t'lass liOOK i')d:si:NTi:i) in POEMS POEMS BY DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. A NEW edition: t NEW YORK: THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO., No. 13 AsTOR Place. LfS?^*^ ^^s: Grrr tWieS LETITM THoivi^g ^^^- a 1940 4 TO ; WILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI, 1 THESE POEMS, TO SO MANY OF WHICH, SO MANY YEARS BACK, \ HE GAVE THE FIRST BROTHERLY HEARING, [ ARE NOW AT LAST DEDICATED. '- ■ i \ 187O-1S81. \ ADVERTISEMENT. " Many poems in this volume were written be- tween 1847 ^^^ 1^53- Others are of recent date, and a few belong to the intervening period. It has been thought unnecessary to specify the earlier work as nothing is included which the author believes to be immature." The above brief note was prefixed to these poems when first published in 1870. They have now been for some time out of print. The fifty sonnets of the House of Life which first appeared here are now embodied with the full series in the volume entitled "Ballads and Sonnets." The fragment of The Bride's Prelude, now first printed, was written very early, and is here asso- ciated with other work of the same date ; though its publication in an unfinished form needs some indulgence. -J/— -t CONTENTS POEMS. PAGE. THE BLESSED DAMOZEL . 3 SISTER HELEN lO STRATTON WATER . 25 THE STAFF AND SCRIP 34 AVE 45 DANTE AT VERONA. 51 TROY TOWN . 77 EDEN BOWER 82 THE CARD-DEALER. 92 love's NOCTURN . 95 THE stream's secret , 103 JENNY . 115 THE PORTRAIT ^33 MY sister's SLEEP . 138 DOWN STREAM 142 A LAST CONFESSION 144 THE BURDEN OF NINEVEl a . 170 WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL 180 AN OLD SONG ENDED 184 world's WORTH . . 185 ASPECTA MEDUSA . . i^, THE bride's PRELUDE . 188 X CONTENTS. LYRICS. PAGE. LOVE-LILY 2-^7 FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED . 239 PLIGHTED PROMISE . 240 SUDDEN LIGHT 242 A LHTLE WHILE . 243 THE SONG OF THE BOWER 245 PENUMBRA . 247 A new-year's burden . 249 EVEN SO ... . 250 THE WOODSPURGE . 251 THE HONEYSUCKLE . 252 A YOUNG FIR-WOOD 253 THE SEA-LIMITS 254 SONNETS. FOR " OUR LADY OF THE ROCKS " BY LEONARDO DA VINCI 259 FOR A VENETIAN PASTORAL BY GIORGIONE . . 260 FOR AN ALLEGORICAL DANCE OF WOMEN BY ANDREA MANTEGNA 261 FOR " RUGGIERO AND ANGELICA " BY INGRES . .262-3 FOR "THE WINE OF CIRCE " BY EDWARD BURNE JONES 264 CONTENTS. MARY'S GIRLHOOD . THE PASSOVER IN THE HOLY FAMILY MARY MAGDALENE AT THE DOOR OF PHARISEE CASSANDRA .... VENUS VERTICORDIA . PANDORA .... ON REFUSAL OF AID BETWEEN NATIONS ON THE " VITA NUOVA " OF DANTE DANTIS TENEBR^ BEAUTY AND THE BIRD A MATCH WITH THE MOON. SIMON THE PACE 265 266 267 268-9 270 271 272 274 276 TRANSLATIONS. THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES (vILLOn) TO DEATH, OF HIS LADY (vILLOn) HIS mother's SERVICE TO OUR LADY (vILLON) JOHN OF TOURS (OLD FRENCH) . MY father's close (old french) BEAUTY ( SAPPHO ) .... YOUTH AND LORDSHIP (ITALIAN STREET-SONC) THE LEAF (lEOPARDI). FRANCESCA DA RIMINI (dANTE) . 279 281 282 284 286 288 289 292 293 r THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. The blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of Heaven ; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even ; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary's gift, For service meetly worn ; Her hair that lay along her back Was yellow like ripe corn. Herseemed she scarce had been a day One of God's choristers ; THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers ; Albeit, to them she left, her day- Had counted as ten years. (To one, it is ten years of years. . . . Yet now, and in this place, Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair Fell all about my face. . . . Nothing : the autumn-fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.) It was the rampart of God's house That she was standing on ; By God built over the sheer depth The which is Space begun ; So high, that looking downward thence She scarce could see the sun. It lies in Heaven, across the flood Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge. THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. Around her, lovers, newly met 'Mid deathless love's acclaims. Spoke evermore among themselves Their heart-remembered names ; And the souls mounting up to God Went by her like thin flames. And still she bowed herself and stooped Out of the circling charm ; Until her bosom must have made The bar she leaned on warm. And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm. From the fixed place of Heaven she saw Time like a pulse shake fierce Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove Within the gulf to pierce Its path ; and now she spoke as when The stars sang in their spheres. The sun was gone now ; the curled moon Was like a little feather Fluttering far down the gulf; and now She spoke through the still weather. THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. Her voice was like the voice the stars Had when they sang together. (Ah sweet ! Even now, in that bird's song, Strove not her accents there, Fain to be hearkened? When those bells Possessed the mid-day air, Strove not her steps to reach my side Down all the echoing stair?) " I wish that he were come to me, For he will come," she said. " Have I not prayed in Heaven ? — on earth. Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd? Are not two prayers a perfect strength ? And shall I feel afraid? " When round his head the aureole clings, And he is clothed in white, I'll t^ke his hand and go with him To the deep wells of light ; As unto a stream we will step down. And bathe there in God's sight. " We two will stand beside that shrine, Occult, withheld, untrod, THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. Whose lamps are stirred continually With prayer sent up to God ; And see our old prayers, granted, melt Each like a little cloud. " We two will lie i' the shadow of That living mystic tree Within whose secret growth the Dove Is sometimes felt to be, While every leaf that His plumes touch Saith His Name audibly. " And I myself will teach to him, I myself, lying so, The songs I sing here ; which his voice Shall pause in, hushed and slow, And find some knowledge at each pause, Or some new thing to know." (Alas ! We two, we two, thou say'st ! Yea, one wast thou with me That once of old. But shall God lift To endless unity The soul whose likeness with thy soul Was but its love for thee ?) THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. " We two," she said, " will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is. With her five handmaidens, whose names Are five sweet symphonies, Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, Margaret and Rosalys. " Circlewise sit they, with bound locks And foreheads garlanded ; Into the fine cloth white like flame Weaving the golden thread, To fashion the birth-robes for them Who are just born, being dead. " He shall fear, haply, and be dumb : Then will I lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love, Not once abashed or weak : And the dear Mother will approve My pride, and let me speak. " Herself shall bring us, hand in hand. To him round whom all souls Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads Bowed with their aureoles : THE BLESSn-jJ DAMOZEL, And angels meeting us shall sing To their citherns and citoles. " There will I ask of Christ the Lord Thus much for him and me : — Only to live as once on earth With Love, — only to be, As then awhile, for ever now Together, I and he." She gazed and listened and then said, Less sad of speech than mild, — "All this is when he comes." She ceased. The light thrilled towards her, fill'd With angels in strong level flight. Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd, (I saw her smile.) But soon their path Was vague in distant spheres : And then she cast her arms along The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands, And wept. (I heard her tears.) J- I SISTER HELEN. " Why did you melt your waxen man, Sister Helen? To-day is the third since you began." *' The time was long, yet the time ran, Little brother." ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven /) "But if you have done your work aright, Sister Helen, You'll let me play, for you said I might." " Be very still in your play to-night, Little brother." ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven f) SISTER HELEN. Ii " You said it must melt ere vesper-bell, Sister Helen ; If now it be molten, all is well." " Even so, — nay, peace ! you cannot tell, Little brother." ( O Mother, Mary Mother, O what is this, bciwceii Hell and Heaven ?) " Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day, Sister Helen ; How like dead folk he has dropped away ! " " Nay now, of the dead what can you say. Little brother?" ( O Mother, Mary Mother, IVliat of the dead, between Hell and Heaven ?) "■ See, see, the sunken pile of wood, Sister Helen, Shines through the thinned wax red as blood ! " " Nay now, when looked you yet on blood, Little brother? " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven !) ; 12 SISTER HELEN. " Now close your eyes, for they're sick and sore, I Sister Helen, I And I'll play without the gallery door." I " Aye, let me rest, — I'll lie on the floor, \ Little brother." ( O Mo the?', Mary Mother, What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven .?) " Here high up in the balcony, Sister Helen, The moon flies face to face with me." " Aye, look and say whatever you see, Little brother." {O Mother, Mary Mother, WJiat sight to-night, between Hell and Heaven ?) " Outside it's merry in the wind's wake. Sister Helen ; In the shaken trees the chill stars shake." " Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you spake, Little brother ?" ( O Mother, Mary Mother, What sound to-night, between Hell and Heaven ?) S/STER HELEN. 13 " I hear a horse-tread, and I see, Sister Helen, Three horsemen that ride terribly." " Little brother, whence come the three, Little brother?" ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Whence should they come, between Hell and Heaven ?) " They come by the hill-verge from Boyne Bar, Sister Helen, And one draws nigh, but two are afar." " Look, look, do you know them who they are, Little brother?" ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Who should they he, betiveen Hell afid Heaven ?) *' Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast, Sister Helen, For I know the white mane on the blast." " The hour has come, has come at last, Little brother ! " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven /) 14 SISTER HELEN. " He has made a sign and called Halloo ! Sister Helen, And he says that he would speak with you." " Oh tell him I fear the frozen dew, Little brother." ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven ?) " The wind is loud, but I hear him cry, Sister Helen, That Keith of Ewern's like to die." " And he and thou, and thou and I, Little brother." ( O Mother, Mary Mother, And they and we, between Hell and Heaven !) " Three days ago, on his marriage-morn, Sister Helen, He sickened, and lies since then forlorn." " For bridegroom's side is the bride a thorn, Little brother?" ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Cold bridal cheer, between Hell and Heaven /) SISTER HELEN. '' Three days and nights he has lain abed, Sister Helen, And he prays in torment to be dead." " The thing may chance, if he have prayed, Litde brother ! " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, If he have prayed, between Hell and Heaven !^ IS " But he has not ceased to cry to-day. Sister Helen, That you should take your curse away." " My prayer was heard, — he need but pray, Little brother ! " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Shall God not hear, between Hell and Heaven ?) " But he says, till you take back your ban, Sister Helen, His soul would pass, yet never can." " Nay then, shall I slay a living man, Little brother?" ( O Mother, Mary Mother, A living soul, between Hell and Heaven /) ^mmmmmmmmsmBmf' 1 6 SISTER HELEN-. " But he calls for ever on your name, Sister Helen, And says that he melts before a flame." " My heart for his pleasure fared the same, Little brother." ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Fire at the heart, between Hell a?ul Heaven /) " Here's Keith of Westholm riding fast. Sister Helen, For I know the white plume on the blast." " The hour, the sweet hour I forecast, Little brother ! " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Is the hour sweet, betiveen Hell and Heaven ?) " He stops to speak, and he stills his horse, Sister Helen ; But his words are drowned in the wind's course." " Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear perforce. Little brother ! " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, What word now heard, betiveen Hell and Heaven ?) SISTER HELEN-. 17 " Oh he says that Keith of Ewern's cry, Sister Helen, Is ever to see you ere he die." " In all that his soul sees, there am I, Little brother ! " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, The souPs one sight, between Hell and Heaven /) " He sends a ring and a broken coin. Sister Helen, And bids you mind the banks of Boyne." " What else he broke will he ever join, Little brother? " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, No, never joined, betiveen Hell and Heaven /) " He yields you these and craves full fain, Sister Helen, You pardon him in his mortal pain." *' What else he took will he give again, Little brother?" ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Not twice to give, between Hell and Heaven /) i8 SISTER HELEN-. " He calls your name in agony, Sister Helen, That even dead Love must weep to see." " Hate, born of Love, is blind as he, Little brother ! " {O Mother, Mary Mo/her, Love turned to hate, between Hell and Heaven /) " Oh it's Keith of Keith now that rides fast, Sister Helen, For I know the white hair on the blast." " The short short hour will soon be' past. Little brother ! " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Will soon be past, between Hell and Heaven /) " He looks at me and he tries to speak. Sister Helen, But oh ! his voice is sad and weak ! " " What here should the mighty Baron seek. Little brother?" ( O Mother, Mary Mother^ Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven ?) SISTER HELEN'. 19 " Oh his son still cries, if you forgive, Sister Helen, The body dies but the soul shall live." " Fire shall forgive me as I forgive, Litttle brother ! " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, As she forgives, bet^veen Hell and Heaven /) " Oh he prays you, as his heart would rive. Sister Helen, To save his dear son's soul alive." " Fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive. Little brother ! " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven /) " He cries to you, kneeling in the road. Sister Helen, To go with him for the love of God ! " " The way is long to his son's abode. Little brother." ( O Mother, Mary Mother, The way is long, betiveen Hell and Heaven f) 20 SISTER HELEN: " A lady's here, by a dark steed brought, Sister Helen, So darkly clad, I saw her not." " See her now or never see aught. Little brother ! " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, What more to see, between Hell and Heaven .?) " Her hood falls back, and the moon shines fair, ^ Sister Helen, On Lady of Ewern's golden hair." " Blest hour of my power and her despair, ^ Little brother ! " : ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Hour blest and bann'd, between Hell and Heaven /) " Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did glow. Sister Helen, ■• 'Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago." [ " One morn for pride and three days for woe. Little brother ! " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, \ Three days, three nights, between Hell and Heaven /) ^ SISTER HELEN: 21 | " Her clasped hands stretch from her bending head, | Sister Helen ; \ With the loud wind's wail her sobs are wed." \ " What wedding-strains hath her bridal-bed, ': And her moonlit hair gleams white in its flow." " Let it turn whiter than winter snow, Little brother ! " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Woe-withered gold, between Hell and Heaven /) Little brother?" : ( O Mother, Mary Mother, | What strain but death's, between Hell and Heaven ?) \ " She may not speak, she sinks in a swoon, i Sister Helen, — I I She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon." | I " Oh ! might I but hear her soul's blithe tune, \ s Litde brother ! " f ( O Mother, Mary Mother, | Her woe's dumb cry, between Hell and Heaven /) | I " They've caught her to Westholm's saddle-bow, I Sister Helen, | 22 S/STER HELEN: " O Sister Helen, you heard the bell, Sister Helen ! More loud than the vesper-chime it fell/' " No vesperTchime, but a dying knell, Little brother ! " ( O Af other, Mary Mother, His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven /) " Alas ! but I fear the heavy sound. Sister Helen ; Is it in the sky or in the ground? " '' Say, have they turned their horses round, Little brother?" ( O Mother, Mary Mother, What would she more, bctiveen Hell and Heaven f) " They have raised the old man from his knee. Sister Helen, And they ride in. silence hastily." " More fast the naked soul doth flee, Litde brother ! " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven /) SISTER HELEN: 23 " Flank to flank are the three steeds gone, Sister Helen, But the lady's dark steed goes alone." " And lonely her bridegroom's soul hath flown. Little brother." ( O Mother, Mary Mother, The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven /) " Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill. Sister Helen, And weary sad they look by the hill." *' But he and I are sadder still, Little brother ! " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Most sad of all, between Hell and Heavefi I) " See, see, the wax has dropped from its place, Sister Helen, And the flames are winning up apace ! " " Yet here they burn but for a space. Little brother ! " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven I) 24 S/STER HELEN. "Ah ! what white thing at the door has cross'd, Sister Helen? Ah ! what is this that sighs in the frost?" " A soul that's lost as mine is lost, Little brother ! " ( O Mother, Mary Mother, Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven /) 25 STRATTON WATER. " O HAVE you seen the Stratton flood That's great with rain to-day? It runs beneath your wall, Lord Sands, Full of the new-mown hay. '' I led your hounds to Hutton bank To bathe at early morn : They got their bath by Borrowbrake Above the standing corn." Out from the castle-stair Lord Sands Looked up the western lea ; The rook was grieving on her nest. The flood was round her tree. Over the castle-wall Lord Sands Looked down the eastern hill : The stakes swam free among the boatSj The flood was risin2r still. 26 STRATTON WATER. " What's yonder far below that lies So white against the slope?" " O it's a sail o' your bonny barks The waters have washed up." *' But I have never a sail so white, And the water's not yet there." " O it's the swans o' your bonny lake The rising flood doth scare." " The swans they would not hold so still, So high they would not win." " O it's Joyce my wife has spread her smock And fears to fetch it in." " Nay, knave, it's neither sail nor swans. Nor aught that you can say ; For tliougli your wife might leave her smock, Herself she'd bring away." Lord Sands has passed the turret-stair. The court, and yard, and all ; The kine were in the byre tliat day, The nasrs were in the stall. STRATTON WATER. 27 Lord Sands has won the weltering slope Whereon the white shape lay : The clouds were still above the hill, And the shape was still as they. Oh pleasant is the gaze of life And sad is death's blind head ; But awful are the livini; eyes In the face of one thouglit dead ! " In God's name, Janet, is it me Thy ghost lias come to seek?" " Nay, wait another hour, Lord Sands, — Be sure my ghost shall speak." A moment stood he as a stone, Then grovelled to his knee. " O Janet, O my love, my love. Rise up and come with me !" " O once before you bade me come. And it's here you have brought me ! " O many's the sweet word, Lord Sands, You've spoken oft to me ; But all that I have from you to-day Is the rain on my body. 28 STRATTOJV WATER. " And maiiy's the good gift, Lord Sands, £ You've promised oft to me ; But the gift of yours I keep to-day Is the babe in my body. " O it's not in any earthly bed That first my babe I'll see ; For I have brought my body here That the flood may cover me." His face was close against her face, His hands of hers were fain : I I O her wet cheeks were hot with tears, a Her wet hands cold with rain. " They told me you were dead, Janet, — How could I guess the lie?" " They told me you were false, Lord Sands, What could I do but die? " " Now keep you well, my brother Giles, — Through you I deemed her dead ! As wan as your towers seem to-day. To-morrow they'll be red. STRATTON WATER. 29 " Look down, look down, my false mother, That bade me not to grieve : You'll look up when our marriage fires Are Ht to-morrow eve. " O more than one and more than two The sorrow of this shall see : But it's to-morrow, love, for them, — To-day's for thee and me." He's drawn her face between his hands And her pale mouth to his : No bird that was so still that day Chirps sweeter than his kiss. The flood was creeping round their feet. " O Janet, come away ! The hall is warm for the marriage-rite, The bed for the birthday." " Nay, but I hear your mother cry, * Go bring this bride to bed ! And would she christen her babe unborn So wet she comes to wed? ' 30 STRATTON WATER. " I'll be your wife to cross the door And meet your mother's e'e. We plighted troth to wed i' the kirk, And it's there you'll wed with me." He's ta'en her by the short girdle And by the dripping sleeve : " Go fetch Sir Jock my mother's priest, — You'll ask of him no leave. " O it's one half-hour to reach the kirk And one for the marriage-rite ; And kirk and castle and castle-lands Shall be our babe's to-night." "The flood's in the kirkyard, Lord Sands, And round the belfry-stair." " I bade you fetch the priest," he said, " Myself shall bring him there. " It's for the lilt of wedding bells We'll have the hail to pour, And for the clink of bridle-reins The ])lashing of the oar." STRATTON WATER. 31 Beneath them on the nether hill A boat was floathig wide : Lord Sands swam out and caught the oars And rowed to the hill-side. He's wrapped her in a green mantle And set her softly in ; Her hair was wet upon her face, Her face was grey and thin ; And '' Oh ! " said she, "lie still, my babe. It's out you must not win ! " But woe's my heart for Father John As hard as he might pray, There seemed no help but Noah's ark Or Jonah's fish that day. The first strokes that the oars struck Were over the broad leas ; The next stroke that the oars struck They pushed beneath the trees ; The last stroke that the oars struck, The good boat's head was met, And there the gate of the kirkyard Stood like a ferry-fjate. i 1 32 STRATTON WATER. He's set his hand upon the bar And lightly leaped within : He's lifted her to his left shoulder, Her knees beside his chin. The graves lay deep beneath the flood Under the rain alone ; And when the foot-stone made him slip, He held by the head-stone. The empty boat thrawed i' the wind. Against the postern tied. " Hold still, you've brought my love with me. You shall take back my bride." But woe's my heart for Father John And the saints he clamored to ! There's never a saint but Christopher Might hale such buttocks through ! And " Oh ! " she said " men's shoulders, I well had thought to wend, And well to travel with a priest, But not to have cared or ken'd. STRATTQN WATER. ^33 "And oh ! " she said, "it's well this way That I thought to have fared, — Not to have lighted at the kirk But stopped at the kirkyard. " For it's oh and oh I prayed to God, Whose rest I hoped to win, That when to-night at your board-head You'd bid the feast begin, This water past your window-sill Might bear my body in." Now make the white bed warm and soft And greet the merry morn. The night the mother should have died, The young son shall be born. 34 THE STAFF AND SCRIP. " Who rules these lands ? " the Pilgrim said. '^Stranger, Queen Blanchelys." *' And who has thus harried them? " he said. " It was the Duke Luke did this : God's ban be his ! " The Pilgrim said : " Where is your house ? I'll rest there, with your will." " You've but to climb these blackened boughs And you'll see it over the hill, For it burns still." "Which road, to seek your Queen?" said he. " Nay, nay, but with some wound You'll fly back hither, it may be, And by your blood i' the ground My place be found." THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 35 " Friend, stay in peace. God keep your head, And mine where I will go ; For He is here and there," he said. He passed the hill-side, slow, And stood below. The Queen sat idle by her loom : She heard the arras stir. And looked up sadly : through the room The sweetness sickened her Of musk and myrrh. Her women, standing two and two. In silence combed the fleece. The Pilgrim said, " Peace be with you. Lady; " and bent his knees. She answered, " Peace." Her eyes were like the wave within ; Like water-reeds the poise Of her soft body, dainty thin ; And like the water's noise Her plaintive voice. 36 THE STAFF AND SCRIP. For him, the stream had never well'd In desert tracts malign So sweet ; nor had he ever felt So faint in the sunshine Of Palestine. Right so, he knew that he saw weep Each night through every dream The Queen's own face, confused in sleep With visages supreme Not known to him. " Lady," he said, '' your lands lie burnt And waste : to meet your foe All fear : this I have seen and learnt. Say that it shall be so. And I will go." She gazed at him. " Your cause is just, For I have heard the same : " He said : '' God's strength shall be my trust. Fall it to good or grame, Tis in His name." THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 37 "Sir, you are thanked. My cause is dead. Why should you toil to break A grave, and fall therein?" she said. He did riot pause but spake : " For my vow's sake." "Can such vows be. Sir — to God's ear, Not to God's will ? " " My vow Remains : God heard me there as here," He said with reverent brow, " Both then and novV." They gazed together, he and she, The minute while he spoke ; And when he ceased, she suddenly Looked round upon her folk As though she woke. " Fight, Sir," she said ; " my prayers in pain Shall be your fellowship." He whispered one among her train, — " To-morrow bid her keep This staff and scrip." 38 THE STAFF AATD SCRIP. She sent him a sharp sword, whose belt Around his body there As sweet as her own arms he felt. He kissed its blade, all bare. Instead of her. She sent him a green banner wrought With one white lily stem, To bind his lance with when he fought. He writ upon the same And kissed her name. She sent him a white shield, whereon She bade that he should trace His will. He blent fair hues that shone, And in a golden space He kissed her face. Born of the day that died, that eve Now dying sank to rest ; As he, in likewise taking leave. Once with a heaving breast Looked to the west. THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 39 And there the sunset skies unseal'd, Like lands he never knew, Beyond to-morrow's battle-field Lay open out of view To ride into. Next day till dark the women pray'd : • Nor any might know there How the fight went : the Queen has bade That there do come to her No messen«:er. The Queen is pale, her maidens ail ; And to the organ-tones They sing but faintly, who sang well The matin-orisons, The lauds and nones. Lo, Father, is thine ear inclin'd, And hath thine angel pass'd? For these thy watchers now are Wind With vigil, and at last Dizzy with fast. 40 THE STAFF AND SCRIP. Weak now to them the voice o' the priest As any trance affords ; And when each anthem failed and ceas'd, It seemed that the last chords Still sansf the words. ''Oh what is the liglit that shines so red? 