larger so much by the head. Emperor Evermore, He holds that, consenting or dissident, Nations must move with the time; Assumes that crime with a precedent Doubles the guilt of the crime; — Denies that a slaver's bond, Or a treaty signed by knaves, (^Quorum magna pars and beyond Was one of an honest name) Gives an inexpugnable claim To abolish men into slaves. Emperor Evermore. He will not swagger nor boast Of his country's meeds, in a tone Missuiting a great man most If such should speak of his own; Nor will he act, on her side. From motives baser, indeed, Than a man of noble pride Can avow for himself at need; Never, for lucre or laurels, Or custom, though such should be rife, Adapting the smaller morals To measure the larger life, 19* 292 NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. He, though the merchants persuade, And the soldiers are eager for strife, Finds not his country in quarrels Only to find her in trade, — While still he accords her such honour As never to flinch for her sake Where men put service upon her, Found heavy to undertake And scarcely like to be paid: Believing a nation may act Unselfishly — shiver a lance (As the least of her sons may, in fact) And not for a cause of finance. Emperor Evermore. Great is he, Who uses his greatness for all. His name shall stand perpetually As a name to applaud and cherish. Not only within the civic wall For the loyal, but also without For the generous and free. Just is he. Who is just for the popular due As well as the private debt The praise of nations ready to perish Fall on him, — crown him in view Of tyrants caught in the net. And statesmen dizzy with fear and doubt! And though, because they are many. And he is merely one, NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. 293 And nations selfish and cruel Heap up the inquisitor's fuel To kill the body of high intents, And burn great deeds from their place, Till this, the greatest of any, May seem imperfectly done; Courage, whoever circumvents! Courage, courage, whoever is base! The soul of a high intent, be it known, Can die no more than any soul Which God keeps by Him under the throne; And this, at whatever interim, Shall live, and be consummated Into the being of deeds made whole. Courage, courage! happy is he, Of whom (himself among the dead And silent), this word shall be said: — That he might have had the world with him. But chose to side with suffering men. And had the world against him when He came to deliver Italy. Emperor Evermore. 294 FIRST NEWS FROM VILLAFRANCA. FIRST NEWS FROM VILLAFRANCA. Peace, peace, peace, do you say? What! — with the enemy's guns in our ears? With the country's wrong not rendered back? What! — while Austria stands at bay In Mantua, and our Venice bears The cursed flag of the yellow and black? Peace, peace, peace, do you say? And this the Mincio? Where's the fleet. And Where's the sea? Are we all blind Or mad with the blood shed yesterdays Ignoring Italy under our feet, And seeing things before, behind? Peace, peace, peace, do you say? What! — uncontested, undenied? Because we triumph, we succumb? A pair of Emperors stand in the way. One of whom is a man, beside) To sign and seal our cannons dumb? No, not Napoleon! — he who mused At Paris, and at Milan spake. And at Solferino led the fight: Not he we trusted, honoured, used Our hopes and hearts for . . till they break — Even so, you tell us . . in his sight. FIRST NEWS FROM VILLAFRAXCA. 295 Peace, peace, is still your word? We say you lie then! — that is plain. There ts no peace, and shall be none. Our very dead would cry "Absurd!" And clamour that they died in vain, And whine to come back to the sun. Hash! more reverence for the dead! T/ieyve done the most for Italy Evermore since the earth was fair. Now would that we had died instead. Still dreaming peace meant liberty, And did not, could not mean despair. Peace, you say? — yes, peace, in truth! But such a peace as the ear can achieve Twixt the rifle's click and the rush of the ball, 'Twixt the tiger's spring and the crunch of the tooth, 'Twixt the dying atheist's negative And God's face — waiting, after all! 296 A TALE OF VILIJIFRANCA. A TALE OF VILLAFRANCA. TOLD IN TUSCANY. My little son, my Florentine, Sit down beside my knee, And I will tell you why the sign Of joy which flushed our Italy, Has faded since but yesternight; And why your Florence of delight Is mourning as you see. A great man (who was crowned one day) Imagined a great Deed: He shaped it out of cloud and clay, He touched it finely till the seed Possessed the flower: from heart and brain He fed it with large thoughts humane, To help a people's need. He brought it out into the sun — They blessed it to his face: "O great pure Deed, that hast undone So many bad and base! O generous Deed, heroic Deed, Come forth, be perfected, succeed, Deliver by God's grace!" A TALE OF VILLAFRANCA. 297 Then sovereigns, statesmen, north and south, Rose up in wrath and fear. And cried, protesting by one mouth, "What monster have we here? A great Deed at this hour of day? A great just deed — and not for pay? Absurd, — or insincere." "And if sincere, the heavier blow In that case we shall bear, For Where's our blessed "status quo,'* Our holy treaties, where, — Our rights to sell a race, or buy, Protect and pillage, occupy, And civilize despair?'' Some muttered that the great Deed meant A great pretext to sin; And others, the pretext, so lent, Was heinous (to begin). Volcanic terms of "great" and "just?" Admit such tongues of flame, the crust Of time and law falls in. A great Deed in this world of ours? Unheard of the pretence is: It threatens plainly the great Powers; Is fatal in all senses. A just Deed in the world? — call out The rifles! be not slack about The national defences! 