'Tis long since the sun set;" Quoth the youngest to the eldest maid : " 'Twas dim but now, and yet The light is great." Quoth the other : " 'Tis our sight is dazed That we see flame i' the air." But the Queen held her brows and gazed, And said, " It is the glare Of torches there." " Oh what are the sounds that rise and spread ? All day it was so still ; " Quoth the youngest to the eldest maid : " Unto the furthest hill The air they fill." t THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 41 Quoth the other : " 'Tis our sense is blurr'd With all the chants gone by." But the Queen held her breath and heard, And said, " It is the cry Of Victory." The first of all the rout was sound, The next were dust and flame, And then the horses shook the ground : And in the thick of them A still band came. " Oh what do ye bring out of the fight, . Thus hid beneath these boughs? " "Thy conquering guest returns to-night. And yet shall not carouse, Queen, in thy house." I I "Uncover ye his face," she said. ! " O changed in little space ! " She cried, " O pale that was so red ! O God, O God of grace ! Cover his face." i 42 THE STAFF AND SCRIP. His sword was broken in his hand Where he had kissed the blade. " O soft steel that could not withstand ! O my hard heart unstayed, That prayed and prayed ! " His bloodied banner crossed his mouth Where he had kissed her name. " O east, and west, and north, and south, Fair flew my web, for shame, To guide Death's aim ! " The tints were shredded from his shield Where he had kissed her face. " Oh, of all the gifts that I could yield. Death only keeps its place, My gift and grace ! " Then stepped a damsel to her side. And spoke, and needs must weep : " For his sake, lady, if he died, He prayed of thee to keep This staff and scrip." THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 43 That night they hung above her bed, Till morning wet with tears. Year after year above her head Her bed his token wears, Five years, ten years. That night the passion of her grief Shook them as there they hung. Each year the wind that shed the leaf Shook them and in its tongue A message flung. And once she woke with a clear mind That letters writ to calm Her soul lay in the scrip ; to find Only a torpid balm And dust of palm. They shook far off with palace sport When joust and dance were rife ; And the hunt shook them from the court ; For hers, in peace or strife, Was a Queen's life. 44 THE STAFF AND SCRIP. A Queen's death : as now they shake To guests in chapel dim, — Hung where she sleeps, not seen to wake, (Carved lovely white and slim), With them by him. Stand up to-day, still armed, with her, Good knight, before His brow Who then as now was here and there, Who had in mind thy vow Then even as now. The lists are set in Heaven to-day. The bright pavilions shine ; Fair hangs thy shield, and none gainsay ; The trumpets sound in sign That she is thine. Not tithed witli days' and years' decease He pays thy wage He owed, But with imperishable peace Here in His own abode, Thy jealous God. .•A 45 AVE. Mother of the Fair Delight, Thou handmaid perfect in God's sight, Now sitting fourth beside the Three Thyself a woman-Trinity, — Being a daughter borne to God, Mother of Christ from stall to rood, And wife unto the Holy Ghost : — Oh when our need is uttermost. Think that to such as death may strike Thou once wert sister sisterlike 1 Thou headstone of humanity, Groundstone of the great ^lystery, Fashioned like us, yet more than we ! I Mind'st thou not (when June's heavy breath i 46 AVE, Warmed the long days in Nazareth,) That eve thou didst go forth to give Thy flowers some drink that they might Hve One fliint night more amid the sands? Far off the trees were as pale wands Against the fervid sky : the sea Sighed further off eternally As human sorrow sighs in sleep. Then suddenly the awe grew deep, As of a day to which all days Were footsteps in God's secret ways : Until a folding sense, like prayer, Which is, as God is, everywhere. Gathered about thee ; and a voice Spake to thee without any noise. Being of the silence : — " Hail," it said, " Thou that art highly favored ; The Lord is with thee here and now ; Blessed among all women thou." Ah ! knew'st thou of the end, when first That Babe was on thy bosom nurs'd? — Or when He tottered round thy knee Did thy great sorrow dawn on thee ? — AVE. 47 And through His boyhood, year by year « Eating with him the Passover, Didst thou discern confusedly That hoher sacrament, when He, The bitter cup about to quaff, Should break the bread and eat thereof? — Or came not yet the knowledge, even Till some day forecast in Heaven His feet passed through thy door to press Upon His Father's business? — Or still was God's high secret kept ? Nay, but I think the whisper crept Like growth through childhood. Work and play, Things common to the course of day, Awed thee witli meanings unfulfiU'd ; And all through girlhood, something still'd Thy senses like the birth of light. When thou hast trimmed thy lamp at night Or washed thy garments in the stream ; To whose white bed had come the dream That He was thine and thou wast His Who feeds among the field-lilies. O solemn shadow of the end 48 AF£. In that wise spirit long contain'd ! O awful end ! and those unsaid Long years when It was Finished ! Mind'st thou not (when the twihght gone Left darkness in the house of John,) Between the naked window-bars That spacious vigil of the stars ? — For thou, a watcher even as they, Wouldst rise from where throughout the day Thou wroughtest raiment for His poor ; And, finding the fixed terms endure Of day and night which never brought Sounds of His coming chariot, Wouldst lift through cloud- waste unexplor'd Those eyes which said, " How long, O Lord? " Then that disciple whom He loved. Well heeding, haply would be moved To ask thy blessing in His name ; And that one thought in both, the same Though silent, then would clasp ye round To weep together, —tears long bound. Sick tears of patience, dumb and slow. Yet, "Surely I come quickly," — so AVE. 49 He said, from life and death gone home. Amen : even so, Lord Jesus, come ! But oh ! what human tongue can speak That day when Michael came i to break From the tir'd spirit, like a veil, Its covenant with Gabriel Endured at length unto the end ? What human thought can apprehend That mystery of motherhood When thy Beloved at length renew'd The sweet communion served, — His left hand underneath thine head And His right hand embracing thee ? — Lo ! He was thine, and this is He ! Soul, is it Faith, or Love, or Hope, That lets me see her standing up Where the light of the Throne is bright ? Unto the left, unto the right, The cherubim, succinct, conjoint, Float inward to a golden point, 1 A Church legend of the Blessed Virgin's death. so AVE. And from between the seraphim The glory issues for a hymn. : O Mary Mother, be not loth : To hsten, — thou whom the stars clothe, Who seest and mayst not be seen ! Hear us at last, O Mary Queen ! Into our shadow bend thy face, j i Bowing thee from the secret place, '[ O Mary Virgin, full of grace ! 51 DANTE AT VERONA. " Yea, thou shalt learn how salt his food who fares Upon another's l:>rea(l, — how steep his path Who Ireadeth np nnd down another's stairs." (Div. Com. Panic/, xvii.) " Behold, even I, even I am Beatrice." (Div. Com. Ptirg. xxx.) Of Florence and of Beatrice Servant and singer from of old, O'er Dante's heart in youth had toll'd The knell that gave his Lady peace ; And now in manhood flew the dart Wherewith his City i)ierced his heart. Yet if his Lady's home above Was Heaven, on earth she filled his soul ; And if his City held control To cast the body forth to rove, The soul could soar from earth's vain thronj And Heaven and Hell fulfill the sonij. 52 DANTE AT VERONA. Follow his feet's appointed way ; — But little light we find that clears The darkness of the exiled years. Follow his spirit's journey : — nay, What fires are blent, what winds are blown On paths his feet may tread alone ? Yet of the twofold life he led In chainless thought and fettered will i Some glimpses reach us, — somewhat still Of the steep stairs and bitter bread, — Of the soul's quest whose stern avow For years had made him haggard now. Alas ! the Sacred Song whereto Both heaven and earth had set their hand Not only at Fame's gate did stand Knocking to claim the passage through, I But toiled to ope that heavier door ■ Which Florence shut for evermore. \ j Shall not his birth's baptismal Town \ One last high presage yet fulfil, I And at that front in Florence still DANTE AT VERONA. 53 His forehead take the laurel-crown ? O God ! or shall dead souls deny The undying soul its prophecy? Aye, 'tis their hour. Not yet forgot The bitter words he spoke that day When for some great charge far away Her rulers his acceptance sought. " And if I go, who stays ? " — so rose His scorn : — " and if I stay, who goes ? " " Lo ! thou art gone now, and we stay : " (The curled lips mutter) : " and no star Is from thy mortal path so far As streets where childhood knew the way. To Heaven and Hell thy feet may win, But thine own house they come not in." Therefore, the loftier rose the song To touch the secret things of God, The deeper pierced the hate that trod On base men's track who wrought the wrong ; Till the soul's effluence came to be Its own exceeding agony. I 54 DANTE AT VERONA. \ Arriving only to depart, \ From court to court, from land to land, Like flame within the naked hand \ His body bore his burning heart \ That still on Florence strove to bring God's fire for a burnt offering. Even such was Dante's mood, when now. Mocked for long years with Fortune's sport, He dwelt at yet another court, There where Verona's knee did bow And her voice hailed with all acclaim Can Grande della Scala's name. As that lord's kingly guest awhile His life we follow ; through the days Which walked in exile's barren ways, — The nights which still beneath one smile Heard through all spheres one song increase, " Even I, even I am Beatrice." At Can La Scala's court, no doubt, Due reverence did his steps attend ; The ushers on his path would bend DANTE AT VERONA. 55 At ingoing as at going out ; The penmen waited on his call At council-board, the grooms in hall. And pages hushed their laughter down, And gay squires stilled the merry stir, When he passed up the dais-chamber With set brows lordlier than a frown ; And tire-maids hidden among these Drew close their loosened bodices. Perhaps the priests, (exact to span All God's circumference,) if at whiles They found him wandering in their aisles. Grudged ghostly greeting to the man By whom, though not of ghostly guild, With Heaven and Hell men's hearts were fill'd. And the court poets (he, forsooth, A whole world's poet strayed to court !) Had for his scorn their hate's retort. He'd meet them flushed with easy youth. Hot on their errands. Like noon-flies They vexed him in the ears and eyes. 56 DANTE AT VERONA. But at this court, peace still must wrench Her chaplet from the teeth of war : By day they held high watch afar, At night they cried across the trench ; And still, in Dante's path, the fierce Gaunt soldiers wrangled o'er their spears. But vain seemed all the strength to him. As golden convoys sunk at sea Whose wealth might root out penury : Because it was not, limb with limb, Knit like his heart strings round the wall Of Florence, that ill pride might fall. Yet in the tiltyard, when the dust Cleared from the sundered press of knights Ere yet again it swoops and smites. He almost deemed his longing must Find force to wield that multitude And hurl that strength the way he would. How should he move them, — fame and gain On all hands calling them at strife? He still might find but his one life i DANTE AT VERONA. 57 \ To give, by Florence counted vain ; One heart the false hearts made her doubt, One voice she heard once and cast out. Oh ! if his Florence could but come, A lily-scei^tred damsel fair, As her own Giotto painted her On many shields and gates at home, — A lady crowned, at a soft pace Riding the lists round to the dais : Till where Can Grande rules the lists. As young as Truth, as calm as Force, She draws her rein now, while her horse Bows at the turn of the white wrists ; And when each knight within his stall Gives ear, she speaks and tells them all : All the foul tale, — truth sworn untrue | And falsehood's triumph. All the tale? i Great God ! and must she not prevail [ To fire them ere they heard it through, — \ And hand achieve ere heart could rest \ That high adventure of her quest ? f I X 5^ DANTE AT VERONA. How would his Florence lead them forth, Her bridle ringing as she went ; And at the last within her tent, 'Neath golden lilies worship-worth. How queenly would she bend the while And thank the victors with her smile ! Also her lips should turn his way And murmur : " O thou tried and true, ^^^'th >viion"i I v/ept the long years through ! What shall it profit if I say, Thee I remember? Nay, through thee All ao^es shall remember me." Peace, Dante, peace ! The task is long, The time wears short to compass it. Within thine heart such hopes may flit And find a voice in deathless song : But lo ! as children of man's earth. Those hopes are dead before their birth. Fame tells us that Verona's court Was a fair place. The feet might still Wander for ever at their will " " ----- - . DANTE AT VERONA. 59 In many ways of sweet resort ; r . ' And still in many a heart around 1 The Poet's name due honor found. fl Watch we his steps. He comes upon The women at their palm-playing. The conduits round the gardens sing And meet in scoops of milk-white stone, Where wearied damsels rest and hold Their hands in the wet spurt of gold. One of whom, knowing well that he, By some found stern, was mild with them, Would run and pluck his garment's hem. Saying, "Messer Dante, pardon me," — Praying that they might hear the song Which first of all he made, when young. ** Donne che avete " ^ . . . Thereunto Thus would he murmur, having first Drawn near the fountain, while she nurs'd * " Donne che avete intelletto d'amore : " — the f.rst canzone of the " Vita Nuova." 6o DANTE AT VERONA. His hand against her side : a few Sweet words, and scarcely those, lialf said : Then turned, and changed, and bowed his head. For then the voice said in his heart, " Even I, even I am Beatrice ; " And his whole life would yearn to cease : Till having reached his room, apart Beyond vast lengths of palace-floor, He drew the arras round his door. At such times, Dante, thou hast set Thy forehead to the painted pane Full oft, I know ; and if the rain Smote it outside, her fingers met Thy brow : and if the sun fell there. Her breath was on thy face and hair. Then, weeping, I think certainly Thou hast beheld, past sight of eyne, — Within another room of thine Where now thy body may not be But where in thought thou still remain'st, A window often wept against : DANTE AT VERONA. 6i The window thou, a youth, liast sought, Flushed in the Hmpid eventime, Ending with dayh'ght the day's rhyme Of her ; where oftenwhiles her thought Held thee — the lamp untrimmed to write — In joy through the blue lapse of night. At Can La Scala's court, no doubt, Guests seldom wept. It was brave sport No doubt, at Can La Scala's court, Within the palace and without ; Where music, set to madrigals, Loitered all day through groves and halls. Because Can Grande of his life Had not had six-and-twenty years As yet. And when the chroniclers Tell you of that Vicenza strife And of strifes elsewhere, — you must not Conceive for church-sooth he had got Just nothing in his wits but war : Though doubtless 'twas the young man's joy (Grown with his growth from a mere boy.) 62 DANTE AT VERONA, To mark his " Viva Cane ! " scare The foe's shut front, till it would reel All blind with shaken points of steel. But there were places — held too sweet For eyes that held not the due veil Of lashes and clear lids — as well In favor as his saddle-seat : Breath of low speech he scorned not there Nor light cool fingers in his hair. Yet if the child whom the sire's plan Made free of a deep treasure-chest Scoff'd it with ill-conditioned jest, — We may be sure too that the man Was not mere thews, nor all content With lewdness swathed in sentiment. So you may read and mar\'el not That such a man as 1 )ante — one Who, while Can Grande's deeds were done, Had drawn his robe round him and thought — DANTE AT VERONA. 63 Now at the same guest-table far'd Where keen Uguccio wiped his beard. ^ Through leaves and trellis-work the sun Left the wine cool within the glass, — They feasting where no sun could pass : And when the women, all as one. Rose up with brightened cheeks to go, It was a comely thing we know. But Dante recked not of the wine : Whether the women stayed or went. His visage held one stern intent : And when the music had its sign To breath upon them for more ease, Sometimes he turned and bade it cease. And as he spared not to rebuke The mirth, so oft in council he To bitter truth bore testimony : And when the crafty balance shook Well poised to make the wrong prevail, Then Dante's hand would turn the scale. 1 Uguccione della Faggiuola, Dante's former protector, was now his fellow-guest at Verona. 64 DANTE AT VERONA. And if some envoy from afar Sailed to Verona's sovereign port For aid or peace, and all the court Fawned on its lord, " the Mars of war. Sole arbiter of hfe and death," — Be sure that Dante saved his breath. And Can La Scala marked askance These things, accepting them for shame And scorn, till Dante's guestship came To be a peevish sufferance : His host sought ways to make his days Hateful; and such have many ways. There was a Jester, a foul lout Whom the court loved for graceless arts ; Sworn scholiast of the bestial parts Of speech ; a ribald mouth to shout In Folly's horny tympanum Such things as make the wise man dumb. Much loved, him Dante loathed. And so. One day when Dante felt perplex'd If any day that could come next DANTE AT VERONA. 65 Were worth the waiting for or no, And mute he sat amid their din, — Can Grande called the Jester in. Rank words, with such, are wit's best wealth. Lords mouth'd approval ; ladies kept Twittering with clustered heads, except Some few that took their trains by stealth And went. Can Grande shook his hair And smote his thighs and laughed i' the air. Then, facing on his guest he cried, — " Say, Messer Dante, how it is I get out of a clown like this More than your wisdom can provide." And Dante : '' 'Tis man's ancient whim That still his like seems good to him." Also a tale is told, how once. At clearing tables after meat, Piled for a jest at Dante's feet Were found the dinner's well-picked bones ; So laid, to please the banquet's lord, By one who crouched beneath the board. 66 DANTE AT VERONA. Then smiled Can Grande to the rest : — " Our Dante's tuneful mouth indeed Lacks not the gift on flesh to feed ! " " Fair host of mine," replied the guest, So many bones you'd not descry If so it chanced the dog were I." ^ But wherefore should we turn the grout In a drained cup, or be at strife From the worn garment of a life To rip the twisted ravel out? Good needs expounding ; but of ill Each hath enoudi to sruess his fill. They named him Justicer-at-Law : Each month to bear the tale in mind Of hues a wench might wear unfin'd And of the load an ox might draw ; To cavil in the weight of bread And to see purse-thieves gibbeted. ^ " Messere, vol non vedi-este tant ^ossa se cane io fossil The point of the reproach is difficult to render, depending as it does on the literal meaning of the name Cane. DANTE AT VERONA. 67 And when his spirit wove the spell (From under even to over-noon In converse with itself alone,) As high as Heaven, as low as Hell, — He would be summoned and must go : For had not Gian stabbed Giacomo? Therefore the bread he had to eat Seemed brackish, less like corn than tares ; And the rush-strown accustomed stairs Each day were steeper to his feet ; And when the night-vigil was done. His brows would ache to feel the sun. Nevertheless, when from his kin There came the tidings how at last In Florence a decree was pass'd Whereby all banished folk might win Free pardon, so a fine were paid And act of public penance made, — This Dante writ in answer thus, Words such as these : " That clearly they In Florence must not have to say, — t~ 68 DANTE AT VERONA. The man abode aloof from us Nigh fifteen years, yet lastly skulk'd Hither to candleshrift and mulct. " That he was one the Heavens forbid To traffic in God's justice sold By market-weight of earthly gold, Or to bow down over the lid Of steaming censers, and so be Made clean of manhood's obloquy. *'That since no gate led, by God's will, To Florence, but the one whereat The priests and money-changers sat, He still would wander ; for that still, Even through the body's prison-bars. His soul possessed the sun and stars.'* Such were his words. It is indeed For ever well our singers should Utter good words and know them good Not through song only ; with close heed Lest, having spent for the work's sake Six days, the man be left to make. I I DANTE AT VERONA. 69 \ \ Months o'er Verona, till the feast j Was come for Florence the Free Town : And at the shrine of Baptist John The exiles, girt with many a priest And carrying candles as they went, Were held to mercy of the saint. On the high seats in sober state, — Gold neck-chains range o'er range below Gold screen-work where the lilies grow, — The Heads of the Republic sate. Marking the humbled face go by Each one of his house-enemy. And as each proscript rose and stood From kneeling in the ashen dust On the shrine-steps, some magnate thrust A beard into the velvet hood Of his front colleague's gown, to see The cinders stuck in the bare knee. Tosinghi passed, Manelli passed, Rinucci passed, each in his place ; But not an Alighieri's face -JO DANTE AT VERONA. Went by that day from first to last In the Republic's triumph ; nor A foot came home to Dante's door. (Respublica — a public thing : A shameful shameless prostitute, Whose lust with one lord may not suit, So takes by turns its revelling A night with each, till each at morn Is stripped and beaten forth forlorn, And leaves her, cursing her. If she, Indeed, have not some spice-draught, hid In scent under a silver lid, To drench his open throat with — he Once hard asleep ; and thrust him not At dawn beneath the stairs to rot. Such this Republic ! — not the Maid He yearned for ; she who yet should stand With Heaven's accepted hand in hand. Invulnerable and unbetray'd : To whom, even as to God, should be Obeisance one with Liberty.) DANTE AT VERONA. 71 Years filled out their twelve moons, and ceased One in another ; and alway There were the whole twelve hours each day And each night as the years increased ; And rising moon and setting sun Beheld that Dante's work was done. What of his work for Florence ? Well It was, he knew, and well must be. Yet evermore her hate's decree Dwelt in his thought intolerable : — His body to be burned,^ — his soul To beat its wings at hope's vain goal. What of his work for Beatrice ? Now well-nigh was the third song writ, — The stars a third time sealing it With sudden music of pure peace : For echoing thrice the threefold song. The unnumbered stars the tone prolong.- ^ Such was the last sentence passed by Florence against Dante, as a recalcitrant exile. 2 " E quindi uscimmo a riveder le sielle." — Inferno. " Puro e disposto a salire alle sielleP — Purgatorio. " L'amor che muove il sole e 1' altre stcUc.'''' — Paradiso. 72 DANTE AT VERONA. Each hour, as then the Vision pass'd, He heard the utter harmony Of the nine trembling spheres, till she Bowed her eyes towards him in the last, So that all ended with her eyes, Hell, Purgatory, Paradise. " It is my trust, as the years fall, To write more worthily of her Who now, being made God's minister. Looks on His visage and knows all." Such was the hope that love dar'd blend With griefs slow fires, to make an end Of the " New Life," his youth's dear book : Adding thereunto : '^ In such trust I labor, and believe I must Accomplish this which my soul took In charge, if God, my Lord and hers, Leave my life with me a few years." The trust which he had borne in youth Was all at length accomplished. He At length had written worthily — DANTE AT VERONA. 73 Yea even of her ; no rhymes uncouth 'Tvvixt tongue and tongue ; but by God's aid The first words Italy had said. Ah ! haply now the heavenly guide Was not the last form seen by him : But there that Beatrice stood slim And bowed in passing at his side, For whom in youth his heart made moan Then when the city sat alone.i Clearly herself; the same whom he Met, not past girlhood, in the street, Low-bosomed and with hidden feet ; And then as woman perfectly. In years that followed, many an once, — And now at last among the suns In that high vision. But indeed It may be memory might recall Last to him then the first of all, — ' ^^Quomodo sedetsola civitas ! " — The words quoted by Dante in the *' Vita Nuova," when he speaks of the death of Beatrice. i 74 DANTE AT VERONA. The child his boyhood bore in heed Nine years. At length the voice brought peace, — " Even I, even I am Beatrice." All this, being there, we had not seen. Seen only was the shadow wrought On the strong features bound in thought ; The vagueness gaining gait and mien ; The white streaks gathered clear to view In the burnt beard the women knew. For a tale tells that on his track, As through Verona's streets he went, This saying certain women sent : — " Lo, he that strolls to Hell and back At will ! Behold him, how Hell's reek Has crisped his beard and singed his cheek." "Whereat" (Boccaccio's words) "he smil'd For pride in fame." It might be so : Nevertheless we cannot know If haply he were not beguil'd To bitterer mirth, who scarce could tell If he indeed were back from Hell. DANTE AT VERONA. 75 So the day came, after a space, When Dante felt assured that there The sunshine must lie sicklier Even than in any other place, Save only Florence. When that day Had come, he rose and went his way. He went and turned out. From his shoes It may be that he shook the dust, As every righteous dealer must Once and again ere life can close : And unaccomplished destiny Struck cold his forehead, it may be. No book keeps record how the Prince Sunned himself out of Dante's reach. Nor how the Jester stank in speech : While courtiers, used to cringe and wince, Poets and harlots, all the throng. Let loose their scandal and their song. No book keeps record if the seat Which Dante held at his host's board Were sat in next by clerk or lord, — 76 DANTE AT VERONA. If leman lolled with dainty feet At ease, or hostage brooded there, Or priest lacked silence for his prayer. Eat and wash hands, Can Grande ; — scarce We know their deeds now : hands which fed Our Dante with that bitter bread ; And thou the watch-dog of those stairs Which, of all paths his feet knew well, Were steeper found than Heaven or Hell. \ t ^ 77 TROY TOWN. Heavenborn Helen, Sparta's queen, ( O Troy Tow7i /) Had two breasts of heavenly sheen, The sun and moon of the heart's desire All Love's lordship lay between. ( O Trofs down. Tall Trofs on fire /) Helen knelt at Venus' shrine, ( O Troy Town /) Saying, " A little gift is mine, A litde gift for a heart's desire. Hear me speak and make me a sign ! {O Troy's down, Tall Troy's 071 fire /) 78 TROY TOWN. " Look, I bring thee a carven cup ; ( O Ti'oy Town /) See it here as I hold it up, — Shaped it is to the heart's desire. Fit to fill when the gods would sup. ( O Trofs down, Tall Trofs on fire/) *' It was moulded like my breast ; ( O Troy Town /) He that sees it may not rest, Rest at all for his heart's desire. O give ear to my heart's behest ! ( O Trofs down, Tall Troy's on fire /) '' See my breast, how like it is ; I ( O Troy Toivn /) I See it bare for the air to kiss ! \ Is the cup to thy heart's desire ? O for the breast, O" make it his ! j ( O Trofs down, * Tall Trofs on fire /) TROV TOIVAT. 79 " Yea, for my bosom here I sue ; ( O Troy Tozun /) Thou must give it where 'tis due, Give it there to the heart's desire. Whom do I give my bosom to? ((9 Trofs down J Tall Trofs on fire /) " Each twin breast is an apple sweet. ( O Troy Town /) Once an apple stirred the beat Of thy heart with the heart's desire : — Say, who brought it then to thy feet? (6> Troy's down, Tall Trofs on fire !^ " They that claimed it then were three : ( O Troy Town /) For thy sake two hearts did he Make forlorn of the heart's desire. Do for him as he did for thee ! ((9 Troy's down, Tall Trofs on fire /) 8o TROY town: " Mine are apples grown to the south, ( O Troy Town /) Grown to taste in the days of drouth, Taste and waste to the heart's desire : Mine are apples meet for his mouth." {^O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire /) Venus looked on Helen's gift, ( O Troy Town /) Looked and smiled with subtle drift, Saw the work of her heart's desire : — " There thou kneel'st for Love to lift ! ( O Troy's doivn, Tall Troys on fire /) Venus looked in Helen's face, ( O Troy Town /) Knew far off an hour and place. And fire lit from the heart's desire ; 8 \ Laughed and said, " Thy gift hath grace ! " ((9 Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire /) TROY TOWN. 8i Cupid looked on Helen's breast, {O Troy Town!) Saw the heart within its nest, Saw the flame of the heart's desire, — Marked his arrow's burning crest. ( O Trofs doiun, Tall Troy's on fire /) Cupid took another dart, ((9 Troy Town!) Fledged it for another heart. Winged the shaft with the heart's desire, Drew the string and said, " Depart ! " {^O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire /) Paris turned upon his bed, ( O Troy Town !) Turned upon his bed and said, Dead at heart with the heart's desire, — " Oh to clasp her golden head ! " ( O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire /) 82 EDEN BOWER. It was Lilith the wife of Adam : {Sing Eden Bower /) Not a drop of her blood was human, But she was made like a soft sweet woman. Lilith stood on the skirts of Eden ; {Alas the hour /) She was the first that thence was driven ; With her was hell and with Eve was heaven. In the ear of the Snake said Lilith : — {Sing Eden Bower !^ " To thee I come when the rest is over ; A snake was I when thou wast my lover. " I was the fairest snake in Eden : {Alas the hour /) By the earth's will, new form and feature Made me a wife for the earth's new creature. J EDEN BOWER. 83 \ " Take me thou as I come from Adam : \ {^S'uig Eden Bower I) I Once again shall my love subdue thee ; The past is past and I am come to thee. " O but Adam was thrall to Lilith ! {Alas the hour /) All the threads of my hair are golden, And there in a net his heart was holden. " O and Lilith was queen of Adam ! {Sing Eden Bower /) All the day and the night together My breath could shake his soul like a feather. " What great joys had Adam and Lilith ! — {Alas the hour /) Sweet close rings of the serpent's twining, As heart in heart lay sighing and pining. " What bright babes had Lilith and Adam ! — {Sing Eden Bower /) Shapes that coiled in the woods and waters. Glittering sons and radiant daughters. 84 EDEN BOWER. " O thou God, the Lord God of Eden ! (^Alas the hour /) Say, was this fair body for no man. That of Adam's flesh thou mak'st him a woman? *' O thou Snake, the King-snake of Eden ! {Si'/ig Eden Bower /) I God's strong will our necks are under, ? But thou and I may cleave it in sunder. " Help, sweet Snake, sweet lover of Lilith ! {Ahis the hour /) : And let God learn how I loved and hated Man in the image of God created. \ \ " Help me once against Eve and Adam ! \ {Si7tg Eden Boiaer /) \ Help me once for this one endeavor, •, And then my love shall be thine for ever ! 2 ii "Strong is God, the fell foe of Lihth : {Alas the hour /) Nought in heaven or earth may affright him ; But join thou with me and we will smite him. ? I EDEN BOWER. 85 ' " Strong is God, the great God of Eden : i^Siiig Eden Bower /) Over all He made He hath power ; But lend me thou thy shape for an hour ! " Lend thy shape for the love of Lilith ! (^Alas the hour /) Look, my mouth and my cheek are ruddy, And thou art cold, and fire is my body. " Lend thy shape for the hate of Adam ! i^Sing Eden Bower /) That he may wail my joy that forsook him, And curse the day when the bride-sleep took him. " Lend thy shape for the shame of Eden ! {^Alas the hour !) Is not the foe-God weak as the foeman When love grows hate in the heart of a woman ? " Would'st thou know the heart's hope of Lilith ? i^Sing Eden Bower /) Then bring thou close thine head till it glisten Along my breast, and hp me and listen. 86 - EDEN BOWER. " Am I sweet, O sweet Snake of Eden ? (A/as the hour !) Then ope thine ear to my warm mouth's cooing And learn what deed remains for our doing. " Thou didst hear when God said to Adam : — (Sing Eden Boiver !) * Of all this wealth I have made thee warden ; Thou'rt free to eat of the trees of the garden : " ' Only of one tree eat not in Eden ; (Alas the hour /) All save one I give to thy freewill, — The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.' " O my love, come nearer to Lilith ! (Sing Eden Bower /) In thy sweet folds bind me and bend me, And let me feel the shape thou shalt lend me ! " In thy shape I'll go back to Eden ; (Alas the hoicr /) In these coils that Tree will I grapple, And stretch this crowned head forth by the apple. EDEN BOVVER. 87 " Lo, Eve bends to the breath of Lilith ! {^Sing Eden Boiver /) O how then shall my heart desire All her blood as food to its fire ! -: " Lo, Eve bends to the words of Lilith ! — {Alas the hour /) * Nay, this Tree's fruit, — why should ye hate it, Or Death be born the day that ye ate it ? " '■ Nay, but on that great day in Eden, {^Sing Eden Bower /) By the help that in this wise Tree is, God knows well ye shall be as He is.* " Then Eve shall eat and give unto Adam ; (^Aias the hour /) \ And then they both shall know they are naked, I And their hearts ache as my heart hath ached. " Aye, let them hide 'mid the trees of Eden, {Sing Eden Boiver /) As in the cool of the day in the garden God shall walk without pity or pardon. 88 EDEN BOWER. " Hear, thou Eve, the man's heart in Adam ! {Alas the hour/) Of his brave words hark to the bravest : — 'This the woman gave that thou gavest.' " Hear Eve speak, yea Hst to her, LiHth ! {Sing Eden Boiver /) Feast thine heart with words that shall sate it - * This the serpent gave and I ate it.' " O proud Eve, cling close to thine Adam, {Ahis the hour /) Driven forth as the beasts of his naming By the sword that for ever is flaming. " Know, thy path is known unto Lilith ! {Sing Eden Bower /) While the blithe birds sang at thy wedding, There her tears grew thorns for thy treading. " O my love, thou Love-snake of Eden ! {Alas the hour /) O to-day and the day to come after ! Loose me, love, — give breath to my laughter. EDEN BOWER. 89 " O bright Snake, the Death-worm of Adam ! {^Sing Eden Bower /) Wreathe thy neck with my hair's bright tether, : And wear my gold and thy gold together ! I " On that day on the skirts of Eden, ;: {Alas the hour /) In thy shape shall I glide back to thee. And in my shape for an instant view thee. "But when thou'rt thou and Lilith is Lilith, \ \ (Si;ig Eden Bower /) j In what bliss past hearing or seeing j Shall each one drink of the other's being ! \ "With cries of ' Eve ! ' and ' Eden ! ' and 'Adam ! ' {A his the hotir /) How shall we mingle our love's caresses, I in thy coils, and thou in my tresses ! " With those names, ye echoes of Eden, {Sing Eden Bower /) Fire shall cry from my heart that burneth, — ' Dust he is and to dust returneth ! ' 90 EDEN BOWER. "Yet to-day, thou master of Lilith, — {Alas the hour /) Wrap me round in the form I'll borrow And let me tell thee of sweet to-morrow. '^ In the planted garden eastward in Eden, {Sing Eden Bowe?- /) Where the river goes forth to water the garden, The springs shall dry and the soil shall harden. " Yea, where the bride-sleep fell upon Adam, {Alas the hour /) None shall hear when the storm-wind whistles Through roses choked among thorns and thistles. " Yea, beside the east-gate of Eden, {Sing Eden Bo2uer /) Where God joined them and none miglit sever. The sword turns this way and that for ever. " What of Adam cast out of Eden ? {Alas the hour /) Lo ! with care like a shadow shaken, He tills the hard earth whence he was taken. EDEN BOWER. 91 " What of Eve too, cast out of Eden ? {Sing Eden Bowci- /) Nay, but she, the bride of God's giving, Must yet be mother of all men living. " Lo, God's grace, by the grace of Lilith ! (^Alas the hour /) To Eve's womb, from our sweet to-morrow, God shall greatly multiply sorrow. " Fold me fast, O God-snake of Eden ! ( Sitig Eden Bower /) What more prize than love to impel thee ? Grip and lip my limbs as I tell thee ! ".Lo ! two babes for Eve and for Adam ! {Alas the hour /) Lo ! sweet Snake, the travail and treasure, — Two men-children born for their pleasure ! " The first is Cain and the second Abel : {Sing Eden Bower /) The soul of one shall be made thy brother, And thy tongue shall lap the blood of the other." {Alas the hour I) 92 THE CARD-DEALER. Could you not drink her gaze like wine ? Yet though its splendor swoon Into the silence languidly As a tune into a tune, Those eyes unravel the coiled night And know the stars at noon. The gold that's heaped beside her hand, In truth rich prize it were ; And rich the dreams that wreathe her brows With magic stillness there; And he were rich who should unwind That woven golden hair. Around her, where she sits, the dance Now breathes its eager heat ; And not more lightly or more true Fall there the dancers' feet THE CARD-DEALER. 93 Than fall her cards on the bright board As 'twere an heart that beat. Her fingers let them softly through, Smooth polished silent things ; '. And each one as it falls reflects In swift light-shadowings, ' Blood-red and purple, green and blue, The great eyes of her rings. ; Whom plays she with? With thee, who lov'st \ Those gems upon her hand ; \ With me, who search her secret brows ; j With all men, bless'd or bann'd. '; We play together, she and we, \ Within a vain strange land : \ A land without any order, — Day even as night, (one saith,) — Where who lieth down ariseth not Nor the sleeper awakeneth ; A land of darkness as darkness itself - And of the shadow of death. 94 THE CARD-DEALER. What be her cards, you ask ? Even these The heart, that doth but crave More, having fed ; the diamond. Skilled to make base seem brave ; The club, for smiting in the dark ; The spade to dig a grave. J And do you ask what game she plays ? J With me 'tis lost or won ; r '■ With thee it is playing still ; with him It is not well begun ; But 'tis a game she plays with all Beneath the sway o' the sun. I'hou seest the card that falls, — she knows The card that folio we th : Her game in thy tongue is called Life, As ebbs thy daily breath : When she shall speak, thou'lt learn her tongue And know she calls it Death. 95 LOVE'S NOCTURN. Master of the murmuring courts Where the shapes of sleep convene ! — Lo ! my spirit here exhorts All the powers of thy demesne For their aid to woo my queen. What reports Yield thy jealous courts unseen ? Vaporous, unaccountable, Dreamworld lies forlorn of light, Hollow like a breathing shell. Ah ! that from all dreams I might Choose one dream and guide its flight ! I know well What her sleep should tell to-night. 96 LOVE'S NOCTURIA. There the dreams are multitudes : Some that will not wait for sleep, Deep within the August woods ; Some that hum while rest may steep Weary labor laid a-heap ; Interludes, Some, of grievous moods that weep. Poets' fancies all are there : There the elf-girls flood with wings Valleys full of plaintive air ; There breathe perfumes ; there in rings Whirl the foam-bewildered springs ; Siren there Winds her dizzy hair and sings. Thence the one dream mutually Dreamed in bridal unison. Less than waking ecstasy ; Half-formed visions that make moan In the house of birth alone ; And what we At death's wicket see, unknown. LOVE'S NOCTURN. 97 But for mine own sleep, it lies \ In one gracious form's control, | Fair with honorable eyes, | Lamps of translucent soul : I O their glance is loftiest dole, ^ Sweet and wise, | Wherein Love descries his goal. • \ Reft of her, my dreams are all Clammy trance that fears the sky : Changing footpaths shift and fall ; From polluted coverts nigh, Miserable phantoms sigh ; Quakes the pall, And the funeral goes by. J \ Master, is it soothly said That, as echoes of man's speech Far in secret clefts are made. So do all men's bodies reach Shadows o'er thy sunken beach, — Shape or shade In those halls pourtrayed of each ? 98 LOVE'S NOCTUR^r. Ah ! might I, by thy good grace Groping in the windy stair, (Darkness and the breath of space Like loud waters everywhere,) Meeting mine own image there Face to face, Send it from that place to her ! Nay, not I ; but oh ! do thou, Master, from thy shadowkind Call my body's phantom now : Bid it bear its face declin'd Till its flight her slumbers find. And her brow Feels its presence bow like wind. Where in groves the gracile Spring Trembles, with mute orison Confidently strengthening. Water's voice and wind's as one Shed an echo in the sun. Soft as Spring, Master, bid it sing and moan. Sonr I Not the pray The world' Not the praise Dulcet fulsoL Let it yield m And Strength that i Wheresoe'er my di Both at night-v"^ And where ror The reluctai Heartless, ' E There h' id .1 of light, ) may send light; — night, and end aright. aead lean it bed, — leen between, t ii 1 LOVE'S NOCTURN. loi How should love's own messenger Strive with love and be love's foe? * Master, nay ! If thus, in her, Sleep a wedded heart should show, — Silent let mine image go. Its old share Of thy spell-bound air to know. Like a vapour wan and mute. Like a flame, so let it pass ; One low sigh across her lute. One dull breath against her glass ; And to my sad soul, alas ! One salute Cold as when death's foot shall pass. Then, too, let all hopes of mine. All vain hopes by night and day. Slowly at thy summoning sign Rise up pallid and obey. Dreams, if this is thus, were they : — Be they thine. And to dreamworld pine away. I02 LOVE'S NOCTURN. j . Yet from old time, life, not death, I Master, in thy rule is rife : I Lo ! through tliee, with mingling breath, Adam woke beside his wife. . O Love bring me so, for strife, Force and faith, Bring me so not death but life ! I Yea, to Love himself is pour'd \ This frail song of hope and fear. i Thou art Love, of one accord With kind Sleep to bring her near, Still-eyed, deep-eyed, ah how dear ! Master, Lord, J Li her name implor'd, O hear ! 103 THE STREAM'S SECRET. What thing unto mine ear Would'st thou convey, — what secret thing, O wandering water ever whispering? Surely thy speech shall be of her. Thou water, O thou whispering wanderer, What message dost thou bring ? Say, hath not Love leaned low This hour beside thy far well-head. And there through jealous hollowed fingers said The thing that most I long to know, — Murmuring with curls all dabbled in thy flow And washed lips rosy red? He told it to thee there Where thy voice hath a louder tone ; But where it welters to this little moan I04 THE STREAM'S SECRET. His will decrees tliat I should hear. Now si)eak : for with the silence is no fear, And I am all alone. Shall Time not still endow One hour with life, and I and she Slake in one kiss the thirst of memory? Say, stream ; lest Love shoukl disavow Thy service, and the bird upon the bough Sing first to tell it me. What whispercst thou? Nay, why Name the dead hours? I mind them well : Their ghosts in many darkened doorwaxs dwell With desolate eyes to know them b)-. The hour that must be born ere it can die, — Of that I'd have thee telk r>ut hear, before thou speak ! Withhold, I pray, the vain behest That while the maze hath still its bower for quest My burning heart should cease to seek. Be sure that Love ordained for souls more meek His roadside dells of rest. THE STREAM'S SECRET. 105 Stream, when this silver thread In flood-time is a torrent brown May any bulwark bind thy foaming crown ? Shall not the waters surge and spread And to the crannied boulders of their bed Still shoot the dead drift down? Let no rebuke find place In speech of thine : or it shall prove That thou dost ill expound the words of Love, Even as thine eddy's rippling race Would blur the perfect image of his face. I will have none thereof. O learn and understand That 'gainst the wrongs himself did wreak Love sought her aid ; until her shadowy cheek And eyes beseeching gave command ; And compassed in her close compassionate hand My heart must burn and speak. For then at last we spoke What eyes so oft had told to eyes Through that long-lingering silence whose half-sighs io6 THE STREAM'S SECRET. Alone the buried secret broke, ^^^hich with snatched hands and lips' reverberate stroke Then from the heart did rise. But slie is far away Now ; nor the hours of night grown hoar Bring yet to me, long gazing from the door, The wind-stirred robe of roseate gray And rose-crown of the hour that leads the day \Vhen we shall meet once more. Dark as thy blinded wave When brimming midnight floods the glen, — Bright as the laughter of thy runnels when The dawn yields all the light they crave ; Even so these hours to wound and that to save Are sisters in Love's ken. Oh, sweet her bending grace Then when I kneel beside her feet ; And sweet her eyes' o'erhanging heaven ; and sweet The gathering folds of her embrace ; And her fall'n hair at last shed round my face When breaths and tears shall meet. THE STREAM'S SECRET. 107 Beneath her sheltering hair, In the warm silence near her breast, Our kisses and our sobs shall sink to rest ; As in some still trance made aware That day and night have wrought to fulness there And Love has built our nest. And as in the dim grove, When the rains cease that hushed them long, 'Mid glistening boughs the song-birds wake to song, — So from our hearts deep-shrined in love, While the leaves throb beneath, around, above. The quivering notes shall throng. Till tenderest words found vain Draw back to wonder mute and deep. And closed lips in closed arms a silence keep, Subdued by memory's circling strain, — The wind-rapt sound that the wind brings again While all the willows weep. Then by her summoning art Shall memory conjure back the sere Autumnal Springs, from many a dying year io8 THE STREAM'S SECRET. Born dead ; and, bitter to the heart, The very ways where now we walk apart Who then shall cling so near. And with each thought new-grown, Some sweet caress or some sweet name Low-breathed shall let me know her thought the same ; Making me rich with every tone And touch of the dear heaven so long unknown That filled my dreams with flame. Pity and love shall burn In her pressed cheek and cherishing hands ; And from the living spirit of love that stands Between her lips to soothe and yearn, | Each separate breath shall clasp me round in turn \ And loose my spirit's bands. Oh, passing sweet and dear, Then when the worshipped form and face Are felt at length in darkling close embrace ; Round which so oft the sun shone clear, With mocking light and pitiless atmosphere, In many an hour and place. THE STREAM'S SECRET. 109 Ah me ! with what proud growth Shall that hour's thirsting race be run ; While, for each several sweetness still begun Afresh, endures love's endless drouth : Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, sweet eyes, sweet mouth. Each singly wooed and won. Yet most with the sweet soul Shall love's espousals then be knit ; For very passion of peace shall breathe from it O'er tremulous wings that touch the goal, As on the unmeasured height of Love's control The lustral fires are lit. Therefore, when breast and cheek Now part, from long embraces free, — Each on the other gazing shall but see A self that has no need to speak : All things unsought, yet nothing more to seek, — One love in unity. O water wandering past, — Albeit to thee I speak this thing, O water, thou that wanderest whispering, no THE STREAM'S SECRET. Thou keep'st thy counsel to the last. What spell upon thy bosom should Love cast, His message thence to wnng? Nay, must thou hear the tale Of the past days, — -the heavy debt Of life that obdurate time withholds, — ere yet To win thine ear these prayers prevail, And by thy voice Love's self with high All-hail Yield up the love-secret? How should all this be told ? — All the sad sum of wayworn days ; — Heart's anguish in the impenetrable maze ; And on the waste uncolored wold The visible burthen of the sun grown cold And the moon's laboring gaze? Alas ! shall hope be nurs'd On life's all-succoring breast in vain, And made so perfect only to be slain? Or shall not rather the sweet thirst Even yet rejoice the heart with warmth dispers'd And strength grown fair again ? THE STREAM'S SECRET. n Stands it not by the door — Love's Hour — till she and I shall meet ; With bodiless form and unapparent feet That cast no shadow yet before, Though round its head the dawn begins to pour The breath that makes day sweet? Its eyes invisible Watch till the dial's thin-thrown shade Be born, —yea, till the journeying line be laid Upon the point that wakes the spell, And there in lovelier light than tongue can tell Its presence stand array'd. Its soul remembers yet Those sunless hours that passed it by ; And still it hears the night's disconsolate cry, And feels the branches wringing wet Cast on its brow, that may not once forget, Dumb tears from the blind sky. But oh ! when now her foot Draws near, for whose sake night and day Were long in weary longing sighed away, — 112 THE STREAM'S SECRET. The Hour of Love, 'twas airs grown mute, Shall sing beside the door, and Love's own lute Thrill to the passionate lay. Thou know'st, for Love has told Within thine ear, O stream, how soon That song shall lift its sweet appointed tune. O tell me, for my lips are cold, And in my veins the blood is waxing old Even while I beg the boon. So, in that hour of sighs Assuaged, shall we beside this stone Yield thanks for grace; while in thy mirror shown The twofold image softly lies, Until we kiss, and each in other's eyes Is imaged all alone. Still silent? Can no art Of Love's then move thy pity ? Nay, To thee let nothing come that owns his sway : Let happy lovers have no part With thee ; nor even so sad and poor a heart As thou hast spurned to-day. i X THE STREAM'S SECRET. 113 To-day ? Lo ! night is here. The glen grows heavy with some veil Risen from the earth or fall'n to make earth pale ; And all stands hushed to eye and ear, Until the night-wind shake the shade like fear And every covert quail. Ah ! by a colder wave On deathlier airs the hour must come Which to thy heart, my love, shall call me home. Between the lips of the low cave Against that night the lapping waters lave, And the dark lips are dumb. But there Love's self doth stand. And with Life's weary wings far-flown, And with Death's eyes that make the water moan. Gathers the water in his hand : And they that drink know nought of sky or land But only love alone. O soul-sequestered face Far off, — O were that night but now ! So even beside that stream even I and thou ■i- 114 777^ STREAM'S SECRET. Through thirsting h'ps should draw Love's grace, And in the zone of that supreme embrace Bind aching breast and brow. O water whispering Still through the dark into mine ears, — As with mine eyes, is it not now with hers? — Mine eyes that add to thy cold spring, Wan water, wandering water weltering, This hidden tide of tears. 115 JENNY. " Vengeance of Jennys case ! Fie on her ! Never name her, child f^ — (Mrs. Quickly.) Lazy laughing languid Jenny, Fond of a kiss and fond of a guinea, Whose head upon my knee to-night Rests for a while, as if grown light With all our dances and the sound To which the wild tunes spun you round : Fair Jenny mine, the thoughtless queen Of kisses which the blush between Could hardly make much daintier ; Whose eyes are as blue skies, whose hair Is countless gold incomparable : Fresh flower, scarce touched with signs that tell Of Love's exuberant hotbed : — Nay, Poor flower left torn since yesterday Until to-morrow leave you bare ; Poor handful of bright spring-water Flung in the whirlpool's shrieking face ; ii6 JENNY. Poor shameful Jenny, full of grace Thus with your head upon my knee ; — Whose person or whose purse may be The lodestar of your reverie ? This room of yours, my Jenny, looks A change from mine so full of books, Whose serried ranks hold fast, forsooth, So many captive hours of youth, — The hours they thieve from day and night To make one's cherished work come right. And leave it wrong for all their theft, Even as to-night my work was left : Until I vowed that since my brain And eyes of dancing seemed so fain, My feet should have some dancing too : — And thus it was I met with you. Well, I suppose 'twas hard to part, For here I am. And now, sweetheart, You seem too "tired to get to bed. It was a careless life I led When rooms like this were scarce so strange Not long ago. What breeds the change, — JENNY. 117 \ c \ The many aims or the few years? I Because to-night it all appears I Something I do not know again. j \ The cloud's not danced out of my brain, — * The cloud that made it turn and swim | While hour by hour the books grew dim. f Why, Jenny, as I watch you there, — | For all your wealth of loosened hair, I Your silk ungirdled and unlac'd f And warm sweets open to the waist, I All golden in the lamplight's gleam, — You know not what a book you seem, Half-read by lightning in a dream ! How should you know, my Jenny? Nay, f And I should be ashamed to say : — I Poor beauty, so well worth a kiss ! | But while my thought runs on like this | With wasteful whims more than enough, | I wonder what you're thinking of. | If of myself you think at all, What is the thought ? — conjectural On sorry matters best unsolved? — Ii8 JENNY. Or inly is each grace revolved To fit me with a lure ? — or (sad To think !) perhaps you're merely glad ; That I'm not drunk or ruffianly And let you rest upon my knee. For sometimes, were the truth confessed, g You're thankful for a little rest, — g s Glad from the crush to rest within, \ From the heart-sickness and the din f Where envy's voice at virtue's pitch i Mocks you because your gown is rich ; 1! And from the pale girl's dumb rebuke, Whose ill-clad grace and toil-worn look Proclaim the strength that keeps her weak And other nights than yours bespeak ; And from the wise unchildish elf. To schoolmate lesser than himself Pointing you out, what thing you are : — Yes, from the daily jeer and jar. From shame and shame's outbraving too. Is rest not sometimes sweet to you? — But most from the hatefulness of man Who spares not to end what he began, JENNY. 