298 A TALE OF VILLAFRANCA. And many murmured, "From this source What red blood must be poured!" And some rejoined, "'Tis even worse; What red tape is ignored!" All cursed the Doer for an evil Called here, enlarging on the Devil, — There, monkeying the Lord! Some said, it could not be explained, Some, could not be excused; And others, "Leave it unrestrained, Gehenna's self is loosed." And all cried, "Crush it, maim it, gag it! Set dog-toothed lies to tear it ragged. Truncated and traduced!" But He stood sad before the sun, (The peoples felt their fate). "The world is many, — I am one; My great Deed was too great. God's fruit of justice ripens slow: Men's souls are narrow; let them grow. My brothers, we must wait." The tale is ended, child of mine, Turned graver at my knee. They say your eyes, my Florentine, Are English: it may be: And yet IVe marked as blue a pair Following the doves across the square At Venice by the sea. A VIEW ACROSS THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA. 299 Ah, child! ah, child! I cannot say A word more. You conceive The reason now, why just to-day We see our Florence grieve. Ah, child, look up into the sky! In this low world, where great Deeds die, What matter if we live'? A VIEW ACROSS THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA. 1861. Over the dumb Campagna-sea, Out in the offing through mist and rain. Saint Peter's Church heaves silently Like a mighty ship in pain. Facing the tempest with struggle and strain. Motionless waifs of ruined towers, Soundless breakers of desolate land: The sullen surf of the mist devours That mountain-range upon either hand. Eaten away from its outline grand. And over the dumb Campagna-sea Where the ship of the Church heaves on to wreck, Alone and silent as God must be, The Christ walks. Ay, but Peter's neck Is stiff to turn on the foundering deck. 300 A VIEW ACROSS THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA. Peter, Peter, if such be thy name, Now leave the ship for another to steer. And proving thy faith evermore the same, Come forth, tread out through the dark and drear. Since He who walks on the sea is here. Peter, Peter! He does not speak; He is not as rash as in old Galilee: Safer a ship, though it toss and leak. Than a reeling foot on a rolling sea! And he's got to be round in the girth, thinks he. Peter, Peter! He does not stir; His nets are heavy with silver fish; He reckons his gains, and is keen to infer — "The broil on the shore, if the Lord should wish; But the sturgeon goes to the Caesar's dish." Peter, Peter! thou fisher of men, Fisher of fish wouldst thou live instead] Haggling for pence with the other Ten, Cheating the market at so much a head. Griping the Bag of the traitor Dead] At the triple crow of the Gallic cock Thou weep'st not, thou, though thine eyes be dazed: What bird comes next in the tempest-shock] — Vultures! see, — as when Romulus gazed, — To inaugurate Rome for a world amazed! A COURT LADY. 3OI A COURT LADY. Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with purple were dark, Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and restless spark. Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race; Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face. Never was lady on earth more true as woman and wife, Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in manners and life. She stood in the early morning, and said to her maidens, "Bring That silken robe made ready to wear at the court of the king. "Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, clear of the mote, Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the small at the throat. "Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to fasten the sleeves. Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of snow from the eaves." 302 A COURT LADY. Gorgeous she entered the sunlight which gathered her up in a flame, While, straight in her open carriage, she to the hospital came. In she went at the door, and gazing from end to end, "Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place of a friend.^' Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a young man's bed: Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop of his head. "Art thou a Lombard, my brother! Happy art thou," she cried, And smiled like Italy on him: he dreamed in her face and died. Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second: He was a grave hard man, whose years by dungeons were reckoned. Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were sorer. "Art thou a Romagnolel" Her eyes drove lightnings before her. "Austrian and priest had joined to double and tighten the cord Able to bind thee, O strong one, — free by the stroke of a sword. A COURT LADY. 3O3 "Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life over- cast To ripen our wine of the present, (too new,) in glooms of the past." Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like a girl's Young, and pathetic with d}dng, — a deep black hole in the curls. "Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou, dreaming in pain, Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the List of the slain]'' Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks with her hands: "Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she should weep as she stands." On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball: Kjieeling, . . "O more than my brother! how shall I thank thee for all] "Each of the heroes around us has fought for his land and line. But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong not thine. "Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dis- possessed: But blessed are those among nations, who dare to be strong for the rest!" 304 A COURT LADY. Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch where pined One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope out of mind. Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the name, But two great crystal tears were all that faltered and came. Only a tear for Venice? — she turned as in passion and loss, And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as if she were kissing the cross. Faint with that strain of heart she moved on then to another, Stern and strong in his death. "And dost thou suffer, my brother?" Holding his hands in hers: — "Out of the Piedmont lion Cometh the sweetness of freedom! sweetest to live or to die on." Holding his cold rough hands, — "Well, oh, well have ye done In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble alone." Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet with a spring, — "That was a Piedmontese! and this is the Court of the King." PARTING LOVERS. 3O5 PARTING LOVERS. Siena, i860. I LOVE thee, love thee, Giulio; Some call me cold, and some demure; And if thou hast ever guessed that so I loved thee . . . well, the proof was poor, And no one could be sure. Before thy song (with shifted rhymes To suit my name) did I undo The persian? If it stirred sometimes. Thou hast not seen a hand push through A foolish flower or two. My mother listening to my sleep, Heard nothing but a sigh at night, — The short sigh rippling on the deep, When hearts run out of breath and sight Of men, to God^s clear light. When others named thee, — thought thy brows Were straight, thy smile was tender, — "Here He comes between the vineyard-rows!" I said not "Ay," nor waited. Dear, To feel thee step too near. Elizabeth Brcnvning, 20 306 PARTING LOVERS. I left such things to bolder girls, — Olivia or Clotilda. Nay, When that Clotilda, through her curls. Held both thine eyes in hers one day, I marvelled, let me say. I could not try the woman's trick: Between us straightway fell the blush Which kept me separate, blind and sick. A wind came with thee in a flush. As blown through Sinai's bush. But now that Italy invokes Her young men to go forth and chase The foe or perish, — nothing chokes My voice or drives me from the place. I look thee in the face. I love thee. It is understood, Confest: I do not shrink or start. No blushes! all my body's blood Has gone to greaten this poor heart, That, loving, we may part. Our Italy invokes the youth To die if need be. Still there's room, Though earth is strained with dead in truth : Since twice the lilies were in bloom They have not grudged a tomb. And many a plighted maid and wife And mother, who can say since then "My country," — cannot say through life "My son," "my spouse," "my flower of men," And not weep dumb again. PARTING LOVERS. 307 Heroic males the country bears, — But daughters give up more than sons: Flags wave, drums beat, and unawares You flash your souls out with the guns, And take your Heaven at once. But we! — we empty heart and home Of life's life, love! We bear to think You're gone, — to feel you may not come, — To hear the door-latch stir and clink. Yet no more you! . . . nor sink. Dear God! when Italy is one, Complete, content from bound to bound, Suppose, for my share, earth's undone, By one grave in't! — as one small wound Will kill a man, 'tis found. What then*? If love's delight must end. At least we'll clear its truth from flaws. I love thee, love thee, sweetest friend! Now take my sweetest without pause, And help the nation's cause. And thus, of noble Italy We'll both be worthy. Let her show The future how we made her free, Not sparing life . . . nor Giulio, Nor this . . . this heartbreak! Go. 20* 308 MOTHER AND POET. MOTHER AND POET. Turin, after News from Gaeta, i86i. Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east. And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me! Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art, for a woman, men said; But this woman, this, who is agonized here, — The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head For ever instead. What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain! What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? Ah boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed. And I proud, by that test. What art's for a woman? To hold on her knees Both darlings; to feel all their arms round her throat. Cling, strangle a little; to sew by degrees And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat; To dream and to doat. MOTHER AND POET. 309 To teach them ... It stings there! /made them indeed Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at need. / prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant cast out. And when their eyes flashed . . . O my beautiful eyes! . . . / exulted; nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise When one sits quite alone! Then one weeps, then one kneels! God, how the house feels! At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses, — of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me; and, soon coming home to be spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough. Then was triumph at Turin: "Ancona was free!" And some one came out of the cheers in the street, With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street. I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained. 310 MOTHER AND POET. And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong Writ now but in one hand, "I was not to faint, — One loved me for two — would be with me ere long: And Viva I' Italia! — he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint." My Nanni would add, "he was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls, — was imprest It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear. And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed, To live on for the rest." On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta: — Shot, Tell his mother. Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother, — not "mine," No voice says ^^My mother" again to me. What! You think Guido forgot? Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through That Love and Sorrow which reconciled so The Above and Below. O Christ of the five wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of Thy mother! consider, I pray. How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away. And no last word to say! MOTHER AND POET. 3 1 1 Both boys dead? but that's out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall; And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done • If we have not a son? Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? When the guns of Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short? When Venice and Rome kept their new jubilee. When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red, When _you have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And / have my Dead) — What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low, And burn your lights faintly! Jlfy country is f/iere, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow: My Italy's there, with my brave civic Pair, To disfranchise despair! Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn; But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into wail such as this — and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is bom. 312 nature's remorses. Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Both! both my boys! If in keeping the feast You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me, [This was Laura Savio, of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sons were killed at Ancona and Gaeta. ] NATURE'S REMORSES. Rome, 1861. Her soul was bred by a throne, and fed From the sucking-bottle used in her race. On starch and water (for mother's milk Which gives a larger growth instead). And, out of the natural liberal grace, Was swaddled away in violet silk. And young and kind, and royally blind. Forth she stepped from her palace-door On three-piled carpet of compliments, Curtains of incense drawn by the wind In between her for evermore And daylight issues of events. On she drew, as a queen might do. To meet a Dream of Italy, — Of magical town and musical wave, Where even a god, his amulet blue Of shining sea, in an ecstasy Dropt and forgot in a nereides cave. nature's remorses. 313 DovsTi she goes, as the soft wind blows, To live more smoothly than mortals can, To love and to reign as queen and wife, To w^ar a crown that smells of a rose. And still, with a sceptre as light as a fan. Beat sweet time to the song of life. What is this'? As quick as a kiss Falls a smile from her girhsh mouth! The lion-people has left its lair. Roaring along her garden of bliss. And the fiery under-world of the south Scorched away to the upper air. And a fire-stone ran in the form of a man, Burningly, boundingly, fatal and fell, Bowling the kingdom down! Where was the king? She had heard somewhat, since life began. Of terrors on earth, and horrors in hell, But never, never of such a thing! You think she dropped when her dream was stopped. When the blotch of Bourbon blood inlay, Lividly rank, her new lord's cheek *? Not so. Her high heart overtopped The royal part she had come to play. Only the men in that hour were weak. And twice a wife by her ravaged life, And twice a queen by her kingdom lost. She braved the shock and the counter-shock Of hero and traitor, bullet and knife, While Italy pushed, like a vengeful ghost. That son of the Cursed from Gaeta's rock. 314 nature's remorses. What will ye give her, who could not deliver, German Princesses'? A laurel- wreath All over-scored with your signatures, Graces, Serenities, Highnesses ever? . Mock her not, fresh from the truth of Death, Conscious of dignities higher than yours. What will ye put in your casket shut, Ladies of Paris, in sympathy's name? Guizofs daughter, what have you brought her? Withered immortelles, long ago cut For guilty dynasties perished in shame, Putrid to memory, Guizot's daughter? Ah poor queen! so young and serene! What shall we do for her, now hope's done, Standing at Rome in these ruins old. She too a ruin and no more a queen? Leave her that diadem made by the sun Turning her hair to an innocent gold. Ay, bring close to her, as 'twere a rose, to her. Yon free child, from an Apennine city Singing for Italy, — dumb in the place! Something like solace, let us suppose, to her Given, in that homage of wonder and pity. By his pure eyes to her beautiful face. Nature, excluded, savagely brooded; Ruined all queendom and dogmas of state: Then in reaction remorseful and mild. Rescues the womanhood, nearly eluded. Shows her what's sweetest in womanly fate — Sunshine from Heaven, and the eyes of a child. A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. 515 A ^^lUSICAL INSTRUMENT. What was he doing, the great god Pan, Do^^Tl in the reeds by the river? Spreading ruin and scattering ban. Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river. He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, From the deep cool bed of the river: The limpid water turbidly ran, And the broken lilies a-dying lay, And the dragon-fly had fled aw-ay, Ere he brought it out of the river. High on the shore sat the great god Pan, While turbidly flowed the river; And hacked and hewed as a great god can, With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed To prove it fresh from the river. He cut it short, did the great god Pan, (How tall it stood in the river I) Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, Steadily from the outside ring. And notched the poor dry empty thing In holes, as he sat by the river. 3l6 A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. "This is the way," laughed the great god Pan, (Laughed while he sat by the river,) "The only way, since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed." Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, He blew in power by the river. Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! Piercing sweet by the river! Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! The sun on the hill forgot to die, And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river. Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, To laugh as he sits by the river. Making a poet out of a man: The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,— For the reed which grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds in the river. THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH. 3 I 7 THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH. Rome, May, 1861. 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