119 Whose acts are ill and his speech ill, Who, having used you at his will. Thrusts you aside, as when I dine I serve the dishes and the wine. Well, handsome Jenny mine, sit up, I've filled our glasses, let us sup, And do not let me think of you. Lest shame of yours suffice for two. What, still so tired? Well, well then, keep Your head there, so you do not sleep ; But that the weariness may pass And leave you merry, take this glass. Ah ! lazy lily hand, more bless 'd If ne'er in rings it had been dress'd Nor ever by a glove conceal'd ! Behold the lihes of the field. They toil not neither do they spin ; (So doth the ancient text begin, — Not of such rest as one of these Can share.) Another rest and ease Along each summer- sated path From its new lord the garden hath, I20 JENNY. Than that whose spring in blessings ran Which praised tlie l^ounteous husbandman, Ere yet, in days of hankering breath, The lihes sickened unto death. What, Jenny, are your lilies dead? Aye, and the snow-white leaves are spread Like winter on the garden-bed. But you had roses left in May, — They were not gone too. Jenny, nay. But must your roses die, and those Tlieir purfled buds that should unclose ? Even so ; the leaves are curled apart. Still red as from the broken heart. And here's the naked stem of thorns. Nay, nay, mere words. Here nothing warns As yet of winter. Sickness here Or want alone could waken fear, — Nothing but passion wrings a tear. Except when there may rise unsought Haply at times a passing thought Of the old days which seem to be Much older than any history JENNY. That is written in any book ; | When she would he in fields and look \ s Along the ground through the blown grass, And wonder where the city was, Far out of sight, whose broil and bale They told her then for a child's tale. 1 \ I Jenny, you know the city now, 3 A child can tell the tale there, how i Some things which are not yet enroll'd \ In market-lists are bought and sold Even till the early Sunday light. When Saturday night is market-night Everywhere, be it dry or wet. And market-night in the Haymarket. Our learned London children know. Poor Jenny, all your pride and woe ; Have seen your lifted silken skirt Advertise dainties through the dirt ; Have seen your coach-wheels splash rebuke On virtue ; and have learned your look When, wealth and health slipped past, you stare Along the streets alone, and there, Round the long park, across the bridge, 122 JEJVArV. The cold lamps at the pavement's edge Wind on together and apart, A fiery serpent for your heart. Let the thoughts pass, an empty cloud ! Suppose I were to think aloud, — What if to her all this were said? Why, as a volume seldom read Being opened halfway shuts again, So might the pages of her brain Be parted at such words, and thence Close back upon the dusty sense. For is there hue or shape defin'd In Jenny's desecrated mind. Where all contagious currents meet, A Lethe of the middle street? Nay, it reflects not any face. Nor sound is in its sluggish pace. But as they coil those eddies clot. And night and day remember not. Why, Jenny, you're asleep at last ! — Asleep, poor Jenny, hard and fast, — So young and soft and tired ] so fair, JEN-NV. 123 With chin thus nestled in your hair, Mouth quiet, eyelids almost blue As if some sky of dreams shone through ! Just as another woman sleeps ! Enough to throw one's thoughts in heaps Of doubt and horror, — what to say Or think, — this awful secret sway, The potter's power over the clay I Of the same lump (it has been said) For honor and dishonor made. Two sister vessels. Here is one. My cousin Nell is fond of fun. And fond of dress, and change, and praise, So mere a woman in her ways : And if her sweet eyes rich in youth Are like her lips that tell the truth. My cousin Nell is fond of love. And she's the girl I'm proudest of. Who does not prize her, guard her well ? The love of change, in cousin Nell, Shall find the best and hold it dear : The unconquered mirth turn quieter 124 JENNY. Not through her own, through others' woe : The conscious pride of beauty glow Beside another's pride in her, One httle part of all they share. For Love himself shall ripen these In a kind soil to just increase Through years of fertilizing peace. Of the same lump (as it is said) For honor and dishonor made, Two sister vessels. Here is one. It makes a goblin of the sun. So pure, — so fall'n ! How dare to think Of the first common kindred link? Yet, Jenny, till the world shall burn It seems that all things take their turn ; And who shall say but this fair tree May need, in changes that may be. Your children's children's charity? Scorned then, no doubt, as you are scorn 'd ! Shall no man hold his pride forewarn 'd Till in the end, the Day of Days, JENNY. 125 At Judgment, one of his own race, As frail and lost as you, shall rise, — His daughter, with his mother's eyes? I How Jenny's clock ticks on the shelf ! i Might not the dial scorn itself I That has such hours to register? f Yet as to me, even so to her I Are golden sun and silver moon, \ In daily largesse of earth's boon. Counted for life-coins to one tune. And if, as blindfold fates are toss'd, Through some one man this life be lost, Shall soul not somehow pay for soul? Fair shines the gilded aureole In which our highest painters place Some living woman's simple face. And the stilled features thus descried As Jenny's long throat droops aside, — The shadows where the cheeks are thin, And pure wide curve from ear to chin, — With Raffael's, Leonardo's hand To show them to men's souls, might stand, 126 JENNY. ^^'hole ages long, the wliole world tlirough, For preachings of what God can do. What has man done here? How atone, Great God, for this which man has done ? And for the body and soul which by Man's pitiless dooni must now comply With lifelong hell, what lullaby Of sweet forgetful second birth Remains? All dark. No sign on earth What measure of God's rest endows . i The many mansions of his house. If but a woman's heart might see Such erring heart unerringly For once ! But that can never be. Like a rose shut in a book In which ]:)ure women may not look, For its base pages claim control To crush the flower within the soul ; Where through each dead rose-leaf that clings, Pale as transparent psyche-wings, To the vile text, are traced such things As might make lady's cheek indeed JENNY. 127 More than a living rose to -read ; So nought save fooHsh foidness may Watch with hard eyes the sure decay ; And so the life-blood of this rose, Puddled with shameful knowledge, flows Through leaves no cliaste hand may unclose : Yet still it keeps such faded show Of when 'twas gathered long ago. That the crushed petals' lovely grain. The sweetness of the sanguine stain. Seen of a woman's eyes, must make Her pitiful heart, so prone to ache, Love roses better for its sake : — Only that this can never be : — Even so unto her sex is she. Yet, Jenny, looking long at you, The woman almost fades from view. A cipher of man's changeless sum Of lust, past, present, and to come, Is left. A riddle that one shrinks To challenge from the scornful sphinx. Like a toad within a stone Seated while Time crumbles on : -i~ 128 JENNY. Which sits there since the earth was ciirs'd For Man's transgression at the first ; Which, hving through all centuries, Not once has seen the sun arise ; Whose life, to its cold circle charmed, The earth's whole summers have not warmed; Which always — whitherso the stone Be flung — sits there, deaf, blind, alone; — Aye, and shall not be driven out Till that which shuts him round about Break at the very Master's stroke, And the dust thereof vanish as smoke, And the seed of Man vanish as dust : — Even so within this world is Lust. Come, come, what use in thoughts like this ? Poor little Jenny, good to kiss, — You'd not believe by what strange roads Thought travels, when your beauty goads A man to-night to think of toads ! Jenny, wake up ... . Why, there's the dawn ! And there's an early wagon drawn To market, and some sheep that jog JENNY. 129 Bleating before a barking dog ; And the old streets come peering through Another night that London knew ; And all as ghostlike as the lamps. So on the wings of day decamps My last night's frolic. Glooms begin To shiver off as lights creep in Past the gauze curtains half drawn-to, And the lamp's doubled shade grows blue, — Your lamp, my Jenny, kept alight, 2 Like a wise virgin's, all one night ! * And in the alcove cooly spread | Glimmers with dawn your empty bed ; \ And yonder your fair face I see ^^ Reflected lying on my knee, Where teems with first foreshadowings Your pier-glass scrawled with diamond rings : And on your bosom all night worn Yesterday's rose now droops forlorn But dies not yet this summer morn. And now without, as if some word Had called upon them that they heard, \ I30 JENNY. The London sparrows far and nigh Clamor together suddenly ; And Jenny's cage-bird grown awake Here in their song his part must take, Because here too the day doth break. And somehow in myself the dawn Among stirred clouds and veils withdrawn Strikes grayly on her. Let her sleep. But will it wake her if I heap These cushions thus beneath her head Where my knee was ? No, — there's your bed, My Jenny, while you dream. And there I lay among your golden hair Perhaps the subject of your dreams, These golden coins. For still one deems That Jenny's flattering sleep confers New magic on the magic purse, — ■ Grim web, how clogged with shrivelled flies ! Between the threads fine fumes arise And shape their pictures in the brain. There roll no streets in glare and rain, Nor flagrant man-swine whets his tusk ; II JENNY. ] But delicately sighs in musk The homage of the dim boudoir ; Or like a palpitating star Thrilled into song, the opera-night Breathes faint in the quick pulse of light ; Or at the carriage-window shine Rich wares for choice \ or, free to dine. Whirls through its hour of health (divine For her) the concourse of the Park. And though in the discounted dark Her functions there and here are one, Beneath the lamps and in the sun There reigns at least the acknowledged belle Apparelled beyond parallel. Ah Jenny, yes, we know your dreams. For even the Paphian Venus seems A goddess o'er the realms of love, When silver-shrined in shadowy grove : Aye, or let offerings nicely plac'd But hide Priapus to the waist, And whoso looks on him shall see An eligible deity. 132 JENNY. Why, Jenny, waking here alone May help you to remember one, Though all the memory's long outworn Of many a double-pillowed morn. I I think I see you when you wake, And rub your eyes for me, and shake My gold, in rising, from your hair, A Danae for a moment there. Jenny, my love rang true ! for still Love at first sight is vague, until That tinkling makes him audible. And must I mock you to the last. Ashamed of my own shame, — aghast Because some thoughts not born amiss Rose at a poor fair face like this? Well, of such thoughts so much I know In my life, as in hers, they show, By a far gleam which I may near, A dark path I can strive to clear. Only one kiss. Goodbye, my dear. 133 f s i THE PORTRAIT. 1 This is her picture as she was : \ It seems a thing to wonder on, j As though mine image in the glass | Should tarry when myself am gone \ I gaze until she seems to stir, — ^ Until my eyes almost aver \ i That now, even now, the sweet lips part To breathe the words of the sweet heart : — And yet the earth is over her. Alas ! even such the thin-drawn ray That makes the prison-depths more rude, — The drip of water night and day Giving a tongue to solitude. j Yet only this, of love's whole prize, | Remains ; save what in mournful guise I Takes counsel with my soul alone, — Save what is secret and unknown, Below the earth, above the skies. [34 THE PORTRAIT. In painting her I shrined lier face 'Mid mystic trees, where light falls in Hardly at all ; a covert place Where you might think to find a din Of doubtful talk, and a live flame Wandering, and many a shape whose name Not itself knoweth, and old dew, And your own footsteps meeting you. And all things going as they came. A deep dim wood ; and there she stands As in that wood that day : for so Was the still movement of her hands And such the pure line's gracious flow. And passing fair the type must seem. Unknown the presence and the dream. 'Tis she : though of herself, alas ! Less than her shadow on the grass Or than her image in the stream. That day we met there, I and she One with the other all alone ; And we were blithe; yet memory Saddens those hours, as when the moon THE PORTRAIT. 135 Looks upon daylight. And with her I stooped to drink the spring-water, Athirst where other waters sprang ; And where the echo is, she sanar, — My soul another echo there. But when that hour my soul won strength For words whose silence wastes and kills, Dull raindrops smote us, and at length Thundered the heat within the hills. That eve I spoke those words again Beside the pelted window-pane ; And there she hearkened what I said, With under-glances that surveyed The empty pastures blind with rain. Next day the memories of these things. Like leaves through which a bird has flown, Still vibrated with Love's warm wings ; Till I must make them all my own And paint this picture. So, 'twixt ease Of talk and sweet long silences, *She stood among the plants in bloom At windows of a summer room, To feicrn the shadow of the trees. 136 THE PORTRAIT. And as I wrought, while all above And all around was fragrant air, In the sick burthen of ray love It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom there Beat like a heart among the leaves. O heart that never beats nor heaves, In that one darkness lying still, What now to thee my love's great will Or the fine web the sunshine weaves ? For now doth daylight disavow Those days, — nought left to see or hear. Only in solemn whispers now At night-time these things reach mine ear ; When the leaf-shadows at a breath Shrink in the road, and all the heath, Forest and water, far and wide, In limpid starlight glorified, Lie like the mystery of death. Last night at last I could have slept, And yet delayed my sleep till dawn, Still wandering. Then it was I wept ; For unawares I came upon THE PORTRAIT. 137 Those glades where once she walked with me : And as I stood there suddenly, All wan with traversing the night, Upon the desolate verge of light Yearned loud the iron-bosomed sea. Even so, where Heaven holds breath and hears The beating heart of Love's own breast, — Where round the secret of all spheres All angels lay their wings to rest, — How shall my soul stand rapt and awed, When, by the new birth borne abroad Throughout the music of the suns, It enters in her soul at once And knows the silence there for God ! Here with her face doth memory sit Meanwhile, and wait the day's decline, Till other eyes shall look from it. Eyes of the spirit's Palestine, Even than the old gaze tenderer : While hopes and aims long lost with her Stand round her image side by side. Like tombs of pilgrims that have died About the Holy Sepulchre. | s I 13^ MY SISTER'S SLEEP. She fell asleep on Christmas Eve : At length the long-ungranted shade Of weary eyelids overweigh'd The pain nought else might yet relieve. Our mother, who had leaned all day Over the bed from chime to chime, Then raised herself for the first time, And as she sat her down, did pray. Her little work-table was spread With work to finish. For the glare Made by her candle, she had care To work some distance from the bed. Without, there was a cold moon up, Of winter radiance sheer and thin ; The hollow halo it was in Was like an icy crystal cu]). MV S/STKR'S SLEEP. 139 Througli tlie small room, with subtle sound Of flame, by vents the fireshinc drove And reddened. In its dim alcove The mirror shed a clearness round. 1 had been sitting up some nights. And my tired mind felt weak and blank ; Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank The stillness and the broken lights. 'i'welve struck. That sound, by dwindling years Heard in each hour, cre])t off; and then The ruffled silence spread again. Like water that a pebble stirs. Our mother rose from where she sat : Iler needles, as she laid them down, Met lightly, and her silken gown Settled : no other noise than that. " Glory unto the Newly Ijorn ! " So, as said angels, she did say ; ]>ecause we were in Christmas I )ay. Though it would still be Ion": till morn. 140 MV SISTEJ^ 'S SLEEP. Just then in the room over us There was a pushing back of chairs, As some who had sat unawares So late, now heard the hour, and rose. With anxious softly-stepping haste Our mother went where Margaret lay, Fearing the sounds o'erhead — should they Have broken her long watched-for rest ! She stopped an instant, calm, and turned ; But suddenly turned back again ; And all her features seemed in pain With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned. For my part, I but hid my face, And held my breath, and spoke no word : There was none spoken ; but I heard The silence for a litde space. Our mother bowed herself and wept : And both my arms fell, and I said, " God knows I knew that she was dead." And there, all white, my sister slept. MV S/STE/^'S SLEEP. 141 Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn A httle after twelve o'clock We said, ere the first quarter struck, " Christ's blessing on the newly born ! " 142 DOWN STREAM. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote The river-reaches wind, The whispering trees accept the breeze, The ripple's cool and kind : With love low-whispered 'twixt the shores, Witli rippling laughters gay, A\'ith white arms bared to ply the oars. On last year's first of May. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote The river's brimmed with rain, Through close-met banks and parted banks Now near now far again : With parting tears caressed to smiles. With meeting promised soon. With every sweet vow that beguiles. On last year's first of June. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote The river's flecked with foam. f DOH'.V STREAM. 143 'Neath shuddering clouds tliat hang in shrouds And lost winds wild for home : With infant wailings at the breast, With homeless steps astray, With wanderings shuddering tow'rds one rest On this year's first of May. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote The summer river flows With doubled flight of moons by night And lilies' deep repose : With lo ! beneath the moon's white stare A white face not the moon, With lilies meshed in tangled hair, On this year's first of June. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote A troth was given and riven, From heart's trust grew one life to two, Two lost lives cry to Heaven : With banks spread calm to meet the sky. With meadows newly mowed, The harvest-paths of glad July, The sweet school-children's road. T" 144 A LAST CONFESSION. (^Regno Lombardo-Veneto, 1848.) Our Lombard country-girls along the coast Wear daggers in their garters ; for they know That they might hate another girl to death Or meet a German lover. Such a l^nife I bought her, with a hilt of horn and pearl. Father, you cannot know of all my thoughts That day in going to meet her, — that last day For the last time, she said ; — of all the love And all the liopeless hope that she might change And go back with me. Ah ! and everywhere, At places we both knew along the road, Some fresh shape of herself as once she was Grew present at my side ; until it seemed — A LAST CONFESS/ON. 145 So close they gathered round me — they would all Be with me when I reached the spot at last, To plead my cause with her against herself So changed. O Father, if you knew all this You cannot know, then you would know too, Father, And only then, if God can pardon me. What can be told Til tell, if you will hear. I passed a village-fair upon my road, And thought, being empty-handed, I would take Some little present : such might prove, I said. Either a pledge between us, or (God help me !) A parting gift. And there it was I bought The knife I spoke of, such as women wear. That day, some three hours afterwards, I found For certain, it must be a parting gift. And, standing silent now at last, I looked Into her scornful face ; and heard the sea Still trying hard to din into my ears Some speech it knew which still might change her heart, If only it could make me understand. One moment thus. Another, and her face Seemed further off than the last line of sea. 146 A LAST COJVFESS/ON'. So that I thought, if now she were to speak I could not hear lier. Then again I knew All, as wc stood together on the sand At Iglio, in the first thin shade o' the hills. "Take it," I said, and held it out to her. While the hilt glanced within my trembling hold ; ''Take it and keep it for my sake." I said. Her neck unbent not, neither did her eyes Move, nor her foot left beating of the sand ; Only she put it by from her and laughed. Father, you hear my speech and not her laugh ; But God heard that. Will God remember all ? It was another laugh than the sweet sound Which rose from her sweet childish heart, that day Eleven years before, when first I found her Alone upon the hill-side; and her curls Shook down in the warm grass as she looked up Out of her curls in my eyes bent to hers. Slie might have served a painter to portray That heavenly child which in the latter days Shall walk between the lioii and the lamb. A LAST CONFESSION, 147 I had been for nights in hiding, worn and sick And hardly fed ; and so her words at first Seemed fitful like the talking of the trees And voices in the air that knew my name. And I remembered that I sat me down Upon the slope with her, and thought the world Must be all over or had never been, We seemed there so alone. And soon she told me Her parents both were gone away from her. I thought jDerhaps she meant that they had died ; But when I asked her this, she looked again Into my face, and said that yestereve They kissed her long, and wept and made her weep. And gave her all the bread they had with them, And then had gone together up the hill Where we were sitting now, and had walked on Into the great red light ; " and so," she said, " I have come up here too ; and when this evening They step out of the light as they stepped in, I shall be here to kiss them." And she lauc^hed. Then I bethought me suddenly of the famine ; And how the church-steps throughout all the town, \yhen last I had been there a month ago. 148 A LAST CONFESSION. Swarmed with starved folk ; and how the bread was weighed By Austrians armed ; and women that I knew For wiv^es and mothers walked the public street, Saying aloud that if their husbands feared To snatch the children's food, themselves would stay Till they had earned it there. So then this child Was piteous to me ; for all told me then Her parents must have left her to God's chance, To man's or to the Church's charity, Because of the great famine, rather than To watch her growing thin between their knees. With that, God took my mother's voice and spoke, And sights and sounds came back and things long since, And all my childhood found me on the hills ; And so I took her with me. I was young, Scarce man then. Father ; but the cause which gave The wounds I die of now had brought me then Some wounds already ; and I lived alone, As any hiding hunted man must live. It was no easy thing to keep a child In safety ; for herself it was not safe, And doubled my own danger : but I knew A LAST CONFESSION. 149 That God would help me. Yet a little while Pardon me, Father, if I pause. I think I have been speaking to you of some matters There was no need to speak of, have I not? You do not know how clearly those things stood Within my mind, which I have spoken of. Nor how they strove for utterance. Life all past Is like the sky when the sun sets in it, Clearest where furthest off. I told you how She scorned my parting gift and laughed. And yet A woman's laugh's another thing sometimes : I think they laugh in Heaven. I know last night I dreamed I saw into the garden of God, Where women walked whose painted images I have seen with candles round them in the church. They bent this way and that, one to another, Playing : and over the long golden hair Of each there floated like a ring of fire Which when she stooped stooped with her, and when she rose Rose with her. Then a breeze flew in among them, As if a window had been opened in heaven ISO A LAST confess/on: For God to give His blessing from, before This world of ours should set ; (for in my dream I thought our world was setting, and the sun Flared, a spent taper ;) and beneath that gust The rings of light quivered like forest-leaves. Then all the blessed maidens who were there :: Stood up together, as it were a voice That called them ; and they threw their tresses back. And smote their palms, and all laughed up at once, For the strong heavenly joy they had in them To hear God bless the world. Wherewith I woke : \ And looking round, I saw as usual ' That she was standing there with her long locks Pressed to her side ; and her laugh ended theirs. For always when I see her now, she laughs. And yet her childish laughter haunts me too, J The life of this dead terror ; as in days When she, a ciiild, dwelt with me. I must tell Something of those days yet before the end. I brought her from the city — one such day ■ W1ien she was still a merry loving child, — ? The earliest gift I mind my giving her ; A LAST CONTESSION-. 151 ^A little image of a flying Love Made of our colored glass-ware, in his hands A dart of gilded metal and a torch. And him she kissed and me, and fain would know Why were his poor eyes blindfold, why the wings And why the arrow. What I knew I told Of Venus and of Cupid, — strange old tales. And when she heard that he could rule the loves Of men and women, still she shook her head And wondered ; and, " Nay, nay," she murmured still, " So strong, and he a younger child than I ! " And then she'd have me fix him on the wall Fronting her little bed ; and then again She needs must fix him there herself, because I gave him to her and she loved him so, And he should make her love me better yet, If women loved the more, the more they grew. But the fit place upon the wall was high For her, and so I held her in my arms : And each time that the heavy pruning-hook I gave her for a hammer slipped away As it would often, still she laughed and laughed And kissed and kissed me. But amid her mirth, \ Just as she hung the image on the nail, I 152 A LAST CONFESSION-. It slipped and all its fragments strewed the ground : And as it fell she screamed, for in her hand The dart had entered deeply and drawn blood. And so her laughter turned to tears : and '' Oh ! " I said, the while I bandaged the small hand, — " That I should be the first to make you bleed, Who lov^e and love and love you !" — kissing still The fingers till I got her safe to bed. And still she sobbed, — "not for the pain at all," She said, "but for the Love, the poor good Love You gave me." So she cried herself to sleep. Another later thing comes back to me. 'Twas in those hardest foulest days of all, When still from his shut palace, sitting clean Above the splash of blood, old Metternich (May his soul die, and never-dying worms Feast on its pain for ever ! ) used to thin His year's doomed hundreds daintily, each month \. Thirties and fifties. This time, as I think, Was when his thrift forbade the ]:)oor to take That evil brackish salt which the dry rocks Keep all through winter when the sea draws in. The first I heard of it was a chance shot A LAST CONFESS/ OiV. 1 53 In the street here and there, and on the stones A stumbHng clatter as of horse hemmed round. Then, when she saw me hurry out of doors, My gun slung at my shoulder and my knife Stuck in my girdle, she smoothed down my hair And laughed to see me look so brave, and leaped Up to my neck and kissed me. She was still A child ; and yet that kiss was on my lips So hot all day where the smoke shut us in. For now, being always with her, the first love I had — the father's, brother's love — was changed, I think, in somewise ; like a holy thought Which is a prayer before one knows of it. The first time I perceived this, I remember, Was once when after hunting I came home Weary, and she brought food and fruit for me. And sat down at my feet upon the floor Leaning against my side. But when I felt Her sweet head reach from that low seat of hers So high as to be laid upon my heart, I turned and looked upon my darling there And marked for the first time how tall she w^ ; And my heart beat with so much violence 154 A LAST CONFESSIOIV. Under her check, I thought she could not choose But wonder at it soon and ask me why ; And so I bade her rise and eat with me. And when, remembering all and counting back The time, I made out fourteen years for her And told her so, she gazed at me with eyes As of the sky and sea on a gray day, And drew her long hands through her hair, and asked me If she was not a woman ; and then laughed : And as she stooped in laughing, I could see Beneath the growing throat the breasts half-globed Like folded lilies deepset in the stream. Yes, let me think of her as then ; for so Her image. Father, is not like the sights Which come when you are gone. She had a mouth Made to bring death to life, — the^underlip Sucked in, as if it strove to kiss itself. Her face was pearly pale, as when one stoops Over wan water ; and the dark crisped hair And the hair's shadow made it paler still : — Deep-serried locks, the dimness of the cloud Where the moon's gaze is set in eddying gloom. A LAST CONFESS/ON. i Her body bore her neck as the tree's stem Bears the top branch ; and as the branch sustains The flower of the year's pride, her high neck bore That face made wonderful with night and day. Her voice was swift, yet ever the last words Fell lingeringly ; and rounded finger-tips She had, that clung a little where they touched And then were gone o' the instant. Her great eyes, That sometimes turned half dizzily beneath The passionate lids, as faint, when she would speak, Had also in them hidden springs of mirth, Which under the dark lashes evermore Shook to her laugh, as when a bird flies low Between the water and the willow-leaves. And the shade quivers till he wins the light. I was a moody comrade to her then, For all the love I bore her. Italy, The weeping desolate mother, long has claimed Her sons' strong arms to lean on, and their hands To lop the poisonous thicket from her path, Cleaving her way to light. And from her need Had grown the fashion of my whole poor life 156 A LAST CONFESS/ON. Wliich I was proud to yield her, as my father Had yielded his. And this had come to be A game to play, a love to clasp, a hate To wreak, all things together that a man Needs for his blood to ripen ; till at times All else seemed shadows, and I wondered still To see such life pass muster and be deemed Time's bodily substance. In those hours, no doubt, To the young girl my eyes were like my soul, — Dark wells of death-in-life that yearned for day. And though she ruled me always, I remember That once v.hen I was thus and she still kept Leaping about the place and laughing, I Did almost chide her ; w^hereupon she knelt And putting her two hands into my breast Sang me a song. Are these tears in my eyes ? 'Tis long since I have wept for anything. I thought that song forgotten out of mind ; And now, just as I spoke of it, it came All back. It is but a rude thing, ill rhymed, Such as a blind man chaunts and his dog hears Holding the platter, when the children run To merrier sport and leave him. Thus it goes : — A LAST COiVFESS/O.V, 157 La bella donna* Piangendo disse : " Come son fisse Le stelle in cielo ! Quel fiato anelo Dello stanco sole, Quanto m' assonna ! E la luna, macchiata * She wept, sweet lady, And said in weeping : " What spell is keeping The stars so steady? Why does the power Of the sun's noon-hour To sleep so move me? And the moon in heaven, Stained where she passes As a worn-out glass is, — Wearily driven, Why walks she above me? " Stars, moon, and sun too, I'm tired of either And all together ! Whom speak they unto That I should listen? For very surely. Though my arms and shoulders Dazzle beholders. And my eyes glisten, All's nothing purely ! What are words said for At all about them. If he they are made for Can do without them ? " She laughed, sweet lady, And said in laughing : " His hand clings half in i\Iy own already ! Oh ! do you love me? Oh ! speak of passion In no new fashion, No loud inveighings, But the old sayings You once said of me. " You said : ' As summer, Through boughs grown brittle. Comes back a little Ere frosts benumb her, — So bring'st thou to me All leaves and flowers, Though autumn's gloomy To-day in the bowers.' " Oh ! does he love me, W^hen my voice teaches The very speeches He then spoke of me? Alas ! what flavor Still with me lingers?" (But she laughed as my kisses Glowed in her fingers With love's old blisses.) " Oh ! what one favor Remains to woo him, W^hose whole poor savor Belongs not to him ? '' 158 A LAST COiVFESS/OA^. Come lino spccchio Logoro e vecchio, — Faccia afifaniiata, Che cosa vuole? " Che stelle, luna, e sole, Ciasciin m' annoja E m' annojano insieme ; Non me ne preme Ne ci prendo gioja. E veramente, Che le spalle sien franche E la braccia bianche E il seno caldo e tondo, Non mi fa niente. Che cosa al mondo Posso pill far di questi Se non piacciono a te, come dicesti ? La donna rise E riprese ridendo : — " Questa mano che prendo E dunque mi a? Tu m' ami dunque ? Dimmelo ancora, Non in modo qualunque, i\Ia le parole Belle e precise Che dicesti pria. " Sicanne suole , La state talora A LAST CONFESSrOA^. 159 (Dicesti) jin qnalchc is f ante To)-nare innanzi inveiiio, Cosi t:i,fai cW to scerno Lefoglie tiiUe qnantc, Ben cJC io ccrto tencssi Per passafo V aiitunno. " Eccolo il mio alunno ! Io debbo insegnargli Quei cari detti istessi Ch' ei mi disse una volta ! Oime ! Che cosa dargli," (Ma ridea piano piano Dei bad in sulla mano.) '•'Cli' ci non m'abbia da lungo tempo tolta? " That I sliould sing upon this bed ! — with you To listen, and such words still left to say ! Yet was it I that sang? The voice seemed hers, As on the very day she sang to me ; When, having done, she took out of my hand Something that I had played with all the while And laid it down beyond my reach ; and so Turning my face round till it fronted hers, — '^ Weeping or laughing, which was best?" she said. But these are foolish tales. How should I show The heart that glowed then with love's heat, each day ; i6o A LAST COJVFESS/OjV. \ \ IMorc and more brightly? — when for long years now I The very flame that flew about the heart, \ And gave it fiery wings, has come to be The lapping blaze of hell's environment Whose tongues all bid the molten heart despair. Yet one more thing comes back on me to-night Which 1 may tell you : for it bore my soul Dread firstlings of the brood that rend it now. I It chanced that in our last year's wanderings We dwelt at Monza, far away from home, ■; If home we had : and in the Duomo there \ I sometimes entered with her when she prayed. \ An imaire of Our Ladv stands there, wroudit In marble by some great Italian hand In the great days when she and Italy Sat on one throne together : and to her And to none else my loved one told her heart. She was a woman then ; and as she knelt, — Her sweet brow in the sweet brow's shadow there, - They seemed two kindred forms whereby our land (Whose work still serves the world for miracle) Made manifest herself in womanhood. Father, the day I speak of was the first A LAST CONFESSION. i6i For v/eeks that I had borne her company Into the Dnomo ; and those weeks had been Much troubled, for then first the gUmpses came Of some impenetrable restlessness Growing in her to make her changed and cold. And as we entered there that day, I bent My eyes on the fair Image, and I said Within my heart, " Oh turn her heart to me ! " And so I left her to her prayers, and went To gaze upon the pride of Monza's shrine, Where in the sacristy the light still falls Upon the Iron Crown of Italy, On whose crowned heads the day has closed, nor yet The daybreak gilds another head to crown. But coming back, I wondered when I saw That the sweet Lady of her prayers now stood Alone without her ; until further off, Before some new Madonna gaily decked. Tinselled and gewgawed, a slight German toy, I saw her kneel, still praying. At my step She rose, and side by side we left the church. I was much moved, and sharply questioned her Of her transferred devotion ; but she seemed Stubborn and heedless \ till she lightly laughed 1 62 A LAST confess/on: And said : "The old Madonna? Aye indeed, She had my old thoughts, — this one has my new." Then silent to the soul I held my way : And from the fountains of the pul^lic place Unto the pigeon-haunted pinnacles. Bright wings and water winnowed the bright air ; And stately with her laugh's subsiding smile She went, with clear-swayed waist and towering neck And hands held light before her ; and the face Which long had made a day in my life's night Was night in day to me ; as all men's eyes Turned on her beauty, and she seemed to tread Beyond my heart to the world made for her. Ah there ! my wounds will snatch my sense again : The pain comes billowing on like a full cloud Of thunder, and the flash that breaks from it Leaves my brain burning. That's the wound he gave The Austrian whose white coat I still made matcli With his white face, only the two grew red As suits his trade. The devil makes them wear White for a livery, that the blood may show Braver that brings them to him. So he looks Sheer o'er the field and knows his own at once. A LAST CONFESSIOA^. 163 Give me a draught of water in that cup ; My voice feels thick ; perhaps you do not hear ; But you mtisf hear. If you mistake my words And so absoh^e me, I am sure tlie blessing Will burn my soul. If you mistake my words And so absolve me, Father, the great sin Is yours, not mine : mark this : your soul shall burn With mine for it. I have seen pictures where Souls burned with Latin shriekings in their mouths : Shall my end be as theirs? Nay, but I know 'Tis you shall shriek in Latin. SDme bell rings, Rings through my brain : it strikes the hour in hell. You see I cannot. Father ; I have tried, But cannot, as you see. These twenty times Beginning, I have come to the same point And stopped. Beyond, there are but broken words Which will not let you understand my tale. It is that then we have her with us here. As when she wrung her hair out in my dream To-night, till all the darkness reeked of it. Her hair is always wet, for she has kept Its tresses wrapped about her side for years ; And when she wrung them round over the floor, 1 64 ^/ LAST COA^FESSWAT. \ I I heard the blood between her fingers hiss ; So that I sat up in my bed and screamed Once and again ; and once to once, she laughed. Look that you turn not now, — she's at your back Gather your robe up, Father, and keep close, Or she'll sit down on it and send you mad. At Iglio in the first thin shade o' the hills The sand is black and red. The black was black When what was spilt that day sank into it, And the red scarcely darkened. There I stood This night with her, and saw the sand the same. What would you have me tell you ? Father, father, How shall I make you know? You have not known The dreadful soul of woman, who one day Forgets the old and takes the new to heart, Forgets what man remembers, and therewith Forgets the man. Nor can I clearly tell How the change happened between her and me. Her eyes looked on me from an emptied heart When most my heart was full of her ; and still In every corner of myself I sought \ A LAST CONFESSION. 165 To find what service failed her ; and no less Than in the good time past, there all was hers. What do you love ? Your Heaven ? Conceive it spread For one first year of all eternity All round you with all joys and gifts of God ; And then when most your soul is blent with it And all yields song together, — then it stands O' the sudden like a pool that once gave back Your image, but now drowns it and is clear Again, — or like a sun bewitched, that burns Your shadow from you, and still shines in sight. How could you bear it ? Would you not cry out, Among those eyes grown blind to you, those ears That hear no more your voice you hear the same, — " God 1 what is left but hell for company, But hell, hell, hell?" — until the name so breathed Whirled with hot wind and sucked you down in fire ? Even so I stood the day her empty heart Left her place empty in our home, while yet I knew not why she went nor where she went Nor how to reach her : so I stood the day When to my prayers at last one sight of her W^as granted, and I looked on heaven made pale With scorn, and heard heaven mock me in that laugh. » 1 66 A LAST confession: O sweet, long sweet ! Was that some ghost of you, Even as your ghost tliat liaunts me now, — twin shapes Of fear and hatred ? May I find you yet Mine when death wakes? Ah ! be it even in flame, We may have sweetness yet, if you but say As once in childish sorrow : " Not my pain, My pain was nothing : oh your poor poor love, Your broken love ! " My Father, have I not Yet told you the last things of that last day On which I went to meet her by the sea? God, O God ! but I must tell you all. Midway upon my journey, when I stopped To buy the dagger at the village fair, 1 saw two cursed rats about the place I knew for spies — blood-sellers both. That day Was not yet over ; for three hours to come I prized my life : and so I looked around For safety. A poor painted mountebank Was playing tricks and shouting in a crowd. I knew he must have heard my name, so I Pushed past and whispered to him who I was. And of my danger. Straight he hustled me A LAST CONFESSION. 167 Into his booth, as it were in the trick, And brought me out next minute with my face All smeared in patches and a zany's gown ; And there I handed him his cups and balls And swung the sand-bags round to clear the ring For half an hour. The spies came once and looked ; And while they stopped, and made all sights and sounds Sharp to my startled senses, I remember A woman laughed above me. I looked up And saw where a brown-shouldered harlot leaned Half through a tavern window thick with vine. Some man had come behind her in the room And caught her by her arms, and she had turned With that coarse empty laugh on him, as now He munched her neck with kisses, while the vine Crawled in her back. And three hours afterwards. When she that I had run all risks to meet Laughed as I told you, my life burned to death Within me, for I thought it like the laugh Heard at the fair. She had not left me long ; But all she might have changed to, or might change to, (I know nought since — she never speaks a word — ) I i i68 A LAST CONFESS/ON. ( [ Seemed in that laugh. Have I not told you yet, Not told you all this time what happened, Father, When I had offered her the little knife. And bade her keep it for my sake that loved her, f And she had laughed? Have I not told you yet? "Take it," I said to her the second time, ''Take it and keep it." And then came a fire That burnt my hand ; and then the fire was blood, : And sea and sky were blood and fire, and all 5 The day was one red blindness ; till it seemed, ; Within the whirling brain's ecli{)se, that she • Or I or all things bled or burned to death. I And then I found her laid against my feet " And knew that I had stabbed her, and saw still ' Her look in fallinof. For she took the knife \ Deep in her heart, even as I bade her then, \ And fell ; and her stiff bodice scooped the sand '- Into her bosom. I And she keeps it, see, * Do you not see she keeps it? — there, beneath Wet fingers and wet tresses, in her heart. y For look you, when she stirs her hand, it shows t A LAST CONFESS/ON. 169 The little hilt of horn and pearl, — even such A dagger as our women of the coast Twist in their garters. Father, I have done : And from her side now she unwinds the thick Dark hair ; all round her side it is wet through, But, like the sand at Iglio, does not change. Now you may see the dagger clearly. Father, I have told all : tell me at once what hope Can reach me still. For now she draws it out Slowly, and only smiles as yet : look, Father, She scarcely smiles : but I shall hear her laugh Soon, when she shows the crimson steel to God. ■i 170 THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH. In our Museum galleries To-day I lingered o'er the prize Dead Greece vouchsafes to living eyes, — Her Art for ever in fresh wise From hour to hour rejoicing me. Sighing I turned at last to win Once more the London dirt and din ; And as I made the swing-door spin And issued, they were hoisting in A winged beast from Nineveh. A human face the creature wore, And hoofs behind and hoofs before, And flanks with dark runes fretted o'er. 'Twas bull, 'twas mitred Minotaur, A dead disbowelled mystery : i- i i i THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH. 1 7 1 The mummy of a buried faith Stark from the charnel without scathe, Its wings stood for the light to bathe, — Such fossil cerements as might swathe The very corpse of Nineveh. The print of its first rush-wrapping, Wound ere it dried, still ribbed the thing. What song did the brown maidens sing, From purple mouths alternating, When that was woven languidly? What vows, what rites, what prayers preferr'd, What songs has the strange image heard? In what blind vigil stood interr'd For ages, till an English word Broke silence first at Nineveh? Oh when upon each sculptured court, Where even the wind might not resort, — O'er which Time passed, of like import With the wild Arab boys at sport, — A living face looked in to see : — O seemed it not — the spell once broke — As thoudi the carven warriors woke. 172 THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH. As though the shaft the string forsook, The cymbals clashed, the chariots shook, And there was life in Nineveh? \ On London stones our sun anew \ The beast's recovered shadow threw. ^ (No shade that plague of darkness knew, I No light, no shade, while older grew 8 By ages the old earth and sea.) I Lo thou ! could all thy priests have shown \ Such proof to make thy godhead known ? \ From their dead Past thou liv'st alone ; And still thy shadow is thine own, Even as of yore in Nineveh. That day whereof we keep record. When near thy city-gates the Lord Sheltered His Jonah with a gourd, \ This sun, (I said) here present, pour'd Even thus this shadow that I see. This shadow has been shed the same From sun and moon, — from lamps which came For prayer, — from fifteen days of flame, ; The last, while smouldered to a name I Sardanapalus' Nineveh. THE BURDEN- OE NINEVEH, 173 Within thy shadow, haply, once Sennacherib has knelt, whose sons Smote him between the altar-stones : Or pale Semiramis her zones Of gold, her incense brought to thee, In love for grace, in war for aid : . . . . Ay, and who else ? . . . . till 'neath thy shade Within his trenches newly made Last year the Christian knelt and pray'd — Not to thy strength — in Nineveh. 1 Now, thou poor god, within this hall Where the blank windows blind the wall From pedestal to pedestal. The kind of light shall on thee fall Which London takes the day to be : While school-foundations in the act Of holiday, three files compact. Shall learn to view thee as a fact Connected with that zealous tract : *' Rome, — Babylon and Nineveh." 1 During the excavations, the Tiyari workmen held their services in the shadow of the great bulls. — {Layard's "Nineveh" ch. ix.) 174 THE BURDEN OE NINEVEH. Deemed they of this, those worshippers, When, in some mythic chain of verse Which man shall not again rehearse, The faces of thy ministers Yearned pale with bitter ecstasy? Greece, Egypt, Rome, — did any god Before whose feet men knelt unshod Deem that in this unblest abode Another scarce more unknown god Should house with him, from Nineveh? Ah ! in what quarries lay the stone From which this pillared pile has grown. Unto man's need how long unknown. Since those thy temples, court and cone. Rose far in desert history ? Ah ! what is here that does not lie All strange to thine awakened eye ? Ah ! what is here can testify (Save that dumb presence of the sky) Unto thy day and Nineveh ? Why, of those mummies in the room Above, there might indeed have come THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH. 175 One out of Egypt to thy home, An ahen. Nay, but were not some Of these thine own "antiquity?" And now, — they and their gods and thou All relics here together, — now Whose profit? whether bull or cow, Isis or Ibis, who or how, Whether of Thebes or Nineveh ? The consecrated metals found, And ivory tablets, underground. Winged teraphim, and creatures crown'd, When air and daylight filled the mound, Fell into dust immediately. And even as these, the images Of awe and worship, — even as these, — So, smitten with the sun's increase, Her glory mouldered and did cease From immemorial Nineveh. The day her builders made their halt. Those cities of the lake of salt Stood firmly 'stablished without fault, Made prouc '"'^rs of basalt. With sar porphyry. 176 THE BURDEN OE NINEVEH, The day that Jonah bore abroad To Nineveh the voice of God, A brackish lake lay in his road, Where erst Pride fixed her sure abode, As then in royal Nineveh. The day when he, Pride's lord and Man's, Showed all the kingdoms at a glance To Him before whose countenance The years recede, the years advance, And said. Fall down and worship me : — • 'Mid all the pomp beneath that look, Then stirred there, haply, some rebuke, Where to the wind the Salt Pools shook, And in those tracts, of life forsook. That knew thee not, O Nineveh ! Delicate harlot ! On thy throne Thou with a world beneath thee prone In state for ages sat'st alone ; And needs were years and lustres flown Ere strength of man could vanquish thee : Whom even thy victor foes must bring, Still royal, among maids that sing I THE BURDEiY OF NINEVEH. 177 ^ As with doves' voices, laboring Upon their breasts, unto the King, — A kingly conquest, Nineveh ! . . . Here woke my thought. The wind's slow sway Had w^axed ; and like the human play Of scorn that smiling spreads away, The sunshine shivered off the day : The callous wind, it seemed to me, Swept up the shadow from the ground : And pale as whom the Fates astound. The god forlorn stood winged and crown'd : Within I knew tlie cry lay bound Of the dumb soul of Nineveh. And as I turned, my sense half shut Still saw the crowds of kerb and rut Go past as marshalled to the strut Of ranks in gypsum quaintly cut. It seemed in one same pageantry They followed forms which had been erst ; To pass, till on my sight should burst That future of the best or worst When some may question which was first, ^'" " )r of Nineveh. 178 THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH, For as that Bull-god once did stand And watched the burial-clouds of sand, Till these at last without a hand Rose o'er his eyes, another land. And blinded him with destiny : — • So may he stand again ; till now, In ships of unknown sail and prow, Some tribe of the Australian plough Bear him afar, — a relic now Of London, not of Nineveh ! Or it may chance indeed that when Man's age is hoary among men, — His centuries threescore and ten, — \ \ His furthest childhood shall seem then s \ More clear than later times may be : I Who, finding in this desert place This form, shall hold us for some race That walked not in Christ's lowly ways, But bowed its pride and vowed its praise Unto the God of Nine^^-' The smile rose first, — ; gh The thought : . . . Those spread high THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH. 179 ; \ So sure of flight, which do not fly ; j That set gaze never on the sky ; j Those scriptured flanks it cannot see ; ! Its crown, a brow-contracting load ; \ Its planted feet which trust the sod : . . . \ (So grew the image as I trod : ) | O Nineveh, was this thy God, — Thine also, mighty Nineveh? I So WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. i8//; November, 1852. " Victory ! " So once more the cry must be. Duteous mourning we fulfil In God's name ; but by God's will, Doubt not, the last word is still "Victory!" Funeral, In the music round this pall, Solemn grief yields earth to earth ; But what tones of solemn mirth In the pageant of new birth Rise and fall? For indeed. If our eyes were ope- Who shall say what e. WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. i8i Here, which breath nor gleam denotes, — P'iery horses, chariots Fire-footed ? Trumpeter, Even thy call he may not hear; Long-known voice for ever past. Till with one more trumpet-blast God's assuring word at last Reach his ear. Multitude, Hold your breath in reverent mood : For while earth's whole kindred stand Mute even thus on either hand, This soul's labor shall be scann'd And found good. Cherubim, Lift ye not even now your hymn? Lo ! once lent for human lack, Michael's sword is rendered back. Thrills not now the starry track, Seraphim ? [82 WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. Gabriel, Since the gift of thine " All hail !" Out of Heaven no time hath brought Gift with fuller blessing fraught Than the peace which this man wrought Passing well. Be no word Raised of bloodshed Christ-abhorr'd. Say : " 'Twas thus in His decrees Who Himself, the Prince of Peace, For His harvest's high increase Sent a sword." Veterans, He by whom the neck of France Then was given unto your heel, Timely sought, may lend as well To your sons his terrible Countenance. Waterloo ! As the last grave must renew, Ere fresh death, the banshee-strain, — WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. 183 So methinks upon thy plain Falls some presage in the rain, In the clew. And O thou, Watching with an exile's brow Unappeased, o'er death's dumb flood : — Lo ! the saving strength of God In some new heart's English blood Slumbers now. Emperor, Is this all thy work was for ? — Thus to see thy self-sought aim, Yea thy titles, yea thy name, In another's shame, to shame Bandied o'er? ^ Wellington, Thy great work is but begun. With quick seed his end is rife Whose long tale of conquering strife Shows no triumph like his life Lost and won. 1 Date of the Coup d'Etat : 2nd December, 1851. 1 84 AN OLD SONG ENDED. " How should I your true love know From another one ? " " By his cockle-hat and staff And his sandal-shoo7i.^^ " And what signs have told you now That he hastens home ? " " Lo ! the spring is nearly gone, He is nearly come." " For a token is there nought, Say, that he should bring?" " He will bear a ring I gave And another ring." " How may I, when he shall ask, Tell him who lies there?" " Nay, but leave my face unveiled And unbound my hair." " Can you say to me some word I shall say to him?" " Say I'm looking in his eyes Though my eyes are dim." i85 WORLD'S WORTH. Tis of the Father Hilary. He strove, but could not pray ; so took | The steep-coiled stair, where his feet shook | A sad blind echo. Ever up ] He toiled. Tvvas a sick sway of air . That autumn noon within the stair. As dizzy as a turning cup. His brain benumbed him, void and thin ; ? He shut his eyes and felt it spin ; The obscure deafness hemmed him in. i He said : " O world, what world for me ?" I He leaned unto the balcony * Where the chime keeps the night and day ; ^ It hurt his brain, he could not pray. He had his face upon the stone : - Deep 'tvvixt the narrow shafts, his eye ' Passed all the roofs to the stark sky, { I- -\ [86 WORLD'S WORTH. Swept with no wing, with wind alone. Close to his feet the sky did shake With wind in pools that the rains make : The ripple set his eyes to ache. He said : "O world, what world for me?" He stood within the mystery Girding God's blessed Eucharist : The organ and the chaunt had ceas'd. \ The last words paused against liis ear Said from the altar : drawn round him i The gathering rest was dumb and dim. And now the sacring-bell rang clear And ceased ; and all was awe, — the breath Of God in man that warranteth The inmost utmost things of faith. He said : " O God, my world in Thee ! " 87 ASPECTA MEDUSA. Andromeda, by Perseus saved and wed, Hankered each day to see the Gorgon's head Till o'er a fount he held it, bade her lean, And mirrored in the wave was safely seen That death she lived by. Let not thine eyes know Any forbidden thing itself, although It once should save as well as kill : but be Its shadow upon life enough for thee. i88 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. "Sister," said busy Amelotte To listless x\loyse ; " Along your wedding-road the wheat Bends as to hear your horse's feet, And the noonday stands still for heat." Amelotte laughed into the air With eyes that sought the sun : But where the walls in long brocade Were screened, as one who is afraid Sat Aloyse within the shade. And even in shade was gleam enough To shut out full repose From the bride's 'tiring-chamber, which Was like the inner altar-niche Whose dimness worship has made rich. THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, Within the window's heaped recess The hght was counterchanged In blent reflexes manifold From perfume-caskets of wrought gold And gems the bride's hair could not hold All thrust together : and with these A slim-curved lute, which now, At Amelotte's sudden passing there, Was swept in somewise unaware, And shook to music the close air. Against the haloed lattice-panes The bridesmaid sunned her breast Then to the glass turned tall and free, And braced and shifted daintily Her loin-belt through her cote-hardie. The belt was silver, and the clasp Of lozenged arm-bearings ; A world of mirrored tints minute The rippling sunshine wrought into 't. That flushed her hand and warmed her foot. 190 THE BRFDE'S PRELUDE. At least an hour had Aloyse, — Her jewels in her hah-, — Her white gown, as became a bride, Quartered in silver at each side, — Sat thus aloof, as if to hide. Over her bosom, that lay still, The vest was rich in grain, With close pearls wholly overset : Around her throat the fastenings met Of chevesayle and mantelet. Her arms were laid along her lap With the hands open : life Itself did seem at fault in her : Beneath the drooping brows, the stir Of thought made noonday heavier. Long sat she silent ; and then raised Her head, with such a gasp As while she summoned breath to speak Fanned high that furnace in the cheek But sucked the heart-pulse cold and weak. THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 191 (Oh gather round her now, all ye | Past seasons of her fear, — \ Sick springs, and summers deadly cold ! To flight your hovering wings unfold, \ For now your secret shall be told. \ Ye many sunlights, barbed with darts \ Of dread detecting flame, — [' Gaunt moonlights that like sentinels I Went past with iron clank of bells, — \ Draw round and render up your spells !) \ f. " Sister," said Aloyse, " I had I A thing to tell thee of S Lonsf since, and could not. But do thou \ Kneel first in prayer awhile, and bow Thine heart, and I will tell thee now." Amelotte wondered with her eyes ; But her heart said in her : " Dear Aloyse would have me pray Because the awe she feels to-day Must need more prayers than she can say." 192 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, So Amelotte put by the folds That covered up her feet, And knelt, — beyond the arras'd gloom And the hot window's dull perfume, — Where day was stillest in the room. " Queen Mary, hear," she said, " and say To Jesus the Lord Christ, This bride's new joy, which He confers, New joy to many ministers. And many griefs are bound in hers." The bride turned in her chair, and hid Her face against the back. And took her pearl-girt elbows in Her hands, and could not yet begin. But shuddering, uttered, " Urscelyn ! " Most weak she was ; for as she pressed Her hand against her throat, Along the arras she let trail Her face, as if all heart did fail, And sat with shut eyes, dumb and pale. THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 193 Amelotte still was on her knees As she had kneeled to pray. Deeming her sister swooned, she thought, At first, some succor to have brought ; But Aloyse rocked, as one distraught. She would have pushed the lattice wide To gain what breeze might be ; i But marking that no leaf once beat \ The outside casement, it seemed meet I Not to bring in more scent and heat. So she said only : "Aloyse, \ Sister, when happened it % At any time that the bride came \ To ill, or spoke in fear of shame, ? When speaking first the bridegroom's name ? " A bird had out its song and ceased Ere the bride spoke. At length She said : " The name is as the thing : — Sin hath no second christening, And shame is all that shame can bring. 194 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. " In divers places many an while I would have told thee this ; But faintness took me, or a fit Like fever. God would not permit That I should change thine eyes with it. " Yet once I spoke, hadst thou but heard That time we wandered out All the sun's hours, but missed our way When evening darkened, and so lay The whole night covered up in hay. "At last my face was hidden : so. Having God's hint, I paused Not long ; but drew myself more near Where thou wast laid, and shook off fear. And whispered quick into thine ear " Something of the whole tale. At first I lay and bit my hair For the sore silence thou didst keep : Till, as thy breath came long and deep, I knew that thou hadst been asleep. THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 195 " The moon was covered, but the stars Lasted till morning broke. Awake, thou told'st me that thy dream Had been of me, — that all did seem At jar, — but that it was a dream. " I knew God's hand and might not speak. After that night I kept Silence and let the record swell : Till now there is much more to tell Which must be told out ill or well." She paused then, weary, with dry lips Apart. From the outside By fits there boomed a dull report From where i' the hanging tennis-court The bridegroom's retinue made sport. The room lay still in dusty glare. Having no sound through it Except the chirp of a caged bird That came and ceased : and if she stirred, Amelotte's raiment could be heard. l 196 . T//E BRIDE'S PRELUDE. I Quoth Amelotte : " The night this chanced I Was a late summer night : Last year ! What secret, for Christ's love, Keep'st thou since then ? Mary above ! What thing is this thou speakest of? " Mary and Christ ! Lest when 'tis told I should be prone to wrath, — This prayer beforehand ! How she errs Soe'er, take count of grief like hers, Whereof the days are turned to years ! " She bowed her neck, and having said, Kept on her knees to hear ; And then, because strained thought demands Quiet before it understands, Darkened her eyesight with her hands. So when at last her sister spoke, She did not see the pain O' the mouth nor the ashamed eyes. But marked the breath that came in sighs And the half-pausing for replies. THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 197 This was the bride's sad prekide-strain : — " I' the convent where a girl I dwelt till near my womanhood, I had but preachings of the rood And Aves told in soHtude " To spend my heart on : and my hand Had but the weary skill To eke out upon silken cloth Christ's visage, or the long bright growth Of Mary's hair, or Satan wroth. " So when at last I went, and thou, A child not known before, Didst come to take the place I left, — My limbs, after such lifelong theft Of hfe, could be but little deft " In all that ministers delight To noble women : I Had learned no word of youth's discourse, Nor gazed on games of warriors. Nor trained a hound, nor ruled a horse. -r I 198 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. \ : " Besides, the daily life i' the sun Made me at first hold back. J To thee this came at once ; to me I It crept with pauses timidly ; \ I am not blithe and strong like thee. *' Yet my feet liked the dances well, The songs went to my voice, The music made me shake and weep ; And often, all night long, my sleep Gave dreams I had been fain to keep. " But though I loved not holy things. To hear them scorned brought pain, — They were my childhood ; and these dames Were merely perjured in saints' names And fixed upon saints' days for games. " And sometimes when my father rode To hunt with his loud friends, I dared not bring him to be quaffd, As my wont was, his stirrup-draught. Because they jested so and laugh'd. THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 199 " At last one day my brothers said, ' The girl must not grow thus, — Bring her a jennet, — she shall ride.' They helped my mounting, and I tried To laugh with them and keep their side. But brakes were rough and bents were steep Upon our path that day : My palfrey threw me ; and I went Upon men's shoulders home, sore spent, While the chase followed up the scent. " Our shrift-father (and he alone Of all the household there Had skill in leechcraft,) was away When I reached home. I tossed, and lay Sullen with anguish the whole day. " For the day passed ere some one brought To mind that in the hunt Rode a young lord she named, long bred Among the priests, whose art (she said) Might chance to stand me in much stead. 200 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. " I bade them seek and summon him : But long ere this, the chase Had scattered, and he was not found. I lay in the same weary stound, Therefore, until the night came round. " It was dead night and near on twelve When tlie horse-tramp at length Beat up the echoes of the court : By then, my feverish breath was short With pain the sense could scarce support. " My fond nurse sitting near my feet Rose softly, — her lamp's flame Held in her hand, lest it should make My heated lids, in passing, ache ; And she passed softly, for my sake. " Returning soon, she brought the youth They spoke of Meek he seemed. But good knights held him of stout heart. He was akin to us in part, And bore our shield, but barred athwart. THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 20] " I now remembered to have seen His face, and heard him praised For letter-lore and medicine, Seeing his youth was nurtured in Priests' knowledge, as mine own had been." The bride's voice did not weaken here, Yet by her sudden pause She seemed to look for questioning ; Or else (small need though) 'twas to bring Well to her mind the bygone thing. Her thought, long stagnant, stirred by speech. Gave her a sick recoil ; As, dip thy fingers through the green That masks a pool, — where they have been The naked depth is black between. Amelotte kept her knees ; her face Was shut within her hands, As it had been throughout the tale ; Her forehead's whiteness might avail Nothing to say if she were pale. 202 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. Although the lattice had dropped loose, There was no wind ; the heat Being so at rest that Amelotte Heard far beneath the plunge and float Of a hound swimming in the moat. Some minutes since, two rooks had toiled Home to the nests that crowned Ancestral ash-trees. Through the glare Beating again, they seemed to tear With that thick caw the woof o' the air. But else, 'twas at the dead of noon Absolute silence ; all. From the raised bridge and guarded sconce To green-clad places of pleasaunce Where the long lake was white with swans. Amelotte spoke not any word Nor moved she once ; but felt Between her hands in narrow space Her own hot breath upon her face, And kept in silence the same place. -t THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 203 Aloyse did not hear at all The sounds without. She heard The inward voice (past help obey'd) Which might not slacken or be stay'd, But urged her till the whole were said. Therefore she spoke again : ''■ That night But litde could be done : My foot, held in my nurse's hands, He swathed up heedfully in bands, And for my rest gave close commands. " I slept till noon, but an ill sleep Of dreams : through all that day IMy side was stiff and caught the breath ; Next day, such pain as sickeneth Took me, and I was nigh to death. " Life strove. Death claimed me for his own Through days and nights : but now 'Twas the good father tended me. Having returned. Still, I did see The youth I spoke of constantly. 4 204 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. " For he would with my brothers come To stay beside my couch, And fix my eyes against his own, Noting my pulse ; or else alone, To sit at gaze while I made moan. ^'(Some nights I knew he kept the watch, Because my women laid The rushes thick for his steel shoes.) Through many days this pain did use The life God would not let me lose. *' At length, with my good nurse to aid, I could walk forth again : And still, as one who broods or grieves, At noons I'd meet him and at eves, With idle feet that drove the leaves. *' The day when I first walked alone Was thinned in grass and leaf. And yet a goodly day o' tlie year : The last bird's cry upon mine ear Left my brain weak, it was so clear. THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 205 " The tears were sharp within mine eyes ; I sat down, being glad, And wept ; but stayed the sudden flow Anon, for footsteps that fell slow ; 'Twas that youth passed me, bowing low. '• He passed me without speech ; but when, At least an hour gone by, Rethreading the same covert, he Saw I was still beneath the tree, He spoke and sat him down with me. " Little we said; nor one heart heard Even what was said within ; And, faltering some farewell, I soon Rose up ; but then i' the autumn noon My feeble brain whirled like a swoon. " He made me sit. ' Cousin, I grieve Your sickness stays by you.' ' I would,' said I, ' that you did err So grieving. I am wearier Than death, of the sickening dying year.' 2o6 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. " Pic answered : ' If your weariness Accepts a remedy, I hold one and can give it you.' I gazed : ' What ministers thereto, Be sure,' I said, 'that I will do.' " He went on quickly : — 'Twas a cure He had not ever named Unto our kin, lest they should stint Their favor, for some foolish hint Of wizardry or magic in't : *' But that if he were let to come Within my bower that night, (My women still attending me, He said, while he remain'd there,) he Could teach me the cure privily. '* I bade him come that night. He came ; But little in his speech Was cure or sickness spoken of, Only a passionate fierce love That clamored upon God above. THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 207 " My women wondered, leaning close Aloof. At mine own heart. I think great wonder was not stirr'd. I dared not listen, yet I heard His tangled speech, word within word. " He craved my pardon first, — all else Wild tumult. In the end He remained silent at my feet Fumbling the rushes. Strange quick heat Made all the blood of my life meet. " And lo ! I loved him. I but said, If he would leave me then. His hope some future might forecast. His hot lips stung my hand : at last My damsels led him forth in haste." The bride took breath to pause ; and turned Her gaze where Amelotte Knelt, — the gold hair upon her back Quite still in all its threads, — the track Of her still shadow sharp and black. 2o8 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. That listening without sight had grown To stealthy dread ; and now That the one sound she had to mark Left her alone too, she was stark Afraid, as children in the dark. Her fingers felt her temples beat ; Then came that brain-sickness Which thinks to scream, and murmureth ; And pent between her hands, the breath Was damp against her face like death. Her arms both fell at once ; but when She gasped upon the light, Her sense returned. She would have pray'd To change whatever words still stay'd Behind, but felt there was no aid. So she rose up, and having gone Within the window's arch Once more, she sat there, all intent On torturing doubts, and once more bent To hear, in mute bewilderment. t THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 209 But Aloyse still paused. Thereon Amelotte gathered voice In somewise from the torpid fear Coiled round her spirit. Low but clear She said : " Speak, sister ; for I hear." But Aloyse threw up her neck And called the name of God : — *' Judge, God, 'twixt her and me to-day ! She knows how hard this is to say, Yet will not have one word away." Her sister was quite silent. Then Afresh : — " Not she, dear Lord ! Thou be my judge, on Thee I call ! " She ceased, — her forehead smote the wall : " Is there a God," she said, " at all? " Amelotte shuddered at the soul, But did not speak. The pause Was long this time. At length the bride Pressed her hand hard against her side, And trembling between shame and pride 2IO THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. Said by fierce effort : " From that niglit Often at nights we met : That night, his passion could but rave : The next, what grace his hps did crave I knew not, but I know I gave." Where Amelotte was sitting, all The light and warmth of day- Were so upon her without shade. That the thing seemed by sunshine made Most foul and wanton to be said. She would have questioned more, and known The whole truth at its worst, But held her silent, in mere shame Of day. 'Twas only these words came : — " Sister, thou hast not said his name." " Sister," quoth Aloyse, *' thou know'st His name. I said that he Was in a manner of our kin. Waiting the title he might win. They called him the Lord Urscelyn." THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 211 The bridegroom's name, to Amelotte J^ Daily familiar, — heard | i Thus in this dreadful history, — ^ Was dreadful to her ; as might be | Thine own voice speaking unto thee. I \ The day's mid-hour was almost full ; | Upon the dial-plate \ The angel's sword stood near at One. j An hour's remaining yet ; the sun \ Will not decrease till all be done. \ Through the 'bride's lattice there crept in At whiles (from where the train Of minstrels, till the marriage-call, , Loitered at windows of the wall,) Stray lute-notes, sweet and musical. They clung in the green growths and moss Against the outside stone ; Low like dirge-wail or requiem They murmured, lost 'twixt leaf and stem : There was no wind to carry them. i- 212 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, Amelotte gathered herself back Into the wide recess That the sun flooded : it o'erspread Like flame the hair upon her head And fringed her face with burning red. All things seemed shaken and at change : A silent place o' the hills She knew, into her spirit came : Within herself she said its name And wondered was it still the same. The bride (whom silence goaded) now Said strongly, — her despair By stubborn will kept underneath : — " Sister, 'twere well thou didst not breathe That curse of thine. Give me my wreath." ** Sister," said Amelotte, " abide In peace. Be God thy judge, As thou hast said — not I. For me, I merely will thank God that he Whom thou hast loved loveth thee." THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 213 Then Aloyse lay back, and laughed With wan lips bitterly, Saying, " Nay, thank thou God for this, — That never any soul like his Shall have its portion where love is." Weary of wonder, Amelotte Sat silent : she would ask No more, though all was unexplained : She was too weak ; the ache still pained Her eyes, — her forehead's pulse remained. The silence lengthened. Aloyse Was fain to turn her face Apart, to where the arras told Two Testaments, the New and Old, In shapes and meanings manifold. One solace that was gained, she hid. Her sister, from whose curse Her heart recoiled, had blessed instead : Yet would not her pride have it said How much the blessing comforted. 214 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. Only, on looking round again After some while, the face Which from the arras turned away Was more at peace and less at bay With shame than it had been that day. She spoke right on, as if no pause Had come between her speech : " That year from warmth grew bleak and pass'd ; " She said ; "the days from first to last How slow, — woe's me ! the nights how fast ! " From first to last it was not known : My nurse, and of my train Some four or five, alone could tell What terror kept inscrutable : There was good need to guard it well. " Not the guilt only made the shame, But he was without land And born amiss. He had but come To train his youth here at our home, And, being man, depart therefrom. THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 215 " Of the whole time each single day Brought fear and great unrest : It seemed that all would not avail Some once, — that my close watch would fail, j And some sign, somehow, tell the tale. "The noble maidens that I knew, My fellows, oftentimes Midway in talk or sport, would look A wonder which my fears mistook, To see how I turned faint and shook. i " They had a game of cards, where each \ By painted arms might find i What knight she should be given to. \ Ever with trembling hand I threw \ Lest I should learn the thing I knew. \ \ " And once it came. And Aure d'Honvaulx Held up the bended shield And laughed : ' Gramercy for our share ! — If to our bridal we but fare To smutch the blazon that we bear ! ' 2i6 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. " But proud Denise de Villenbois Kissed me, and gave her wench The card, and said : ' If in these bowers You women play at paramours, You must not mix your game with ours.' " And one upcast it from her hand : ' Lo ! see how high he'll soar ! ' But then their laugh was bitterest ; For the wind veered at fate's behest And blew it back into my breast. " Oh ! if I met him in the day Or heard his voice, — at meals Or at the Mass or through the hall, — A look turned towards me would appal My heart by seeming to know all. *' Yet I grew curious of my shame, And sometimes in the church, On hearing such a sin rebuked. Have held my girdle-glass unhooked To see how such a woman looked. THE BRIDE W PREL UDE. 2 1 7 " But if at night he did not come, I lay all deadly cold To think they might have smitten sore And slain him, and as the night wore, His corpse be lying at my door. *' And entering or going forth. Our proud shield o'er the gate Seemed to arraign my shrinking eyes. With tremors and unspoken lies The year went past me in this wise. " About the spring of the next year An ailing fell on me : ■ (I had been stronger till the spring ;) \ 'Twas mine old sickness gathering, ^ I thought ; but 'twas another thing. | " I had such yearnings as brought tears, } And a wan dizziness : r. Motion, like feeling, grew intense ; | Sight was a haunting evidence \ And sound a pang that snatched the sense. ! — -i 2i8 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. "It now was hard on that great ill Which lost our wealth from us And all our lands. Accursed be The peevish fools of liberty Who will not let themselves be free ! " The Prince was fled into the west : A price was on his blood, But he was safe. To us his friends He left that ruin which attends The strife against God's secret ends. " The league dropped all asunder, — lord, Gentle and serf. Our house Was marked to fall. And a day came When half the wealth that propped our name Went from us in a wind of flame. " Six hours I lay upon the wall And saw it burn. But when It clogged the day in a black bed Of louring vapor, I was led Down to the postern, and we fled. THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 219 " But ere we fled, there was a voice Which I heard speak, and say That many of our friends, to shun Our fate, had left us and were gone. And that Lord Urscelyn was one. " That name, as was its wont, made sight And hearing whirl. I gave No heed but only to the name. I held my senses, dreading them. And was at strife to look the same. " We rode and rode. As the speed grew, The growth of some vague curse Swarmed in my brain. It seemed to me Numbed by the swiftness, but would be — That still — clear knowledge certainly. " Night lapsed. At dawn the sea was there And the sea-wind : afar The ravening surge was hoarse and loud. And underneath the dim dawn-cloud Each stalking wave shook like a shroud. 220 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. " From my drawn litter I looked out Unto the swarthy sea, And knew. That voice, which late had cross'd Mine ears, seemed with the foam uptoss'd : I knew that Urscelyn was lost. " Then I spake all : I turned on one And on the other, and spake : My curse laughed in me to behold Their eyes : I sat up, stricken cold, Mad of my voice till all was told. " Oh ! of my brothers, Hugues was mute, And Gilles was wild and loud, X And Raoul strained abroad his face, \ As if his gnashing wrath could trace I Even there the prey that it must chase. ? " And round me murmured all our train, I Hoarse as the hoarse-tongued sea ; f Till Hugues from silence louring woke, j And cried : ' What ails the foolish folk ? \ Know ye not frenzy's lightning-stroke ? ' THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 22 " But my stern father came to them And quelled them with his look, Silent and deadly pale. Anon I knew that we were hastening on, My litter closed and the light gone. " And I remember all that day The barren bitter wind Without, and the sea's moaning there That I first moaned with unaware, And when I knew, shook down my hair. " Few followed us or faced our flight : Once only I could hear, Far in the front, loud scornful words, And cries I knew of hostile lords, And crash of spears and grind of swords. " It was soon ended. On that day Before the light had changed We reached our refuge ; miles of rock Bulwarked for war ; whose strength might mock Sky, sea, or man, to storm or shock. THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. ** Listless and feebly conscious, I Lay far within the night Awake. The many pains incurred That day, — the whole, said, seen or heard, Stayed by in me as things deferred. " Not long. At dawn I slept. In dreams All was passed through afresh From end to end. As the morn heaved Towards noon, I, waking sore aggrieved, That I might die, cursed God, and lived. " Many days went, and I saw none Except my women. They Calmed their wan faces, loving me ; And when they wept, lest I should see, Would chaunt a desolate melody. " Panic unthreatened shook my blood Each sunset, all the slow Subsiding of the turbid light. I would rise, sister, as I might. And bathe my forehead through the night THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 223 " To elude madness. The stark walls Made chill the mirk : and when We oped our curtains, to resume Sun-sickness after long sick gloom, The withering sea-wind walked the room. Through the gaunt windows the great gales Bore in the tattered clumps Of waif-weed and the tamarisk-boughs ; And sea-mews, 'mid the storm's carouse. Were flung, wild-clamoring, in the house. " My hounds I had not ; and my hawk, Which they had saved for me, Wanting the sun and rain to beat His wings, soon lay with gathered feet ; And my flowers faded, lacking heat. " Such still were griefs : for grief was still A separate sense, untouched Of that despair which had become My life. Great anguish could benumb My soul, — my heart was quarrelsome. V 224 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, " Time crept. Upon a day at length My kinsfolk sat with me : That which they asked was bare and plain : I answered : the whole bitter strain Was again said, and heard again. " Fierce Raoul snatched his sword, and turned The point against my breast. I bared it, smiling : ' To the heart Strike home,' I said ; ' another dart Wreaks hourly there a deadlier smart.' " 'Twas then my sire struck down the sword, And said with shaken lips : ' She from whom all of you receive Your life, so smiled ; and I forgive.' Thus, for my mother's sake, I live. " But I, a mother even as she, Turned shuddering to the wall : For I said : ' Great God ! and wliat would I do, When to the sword, with the thing I knew, I offered not one life but two ! ' THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 225 '• Then I fell back from them, and lay Outwearied. My tired sense Soon filmed and settled, and like stone I slept ; till something made me moan, And I woke up at night alone. " I woke at midnight, cold and dazed ; Because I found myself Seated upright, with bosom bare. Upon my bed, combing my hair, Ready to go, I knew not where. " It dawned light day, — the last of those Long months of longing days. That noon, the change was wrought on me In somewise, — nought to hear or see, — . Only a trance and agony." The bride's voice failed her, from no will To pause. The bridesmaid leaned. And where the window-panes were white, Looked for the day : she knew not quite If there were either day or night. 226 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. It seemed to Aloyse that the whole Day's weight lay back on her Like lead. The hours that did remain Beat their dry wings upon her brain Once in mid-flight, and passed again. There hung a cage of burnt perfumes In the recess : but these, For some hours, weak against the sun, Had simmered in white ash. From One The second quarter was begun. They had not heard the stroke. The air, Though altered with no wind. Breathed now by pauses, so to say : Each breath was time that went away, — Each pause a minute of the day. r the almonry, the almoner. Hard by, had just dispensed Church-dole and march-dole. High and wide Now rose the shout of thanks, which cried On God that He should bless the bride. THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 227 Its echo thrilled within their feet, And in the furthest rooms Was heard, where maidens flushed and gay- Wove with stooped necks the wreaths alway Fair for the virgin's marriage-day. The mother leaned along, in thought After her child ; till tears. Bitter, not like a wedded girl's. Fell down her breast along her curls. And ran in the close work of pearls. The speech ached at her heart. She said : " Sweet Mary, do thou plead This hour with thy most blessed Son To let these shameful words atone. That I may die when I have done." The thought ached at her soul. Yet now : — ''■ Itself —that life " (she said,) Out of my weary life — when sense Unclosed, was gone. What evil men's Most evil hands had borne it thence 228 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. I " I knew, and cursed them. Still in sleep \ I have my child ; and pray \ To know if it indeed appear * As in my dream's perpetual sphere, \ That I — death reached — may seek it there. I " Sleeping, I wept ; though until dark I A fever dried mine eyes Kept open ; save when a tear might Be forced from the mere ache of sight. And I nursed hatred day and night. " Aye, and I sought revenge by spells ; R And vainly many a time \ Have laid my face into the lap \ Of a wise woman, and heard clap Her thunder, the fiend's juggling trap. " At length I feared to. curse them, lest From evil lips the curse Should be a blessing ; and would sit Rocking myself and stifling it With babbled jargon of no wit. THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 229 " But this was not at first : the days And weeks made frenzied months Before this came. My curses, pil'd Then with each hour unreconcil'd, Still wait for those who took my child." She stopped, grown fainter. " Amelotte, Surely," she said, " this sun Sheds judgment-fire from the fierce south : It does not let me breathe : the drouth Is like sand spread within my mouth." The bridesmaid rose. V the outer glare Gleamed her pale cheeks, and eyes Sore troubled ; and aweary weigh'd Her brows just lifted out of shade ; And the light jarred within her head. 'Mid flowers fair-heaped there stood a bowl | With water. She therein - \ Through eddying bubbles slid a cup, \ And offered it, being risen up, \ \ Close to her sister's mouth, to sup. i ! +- 230 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. The freshness dwelt upon her sense, Yet did not the bride drink ; But she dipped in her hand anon And cooled her temples ; and all wan With lids that held their ache, went on. " Through those dark watches of my woe, Time, an ill plant, had waxed Apace. That year was finished. Dumb f And blind, life's wheel with earth's had come I Whirled round : and we might seek our home " Our wealth was rendered back, with wealth Snatched from our foes. The house Had more than its old strength and fame : But still 'neath the fair outward claim /rankled, — a fierce core of shame. " It chilled me from their eyes and lips Upon a night of those First days of triumph, as I gazed Listless and sick, or scarcely raised My face to mark the sports they praised. t THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 231 " The endless changes of the dance Bewildered me : the tones Of lute and cithern struggled tow'rds Some sense ; and still in the last chords The music seemed to sing wild words. " My shame possessed me in the light And pageant, till I swooned. But from that hour I put my shame From me, and cast it over them By God's command and in God's name " For my child's bitter sake. O thou Once felt against my heart With longing of the eyes, — a pain Since to my heart for ever, — then Beheld not, and not felt again ! " She scarcely paused, continuing : — " That year drooped weak in March ; And April, finding the streams dry. Choked, with no rain, in dust : the sky Shall not be fainter this July. 232 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. " Men sickened ; beasts lay without strength ; if 1^ The year died in the land. I But I, already desolate, I Said merely, sitting down to wait, — \ 'The seasons change and Time wears late.' \ " For I had my hard secret told, I In secret, to a priest ; I With him I communed ; and he said I 8 The world's soul, for its sins, were sped. \ And the sun's courses numbered. 5 ? ? ; *^ The year slid like a corpse afloat : \ None trafficked, — who had bread I Did eat. That year our legions, come i Thinned from the place of war, at home \ Found busier death, more burdensome. " Tidings and rumors came with them, The first for months. The chiefs Sat daily at our board, and in Their speech were names of friend and kin One day they spoke of Urscelyn. THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 233 " The words were light, among the rest : Quick glance my brothers sent To sift the speech ; and I, struck through, Sat sick and giddy in full view : Yet did none gaze, so many knew. " Because in the beginning, much Had caught abroad, through them That heard my clamor on the coast : But two were hanged ; and then the most Held silence wisdom, as thou know'st. " That year the convent yielded thee Back to our home ; and thou Then knew'st not how I shuddered cold To kiss thee, seeming to enfold To my changed heart myself of old. '' Then there was showing thee the house. So many rooms and doors ; Thinking the while how thou would'st start If once I flung the doors apart Of one dull chamber in my heart. 234 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. " And yet I longed to open it ; And often in that year Of plague and want, when side by side We've knelt to pray with them that died. My prayer was, ' Show her what I hide ! ' " End of Part I. LYRICS. +- 237 LOVE-LILY. Between the hands, between the brows, Between the lips of Love-Lily, A spirit is born whose birth endows My blood with fire to burn through me ; Who breathes upon my gazing eyes, Who laughs and murmurs in mine ear, At whose least touch my color flies, And whom my life grows faint to hear. Within the voice, within the heart. Within the mind of Love- Lily, A spirit is born who hfts apart His tremulous wings and looks at me ; Who on my mouth his finger lays, And shows, while whispering lutes confer, That Eden of Love's watered ways Whose winds and spirits worship her. 238 LOVE-LILY. Brows, hands, and lips, heart, mind, and voice, Kisses and words of Love- Lily, — Oh ! bid me with your joy rejoice Till riotous longing rest in me ! Ah ! let not hope be still distraught, But find in her its gracious goal, Whose speech Truth knows not fi-om her thought Nor Love her body from her soul. 239 FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED. Peace in her chamber, wheresoe'er It be, a holy place : The thought still brings my soul such grace As morning meadows wear. Whether it still be small and light, A maid's who dreams alone. As from her orchard-gate the moon Its ceiling showed at night ; Or whether, in a shadow dense As nuptial hymns invoke. Innocent maidenhood awoke To married innocence : There still the thanks unheard await The unconscious gift bequeathed : For there my soul this hour has breathed An air inviolate. 240 PLIGHTED PROMISE. In a soft-complexioned sky, Fleeting rose and kindling gray, Have you seen Aurora fly At the break of day ? So my maiden, so my plighted may, Blushing cheek and gleaming eye Lifts to look my way. Where the inmost leaf is stirred With the heart-beat of the grove, Have you heard a hidden bird Cast her note above ? So my lady, so my lovely love, Echoing Cupid's prompted word, Makes a tune thereof. PLIGHTED PROMISE. 241 Have you seen, at heaven's mid-height, In the moon-rack's ebb and tide, Venus leap forth burning white, Dian pale and hide ? So my bright breast-jewel, so my bride, One sweet night, when fear takes flight, Shall leap against my side. 242 SUDDEN LIGHT. I HAVE been here before, But when or how I cannot tell : I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. You have been mine before, — How long ago I may not know : But just when at that swallow's soar Your neck turned so, Some veil did fall, — I knew it all of yore. Has this been thus before ? And shall not thus time's eddying flight Still with our lives our love restore In death's despite. And day and night yield one delight once more ? 243 A LITTLE WHILE. A LITTLE while a little love The hour yet bears for thee and me Who have not drawn the veil to see If still our heaven be lit above. Thou merely, at the day's last sigh, Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone ; And I have heard the night- wind cry And deemed its speech mine own. A little while a little love The scattering autumn hoards for us Whose bower is not yet ruinous Nor quite unleaved our songless grove. Only across the shaken boughs We hear the flood-tides seek the sea, And deep in both our hearts they rouse One wail for thee and me. i - 244 A LITTLE WHILE. A little while a little love i May yet be ours who have not said S The word it makes our eyes afraid [ To know that each is thinking of. j Not yet the end : be our lips dumb I In smiles a little season yet : r I'll tell thee, when the end is come, I How we may best forget. 245 THE SONG OF THE BOWER. Say, is it day, is it dusk in thy bower, Thou whom I long for, who longest for me ? Oh ! be it light, be it night, 'tis Love's hour, Love's tliat is fettered as Love's that is free. Free Love has leaped to that innermost chamber, Oh ! the last time, and the hundred before : Fettered Love, motionless, can but remember, Yet something that sighs from him passes the door. Nay, but my heart when it flies to thy bower, What does it find there that knows it again ? There it must droop like a shower-beaten flower. Red at the rent core and dark with the rain. Ah ! yet what shelter is still shed above it, — What waters still image its leaves torn apart ? Thy soul is the shade that clings round it to love it. And tears are its mirror deep down in thy heart. What were my prize, could I enter thy bower. This day, to-morrow, at eve or at morn ? 246 THE SONG OF THE BOJi'ER. I^argc lovely arms and a neck like a tower, Bosom then heaving that now lies forlorn. Kindled with love-breath, (the sun's kiss is colder !) Thy sweetness all near me, so distant to-day ; ]\Iy hand round thy neck and thy hand on niy shoulder, My mouth to thy mouth as the world melts away. What is it keeps me afar from thy bower, — My spirit, my body, so foin to be there? Waters engulfing or fires that devour? — Earth heaped against me or death in tlie air? Nay, but in day-dreams, for terror, for pity. The trees wave their heads with an omen to tell ; Nay, but in night-dreams, throughout the dark city, The hours, clashed together, lose count in the bell. Shall I not one day remember thy bower, One day when all days are one day to me? — Thinking, '' I stirred not, and yet had the power ! " — Yearning, '' Ah God, if again it might be ! " Peace, peace ! such a small lamp illumes, on this highway, So dimly so few steps in front of n:iy feet, — Yet shows me that her way is parted from my way. . . . Out of sight, beyond light, at what goal may we meet? 247 PENUMBRA. I DID not look upon her eyes, (Though scarcely seen, with no surprise, 'Mid many eyes a single look,) Because they should not gaze rebuke. At night, from stars in sky and brook. I did not take her by the hand, (Though little was to understand From touch of hand all friends might take,) Because it should not prove a flake Burnt in my palm to boil and ache. I did not listen to her voice, (Though none had noted, where at choice All might rejoice in listening,) Because no such a thing should cling In the wood's moan at evening. 248 PENUMBRA. I did not cross lier shadow once, (Though from the hollow west the sun's Last shadow runs along so far,) Because in June it should not bar My ways, at noon when fevers are. They told me she was sad that day, (Though wherefore tell what love's soothsay, Sooner than they, did register ?) And my heart leapt and wept to her. And yet I did not speak nor stir. So shall the tongues of the sea's foam (Though many voices therewith come From drowned hope's home to cry to me,) Bewail one hour the more, when sea And wind are one with memory. 249 A NEW-YEAR'S BURDEN. Along the grass sweet airs are blown Our way this day in Spring. | Of all the songs that we have known Now which one shall we sing ? Not that, my love, ah no ! — • I Not this, my love ? why, so ! — i Yet both were ours, but hours will come and go. I The grove is all a pale frail mist, 3 The new year sucks the sun. j Of all the kisses that we kissed j Now which shall be the one ? | Not that, my love, ah no ! — I Not this, my love ? — heigh-ho | For all the sweets that all the winds can blow ! 1 The branches cross above our eyes, | ) The skies are in a net : I And what's the thing beneath the skies | We two would most forget? =? Not birth, my love, no, no, — | Not death, my love, no, no, — i The love once ours, but ours long hours ago. I 250 EVEN SO. • So it is, my dear. All such things touch set^ret strings For heavy hearts to hear. So it is, my dear. Very like indeed : Sea and sky, afar, on high, Sand and strewn seaweed, — Very like indeed. But the sea stands spread As one wall with the flat skies, Where the lean black craft like flies Seem well-nigh stagnated, Soon to drop off dead. Seemed it so to us When I was thine and thou wast mine. And all these things were thus. But all our world in us ? Could we be so now ? Not if all beneath heaven's pall Lay dead but I and tliou. Could we be so now ! 251 THE WOODSPURGE. The wind flapped loose, the wind was still, Shaken out dead from tree and hill : I had walked on at the wind's will, — I sat now, for the wind was still. Between my knees my forehead was, — My lips, drawn in, said not Alas ! My hair was over in the grass. My naked ears heard the day pass. My eyes, wide open, had the run ' Of some ten weeds to fix upon ; Among those few, out of the sun, The woodspurge flowered, three cups in one. From perfect grief there need not be Wisdom or even memory : One thing then learnt remains to me, — The woodspurge has a cup of three. 252 THE HONEYSUCKLE. I PLUCKED a honeysuckle where The hedge on high is quick with thorn, And cHmbing for the prize, was torn, And fouled my feet in quag-water ; And by the thorns and by the wind The blossom that I took was thinn'd, And yet I found it sweet and fair. Thence to a richer growth I came, i Where, nursed in mellow intercourse, The honeysuckles sprang by scores, Not harried like my single stem. All virgin lamps of scent and dew. So from my hand that first I threw, Yet plucked not any more of them. 253 A YOUNG FIR-WOOD. These little firs to-day are things To clasp into a giant's cap, Or fans to suit his lady's lap. From many winters many springs Shall cherish them in strength and sap, Till they be marked upon the map, A wood for the wind's wanderings. All seed is in the sower's hands : And what at first was trained to spread Its shelter for some single head, — Yea, even such fellowship of wands, — May hide the sunset, and the shade Of its great multitude be laid Upon the earth and elder sands. 254 THE SEA-LIMITS. Consider, the sea's listless chime : Time's self it is, made audible, — The murmur of the earth's own shell. Secret continuance sublime Is the sea's end : our sight may pass No furlong further. Since time was. This sound hath told the lapse of time. No quiet, which is death's, — it hath The mournfulness of ancient life, Enduring always at dull strife. As the world's heart of rest and wrath. Its painful pulse is in the sands. Last utterly, the whole sky stands, Gray and not known, along its path. Listen alone beside the sea, Listen alone among the woods ; Those voices of twin solitudes J. THE SEA-LIMITS. 255 Shall have one sound alike to thee : Hark where the murmurs of thronged men Surge and sink back and surge again, — Still the one voice of wave and tree. Gather a shell from the strown beach And listen at its lips : they sigh The same desire and mystery, The echo of the whole sea's speech. And all mankind is thus at heart Not anything but what thou art : And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each. , SONNETS 4 SOATIVETS. 259 FOR *'OUR LADY OF THE ROCKS" By Leonardo da Vinci. Mother, is this the darkness of the end, Tlie Shadow of Death ? and is that outer sea Infinite imminent Eternity? And does the death-pang by man's seed sustain'd In Time's each instant cause thy face to bend Its silent prayer upon the Son, while he Blesses the dead with his hand silently To his long day which hours no more offend? Mother of grace, the pass is difficult, Keen as these rocks, and the bewildered souls Throng it like echoes, blindly shuddering through. Thy name, O Lord, each spirit's voice extols, Whose peace abides in the dark avenue Amid the bitterness of things occult. 26o SONNETS, FOR A VENETIAN PASTORAL By Giorgione. {In the Loiwre.) Water, for anguish of the solstice : — nay. But dip the vessel slowly, — nay, but lean And hark how at its verge the wave sighs in Reluctant. Hush ! Beyond all depth away The heat lies silent at the brink of day : Now the hand trails upon the viol-string That sobs, and the brown faces cease to sing, Sad with the whole of pleasure. Whither stray Her eyes now, from whose mouth the slim pipes creep And leave it pouting, while the shadowed grass Is cool against her naked side ? Let be : — Say nothing now unto her lest she weep, Nor name this ever. Be it as it was, — Life touching lips with Immortality. SONNETS. 261 FOR AN ALLEGORICAL DANCE OF WOMEN By Andrea Mantegna. {In the Louvre.) Scarcely, I think ; yet it indeed fnay be The meaning reached him, when this music rang Clear through his frame, a sweet possessive pang, And he beheld these rocks and that ridged sea. But I believe that, leaning tow'rds them, he Just felt their hair carried across his face As each girl passed him ; nor gave ear to trace How many feet ; nor bent assuredly His eyes from the blind fixedness of thought To know the dancers. It is bitter glad Even unto tears. Its meaning filleth it, A secret of the wells of Life : to wit : — The heart's each pulse shall keep the sense it had With all, though the mind's labor run to nought. 262 SONNETS. FOR RUGGIERO AND ANGELICA" By Ingres. A REMOTE sky, prolonged to the sea's brim : One rock-point standing buffeted alone, Vexed at its base with a foul beast unknown, Hell-birth of geomaunt and teraphim : A knight, and a winged creature bearing him. Reared at the rock : a woman fettered there. Leaning into the hollow with loose hair And throat let back and heartsick trail of limb. Ihe sky is harsh, and the sea shrewd and salt : Under his lord the griffin-horse ramps blind With rigid wings and tail. The spear's lithe stem Thrills in the roaring of those jaws : behind, That evil length of body chafes at fault. She doth not hear nor see — she knows of them. SONNETS. 263 Clench thine eyes now, — 'tis the last instant, girl : Draw in thy senses, set thy knees, and take One breath for all : thy life is keen awake, — Thou mayst not swoon. Was that the scattered whirl Of its foam drenched thee ? — or the waves that curl And split, bleak spray wherein thy temples ache ? Or was it his the champion's blood to flake Thy flesh? — or thine own blood's anointing, girl? Now, silence : for the sea's is such a sound As irks not silence ; and except the sea. All now is still. Now the dead thing doth cease To writhe, and drifts. He turns to her : and she. Cast from the jaws of Death, remains there, bound, Again a woman in her nakedness. 264 SONNETS. s FOR "THE WINE OF CIRCE." By Edward Burne Jones. \ Dusk-haired and gold-robed o'er the golden wine She stoops, wherein, distilled of death and shame, Sink the black drops ; while, lit with fragrant flame, Round her spread board the golden sunflowers shine. Doth Helios here with Hecate combine (O Circe, thou their votaress?) to proclaim For these thy guests all rapture in Love's name, Till pitiless Night give Day the countersign? Lords of their hour, they come. And by her knee Those cowering beasts, their equals heretofore, Wait ; who with them in new equality To-night shall echo back the sea's duU^roar With a vain wail from passion's tide-strown shore Where the dishevelled seaweed hates the sea. \ I SONNETS, 265 \ MARY'S GIRLHOOD. (^Fo7' a Pictiu-e.) This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect God's Virgin. Gone is a great while, and she Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee. Unto God's will she brought devout respect, Profound simplicity of intellect, And supreme patience. From her mother's knee Faithful and hopeful ; wise in charity ; Strong in grave peace ; in pity circumspect. So held she through her girlhood ; as it were An angel-watered lily, that near God Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at home, She woke in her white bed, and had no fear At all, — yet wept till sunshine, and felt awed : Because the fulness of the time was come. J 266 SONNETS, THE PASSOVER IN THE HOLY FAMILY. {Fo)' a Drawing.^) Here meet together the prefiguring day And day prefigured. " Eating, thou shalt stand, Feet shod, loins girt, thy road-staff in thine hand, With blood-stained door and lintel," — did God say By Moses' mouth in ages passed away. And now, where this poor household doth comprise At Paschal-Feast two kindred families, — Lo ! the slain lamb confronts the Lamb to slay. The pyre is piled. What agony's crown attained, What shadow of Death the Boy's fair brow subdues I Who holds that blood wherewith the porch is stained \ By Zachary the priest? John binds the shoes \ He deemed himself not worthy to unloose ; I And Mary culls the bitter herbs ordained. ' 1 The scene is in the house-porch, where Christ holds a bowl of ♦ blood from which Zacharias is sprinkling the posts and lintel. ^ Joseph has brought the lamb, and Elizabeth lights the pyre. The shoes which John fastens, and the bitter herbs which Mary is gathering form part of the ritual. SONNETS. 267 MARY MAGDALENE AT THE DOOR OF SIMON THE PHARISEE. {^Fo?' a Drawing}^ "Why wilt thou cast the roses from thine hair? Nay, be thou all a rose, — wreath, lips, and cheek. Nay, not this house, — that banquet-house we seek ; See how they kiss and enter ; come thou there. | This delicate day of lov^e we two will share \ \ Till at our ear love's whispering night shall speak. !• What, sweet one, — hold'st thou still the foolish freak ? Nay, when I kiss thy feet they'll leave the stair." : " Oh loose me ! See'st thou not my Bridegroom's face ^: That draws me to Him? For His feet my kiss, I My hair, my tears He craves to-day : — an^l oh ! ; What words can tell what other day and place • Shall see me clasp those blood-stained feet of His? : He needs me, calls me, loves me : let me 2:0 ! " ; 1 In the drawing Mary has left a procession of revellers, and is ascending by a sudden impulse the steps of the house where she sees Christ. Her lover has followed her and is trying to turn her back. i. 268 SONNETS. CASSANDRA. {Fo?- a Drawing}) Rend, rend thine hair, Cassandra r he will go. Yea, rend thy garments, wring thine hands, and cry From Troy still towered to the unreddened sky. See, all but she that bore thee mock thy woe : — He most whom that fair woman arms, with show Of wrath on her bent brows ; for in this place This hour thou bad'st all men in Helen's face The ravished ravishing prize of Death to know. What eyes, what ears hath sweet Andromache, Save for her Hector's form and step ; as tear On tear make salt the warm last kiss he gave ? He goes. Cassandra's words beat heavily Like crows above his crest, and at his ear Ring hollow in the shield that shall not save. 1 The subject shows Cassandra prophesying among her kintlnd, as Hector leaves them for his last battle. They are on the phuform of a fortress, from which the Trojan troops are marching out. Helen is arming Paris ; Priam soothes Hecuba ; and Andromache holds the child to her bosom. SONNETS, 269 n. " O Hector, gone, gone, gone ! O Hector, thee Two chariots wait, in Troy long bless'd and curs'd ; And Grecian spear and Phrygian sand athirst Crave from thy veins the blood of victory. Lo ! long upon our hearth the brand had we, Lit for the roof-tree's ruin : and to-day The ground-stone quits the wall, — the wind hath way, — And higher and higher the wings of fire are free. O Paris, Paris ! O thou burning brand, Thou beacon of the sea whence Venus rose, Lighting thy race to shipwreck ! Even that hand Wherewith she took thine apple let her close Within thy curls at last, and while Troy glows Lift thee her trophy to the sea and land." 270 SONNETS. VENUS VERTICORDIA. i^For a picture.) She hath the apple in her hand for thee, Yet ahiiost in her heart would hold it back ; She muses, with her eyes upon the track Of that which in thy spirit they can see. Haply, " Behold, he is at peace," saith she ; " Alas ! the apple for his lips, — tlie dart That follows its brief sweetness to his heart, — The wandering of his feet perpetually ! " A little space her glance is still and coy ; But if she give the fruit that works her spell, Those eyes shall flame as for her Phrygian boy. Then shall her bird's strained throat the woe foretell, And her far seas moan as a single shell, And through her dark grove strike the light of Troy. SONNETS. 271 PANDORA. \ {For a picture, ) What of the end, Pandora? Was it thine, The deed that set these fiery pinions free ? Ah ! wherefore did the Olympian consistory \ In its own likeness make thee half divine ? \ Was it that Juno's brow might stand a sign t> For ever ? and the mien of Pallas be \ A deadly thing ? and that all men might see 1 In Venus' eyes the gaze of Proserpine ? What of the end ? These beat their wings at will. The ill-born things, the good things turned to ill, — Powers of the impassioned hours prohibited. Aye, clench the casket now ! Whither they go Thou mayst not dare to think : nor canst thou know If Hope still pent there be alive or dead. 272 SONNETS. ON REFUSAL OF AID BETWEEN NATIONS. Not that the earth is changing, O my God ! Nor that the seasons totter in their walk, — Not that the virulent ill of act and talk Seethes ever as a winepress ever trod, — Not therefore are we certain that the rod Weighs in thine hand to smite thy world ; though now Beneath thine hand so many nations bow, So many kings : — not therefore, O my God ! — But because Man is parcelled out in men To-day ; because, for any wrongful blow, No man not stricken asks, " I would be told Why thou dost thus ; " but his heart whispers then, " He is he, I am I." By this we know That our earth falls asunder, being old. SONNETS. 273 ON THE ''VITA NUOVA" OF DANTE. As he that loves oft looks on the dear form And guesses how it grew to womanhood, And gladly would have watched the beauties bud And the mild fire of precious life wax warm : — So I, long bound within the threefold charm Of Dante's love sublimed to heavenly mood, Had marvelled, touching his Beatitude, How grew such presence from man's shameful swarm. At length within this book I found portrayed Newborn that Paradisal Love of his. And simple like a child ; with whose clear aid I understood. To such a child as this, Christ, charging well his chosen ones, forbade Offence ; " for lo ! of such my kingdom is.'* 274 SOJVJVETS. DANTIS TENEBR^. (/// Memory of my Father.^ And did'st thou know indeed, when at the font Together with thy name thou gav'st me his, That also on thy son must Beatrice Dedine her eyes according to her wont, Accepting me to be of those that haunt The vale of magical dark mysteries Where to the hills her poet's foot-track lies And wisdom's living fountain to his chaunt Trembles in music ? This is that steep land Where he that holds his journey stands at gaze Tow'rd sunset, when the clouds like a new heiglit Seem piled to climb. These things I understand : For here, where day still soothes my lifted face. On thy bowed head, my father, fell the night. SONATETS, 275 BEAUTY AND THE BIRD. She fluted with her mouth as when one sips, And gently waved her golden head, inclined Outside his cage close to the window-blind ; Till her fond bird, with little turns and dips, Piped low to her of sweet companionships. And when he made an end, some seed took she And fed him from her tongue, which rosily Peeped as a piercing bud between her lips. And like the child in Chaucer, on whose tongue The Blessed INIary laid, when he was dead, A grain, — who straightway praised her name in song Even so, when she, a little lightly red. Now turned on me and laughed, I heard the throng Of inner voices praise her golden head. 276 SONNETS, A MATCH WITH THE MOON. Weary already, weary miles to-night I walked for bed : and so, to get some ease, I dogged the flying moon with similes. And like a wisp she doubled on my sight In ponds ; and caught in tree-tops like a kite ; And in a globe of film all liquorish Swam full-faced like a silly silver fish ; — Last like a bubble shot the welkin's height Where my road turned, and got behind me, and sent My wizened shadow craning round at me, And jeered, " So, step the measure, — one two three ! " — And if I faced on her, looked innocent. But just at parting, halfway down a dell. She kissed me for good-night. So you'll not tell. TRANSLATIONS. 279 THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES. (^Fran^ois Villon, 1450.) Tell me now in what hidden way is Lady Flora the lovely Roman ? Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, Neither of them the fairer woman ? Where is Echo, beheld of no man, Only heard on river and mere, — She whose beauty was more than human? . . But where are the snows of yester-year? Where's H^loise, the learned nun, For whose sake Abeillard, I ween. Lost manhood and put priesthood on ? (From Love he won such dule and teen !) And where, I pray you, is the Queen Who willed that Buridan should steer Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine ? . . But where are the snows of yester-year ? 28o THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES. White Queen Blanche, Hke a queen of hlies, With a voice like any mermaiden, — Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, And Ermengarde the lady of Maine, — And that good Joan whom Englishmen At Rouen doomed and burned her there, — Mother of God, where are they then ? . . . But where are the snows of yester-year ? Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, Where they are gone, nor yet this year, Save with thus much for an overword, — But where are the snows of yester-year? 28l TO DEATH, OF HIS LADY. {Francois Villon.) Death, of thee do I make my moan, Who hadst my lady away from me, Nor wilt assuage thine enmity Till with her life thou hast mine own ; For since that hour my strength has flown. Lo ! what wrong was her life to thee, Death? Two we were, and the heart was one ; Which now being dead, dead I must be, Or seem alive as lifelessly As in the choir the painted stone, Death ! 2b2 HIS MOTHER'S SERVICE TO OUR LADY. {Francois Villon.) Lady of Heaven and earth, and therewithal Crowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell,— I, thy poor Christian, on thy name do call, Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell, Albeit in nought I be commendable. But all mine undeserving may not mar Such mercies as thy sovereign mercies are ; Without the which (as true words testify) No soul can reach thy Heaven so fair and far. Even in this faith I choose to live and die. Unto thy Son say thou that I am His, And to me graceless make Him gracious. Sad Mary of Egypt lacked not of that bliss. Nor yet the sorrowful clerk Theophilus, Whose bitter sins were set aside even thus HIS MOTHER'S SERVICE TO OUR LADY. 283 Though to the Fiend his bounden service was. Oh help me, lest in vain for me should pass (Sweet Virgin that shalt have no loss thereby !) The blessed Host and sacring of the Mass. Even in this faith I choose to live and die. A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old, I am, and nothing learn'd in letter- lore. Within my parish-cloister I behold A painted Heaven where harps and lutes adore, And eke an Hell whose damned folk seethe full sore : One bringeth fear, the other joy to me. That joy, great Goddess, make thou mine to be, — Thou of whom all must ask it even as I ; And that which faith desires, that let it see. For in this faith I choose to live and die. O excellent Virgin Princess ! thou didst bear King Jesus, the most excellent comforter. Who even of this our weakness craved a share And for our sake stooped to us from on high, Offering to death His young life sweet and fair. Such as He is, Our Lord, I Him declare. And in this faith I choose to live and die. 284 JOHN OF TOURS. {Old Freiich:) John of Tours is back with peace, But he comes home ill at ease. " Good-morrow, mother." " Good-morrow, son ; Your wife has borne you a little one." " Go now, mother, go before, Make me a bed upon the floor ; " Very low your foot must fall. That my wife hear not at all." As it neared the midnight toll, John of Tours gave up his soul. " Tell me now, my mother my dear. What's the crying that I hear? " " Daughter, it's the children wake Crying with their teeth that ache." JOHN OF TOURS. 285 " Tell me though, my mother my dear, What's the knocking that I hear? " " Daughter, it's the carpenter Mending planks upon the stair." " Tell me too, my mother my dear, What's the singing that I hear?" " Daughter, it's the priests in rows Going round about our house." " Tell me then, my mother my dear, What's the dress that I should wear?" " Daughter, any reds or blues, But the black is most in use." " Nay, but say, my mother my dear, Why do you fall weeping here?" " Oh ! the truth must be said, — It's that John of Tours is dead." " Mother, let the sexton know That the grave must be for two ; " Aye, and still have room to spare. For you must shut the baby there." 186 MY FATHER'S CLOSE. {Old French.) Inside my fatlier's close, (Fly away O my heart away !) Sweet apple-blossom blows So sweet. Three kings' daughters fair, (Fly away O my heart away !) They lie below it there So sweet. " Ah ! " says the eldest one, (Fly away O my heart away !) " I think the day's begun So sweet." MV FATHERS CLOSE. 287 " Ah ! " says the second one, (Fly away O my heart away !) " Far off I hear the drum So sweet." " Ah ! " says the youngest one, (Fly away O my heart away !) " It's my true love, my own, So sweet. - " Oh ! if he fight and win," i (Fly away O my heart away !) | I " I keep my love for him, So sweet : Oh ! let him lose or win. He hath it still complete." 288 i \ BEAUTY. {A combi7iation from Sappho^ Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough, A-top on the topmost twig, — which the pluckers forgot, somehow, — Forgot it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it till now. II. 3 i Like the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is 5! found, ?: Which the passing feet of the shepherds for ever tear and wound, Until the purple blossom is trodden into the ground. •J \ 289 YOUTH AND LORDSHIP.^ i . ■ (^Italian Street-Song^ My young lord's the lover Of earth and sky above, Of youth's sway and youth's play, Of songs and flowers and love. 1 GIOVENTU E SIGNORIA. E Giovix\E il signore, Vezzose, giojose, Ed ama molte cose, — Tenenti all' amore. I canti, le rose, La forza e I'amore. Prendilo in braccio Adesso mai; 1- Quel che piu vuole Per pill mi taccio. Ancor non osa : Che tu lo sai ; Ahi pill che il sole, Bacialo e I'avrai, Piu ch' ogni rosa. Ma non lo dire. La cara cosa, Donna a gioire. E giovine il signore. ^ Ed ama ben le cose ". E giovine il signore. Che Amor nascose, Ed ama quelle cose Che mostragli Amore. 1 * Che ardor dispose : In cuore all' amore. Deh trionfando Non fame pruova; Bella fanciulla, Ahime ! che quando Guardalo in vise; Gioja pill giova, Non mancar nulla, AUor si trova Motto sorriso; Presso al tinire. Ma viso a viso Guarda a gradire. ^ giovine il signore, ^ Ed ama tante cose. E giovine il signore, Le rose, le spose, Ed ama tutte cose, Quante gli dona Amore. 290 YOUTH AND LORDSHIP. Yet for love's desire Green youth lacks the daring ; Though one dream of fire, All his hours ensnaring, Burns the boy past bearing, — That dream that girls inspire. My young lord's the lover Of every burning thought That Love's will, that Love's skill Within his breast has wrought. 5 Lovely girl, look on him • Soft as music's measure ; Yield him, when you've won him, 5 Joys and toys at pleasure ; I I But to win your treasure, I Sofdy look upon him. i \ f My young lord's the lover \ Of every tender grace i That woman, to woo man, i- Can wear in form or face. YOUTH AND LORDSHIP. 291 Take him to your bosom Now, girl, or never ; Let not your new blossom Of sweet kisses sever ; Only guard for ever Your boast within your bosom. My young lord's the lover Of every secret thing. Love-hidden, love-bidden This day to banqueting. Lovely girl, with vaunting Never tempt to-morrow : From all shapes enchanting Any joy can borrow. Still the spectre Sorrow Rises up for haunting. And now my lord's the lover Of ah ! so many a sweet, — Of roses, of spouses. As many as love may greet. 292 THE LEAF. {Leopardi.) " Torn from your parent bough, Poor leaf all withered now, Where go you? " " I cannot tel Storm-stricken is the oak-tree Where I grew, whence I fell. Changeful continually, The zephyr and hurricane Since that day bid me flee From deepest woods to the lea, From highest hills to the plain. Where the wind carries me I go without fear or grief : I I go whither each one goes, — I Thither the leaf of the rose And thither the laurel-leaf." 293 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI. (^Dante.) ****** When I made answer, I began : " Alas ! How many sweet thoughts and how much desire Led these two onward to the dolorous pass ! " Then turned to them, as who would fain inquire, And said : " Francesca, these thine agonies Wring tears for pity and grief that they inspire : But tell me, — in the season of sweet sighs, When and what way did Love instruct you so That he in your vague longings made you wise ? Then she to me : '' There is no greater woe Than the remembrance brings of happy days In misery ; and this thy guide dpth know. But if the first beginnings to retrace Of our sad love can yield thee solace here, So will I be as one that weeps and says. One day we read, for pastime and sweet cheer, 294 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI. Of Lancelot, how he found Love tyrannous : We were alone and without any fear. Our eyes were drawn together, reading thus, Full oft, and still our cheeks would pale and glow ; But one sole point it was that conquered us. For when we read of that great lover, how He kissed the smile which he had longed to win, — Then he whom nought could sever from me now For ever, kissed my mouth, all quivering. A Galahalt was the book, and he that writ : Upon that day we read no more therein." At the tale told, while one soul uttered it, The other wept : a pang so pitiable That I was seized, like death, in swooning-fit, And even as a dead body falls, I fell. 'Remember Jacob AbbotVs sensible rule to give children something that they are growing up to, not away from, and keep down the stock of children's books to the very best." CLASSIC JUYENILES BY JACOB ABBOTT, ''The Prince of Writers for the Young." " Jacob Abbott's books con- f^ i:iin so iiiucli practical wisdom fe concerning the every-day life of children, and so many les- sons in honor, truthfulness, and courtesy, that they should not be left out of the libraries of boys and girls." — From "Books for the Young," com- /li/ed by C. M. Ileivins, Librae ' r'lan of the Hartford Library ^liaJlill Association. ABBOTT'S AMERICAN HISTORIES FOR Illustrated by Darley, Herrick I. Aboriginal America. II. Discovery of America. III. The Southern Colonies. IV. The Northern Colonies. YOUTH. 8 vols. Chapiu, and others. 12nio ^10.00 V. Wars of the Colonies. VI. The Revolt of the Colonies. VII. The War of the Revolution. VIII. George W^ashington. THE ROI.I.O BOOKS. II vols. Rollo Learning to Talk. Rollo Learning to Read. Rollo at Work. Rollo at Play. Rollo at School. Rollo's Vacation. Rollo's Experiments. Illustrated. Ifimo Rollo's Museum. Rollo's Travels. Rollo's Correspondence. Rollo's Philosophy — Water. Rollo's Philosophy — Air. Rollo's Philosophy — Fire. Rollo's Philosophy — Sky. THE JOXAS BOOKS. Jonas a Judge. Caleb in Town. Caleb in the Country. 6 vols. Illustrated. 16mo .00 Jonas's Stories. Jonas on a Farm in Summer. Jonas on a Farm in W^inter. THE tUCY BOOKS. « vols. Illustrated. Ifimo 6.0n Lucy Among the Moumains. Lucy's Conversations. Lucy on the Sea Shore. Lucy at Study. Lucy at Play. Stories Told to Cousin Lucy, AUGUST STORIES. August and Elvie. Hunter and Tom JUNO STORIES. 4 vols Hubert. Juno and Georgie. 4 vols. Illustrated. 16mo I Schooner Mary Ann. I Granville Valley. Illustrated. IGmo 5.00 5.00 Juno on a Journey. Mary Osborne. Jacob Abbott's Classic Juveniles. " The republication by the house of Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. of thirty-four vohimes of Jacob Abbott's Boolis for Chiklren, is an event deserving more than ordinary mention in a journal that aims to be a chronicle of educational progress in our country. For a long generation, now quite fifty years, these charming and thoroughly wholesome little volumes have been appearing, year by year, for the entertaimnent and instruction of thousands of children of all ages ; including a great many people who have found the heart of their childhood renewed, under gray hairs, as they glanced over the homely adventures of Rollo, or the straight- forward stories of Jonas, and saw the old world of the Ncav England of half a century ago once more around them. In 1834, Jacob Abbott, a young minister of Roxbury, Mass., wrote the first simple story of the series which, under the title of the ' Rollo Books,' afterwards grew to the three dozen handsome juve- niles now republished. Without striking features of any sort, with no glare of unusual brilliancy, and nothing sensational, they struck the keynote of a genuine American child's litei-ature. Like his predecessor, Peter Parley (S. G. Goodrich), he dealt exclusively with American life as he found it in the country in the New England States. And this feature Ave regard one of the most valuable in these writings. They are to the country life of New England what the poetry of Crabbe was to the common rural life of his day. Were every other book sunk in the sea, it would be possible for the historian to reconstruct a complete picture of the common life of the New England of fifty years ago from this series of juveniles, in reading the history of the American Revolution in this series, we are struck with the author's ability to tell a plain story aijd bring out the points most interesting to the young in natural relief." — Journal of Education. " We welcome, and we think the present juvenile generation will Avelcome, T. Y. Crowell & Co.'s republication of this series of juvenile classics. The ' Rollo ' and the ' Lucy ' and ' Jonas ' Books are written Avith only the children Avithin the Avriter's horizon, as the children Avere first in the AA'ritors heart. Some years ago the NeAV York Nation called for a reprint of the ' Rollo Books,' and placed them among the best, if it did not declare them to be absolutely the best of all modern juveniles." — Christian Union. "After all, can any ncAV books for children — do any — have quite the charm of these old favorites? Oli, there never Avere such books as these in their day ; and there are some Avise heads Avho maintain that there never have been their like since. The author's faculty for arresting attention by means of common things and turning it to instructive uses, amounts almost, if not quite, to genius." — Literarii World. " No recent publication is likely to meet a more cordial reception among young people than the reprint of Jacob Abbott's Avorks just issued by Messrs. T. Y. Crowell & Co. Good juvenile literature is one of the most urgent demands of the time. Delightfully refreshing as they Avere to a generation nOAV, in a sense, beyond them, they have not yet become stale to the unvitiated mind of youth. The boy or girl of to-day will devour them Avith the same eagerness, the same healthy and unfailing relish Avith which they Avere originally received by his parents. The American History is equally admirable in its own Avay, and boys and girls desiring a simple, lucid, interesting recital of American History Aviil look in vain for a book better suited to their need." — N. Y. School Journal. Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., 13 Astor Place, New York. POPULAR POETS. Crowell's Favorite Illustrated Edition. AVITH DESIGNS BY Taylor, ^Merrill, ''Woodward, Schell, Gifford, Garrett, Hayden. and other emiueut artists. Printed on fine Calender^fl Paper, bound in attractive style for Holiday Gifts. Sq. 8vo, Gilt Edge, %2.50 per vol. J^'iill Mor. Antique or Tree Calf, S6.00. Aurora Leigh. Browning (Mrs.). Browning (Robert). Burns. Byron. Dante. Favorite. Faust. Goldsmith. Lalla Rookh. Lady of the Lake. Lay of the Last Minstrel. Lucile. ^NIarmion. Meredith (Owen). Milton. Moore. Scott. Swinburne. Tennyson. The iHustrations for these volumes are deserving of especial mention, having been prepared at great expense, a large proportion of them engraved by Geo. T. Andrew whose work on " Tlie Cambridge Book of Poetry " adds so much to its value. The paper, prin.ting, and binding are also first-class in all respects, and no effort has been spared to make this series attractive and popular. The price has also been fixed at a low rate, in order to insure the favor of the public ; and it is hoped that this line of Poets will prove adapted to the wants 'of those desiring attractive books at popular prices. Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., 13 Astor Place, AJ ^. A most Heliable and J^ahiable Booh of lieference. A DICTIONARY OF QUOTATIONS FROM THE POETS. Based upon BohYi's Edition, with numerous additions from American authors. Carefully revised and corrected, with Index of Authors and Chronological Data, and a Concordance Index to Every Passage in the Volume. Introductory Preface by R. H. Stoddard. Crown 8vo, 768 pp., $2,60. Interleared Edition, Especial care has been taken to insure accuracy of text, the copy having been compared with author's text before putting in type, and again verified by com- paring the proof-sheets with the original text, so that each quotation has been verified not only by the compiler, but also by an expert employed for this pur- pose. Extract from Introductory Preface. ** I have examined this Dictionary of Poetical Quotations carefully, and, bearing in mind the multitude of difficulties which must have beset the making of it. 1 can honestly say that, in my opinion, they have been triumphed over by the maker. This Dictionary of Poetical Quotations ought to be the best that has yet been compiled, partly because it is the latest, and partly because it covers more ground and embraces more poets than any other. I agree with Oldys in regard to the qualifications necessary in an editor of poetic anthologies, and that thoy are largely possessed by the reader-general for mankind who has digested what- ever is most exquisite in our poets into this Dictionary of Poetical Quotations." The Century, New York, June 20, 1883. ^'* ^^' STODDARD. From the Editor's Preface. " The present work is the American version of the latest edition of Dohn's Dictionary of Poetical Quotations, it largely represents American authors, and embraces many additions from English writers. All the quotations have been carefully compared with the author's text, not one being included the accuracy of which has not been verified. Full references have been supplied in every in- stance. "The quotations from Shakespeare's Plays have been verified by Charles Knight's text, and those from his Poems, by I\Irs. liorace Howard Furness's Concordance to Shakespeare ; those from the Old Dramatists by Routledgo'^ edition ; and those from other authors, by the best editions of their Avorks. " Subjects have been grouped, and full cross-references have been made. " Every quotation has been consecutively numbered, and a Concordance Index added, giving the prominent Avords in each exti-act twice or more, so that every passage can be readily referred to. "The i^laces, and dates of birth and death are given, with the autliors' names, A Dictionary of Quotations from the Poets. in an Index showing the quotations from each writer. In long poems the lines have been counted, and the extracts verified by a reference to the exact passage. " It is believed that by these methods, and by the great care observed in proof- reading, this volume will approve itself to the tastes and necessities of the ordi nary reader, as well as to all literary and studious persons, containing, as it does, so choice a representation of English verse." Notices of the Press. "This handsome volume of 770 pages seems to include about everything neces- sary for the use of the student or professional reader in the matter of poetical quotation. Thousands of young people, during the closing years of their school- life, need such a dictionary of the i)oets as this, with carefully-selected passages under appropriate headings, a copious index of quotations, and such an invalu- able index of authors as the book contains. The prtsent work apjsears to us to meet the requirements of the great mass of readers of poetry better than any that has fallen under our observatitm. — Joiavial of Education. "The system of indexing by numbering the passages, and referring to thorn by numbers "^in the Index of Authors and General Index is a very thorough piece of work." — Good Litcritturc. "The highest ambition of the compiler in this kind of work should be accvracy, ' flood judgment in the selection of quotations, and their arratigenunt , on all "these points the compilation stands strong, and cannot fail to prove highly use- ful." — Independent. "Not only very comprehensive, but is also admirably indexed and arranged." — Cliristian U)ilon. " Those who have need of poetical quotations will find nothing more completely adapted to their desires than this book. We knoAv of none as good — L'ohn's edition has }io index." — Christian hitelhgencer. "■ The more competent the critic wdio examines it the heartier will be his favor- able verdict." — Conf/regationalist. " The connnendation of IL H. Stoddard, which is embodied as a preface, is a sufficient testimonial to its merits." — Boston Pilot. " For variety, fullness of illustration of each topic, scope, and value of the quotations, the work is superior to any other with which 1 am acquainted. It should find a place in every library." — C?/?*ms Noi-throp,ProJ'.ofI!hetoric and Kn(jli.-/ paper, i}ressu'07^I: and binding, which combine to make this series so justly popular with the trade and the general public, whose demands during the past ye;ir have severely taxed our ability to supply promptly. We would call special attention to our r\evf ALLI- GATOR LEATHER BINDINGS, which Avill prove an attractive feature, and are offered at very low rates. The following now comprise the list: — Hood. Iliad. Irish Melodies. "Jean Inge low. Keats. *Lady of the Lake. "Lalla Rookh. "Lay of the Last Min- strel. "LUCILE. :Macaulay. "Marjiion. «Meredith (Owen). ^'Milton. MuLOCK (:Miss). '^:Moore. Odyssey. OSSIAN. Pilgrim's Progress. Poetry of Flowers. "^PoE (Edgar A.). Pope. *PROrTER, *Red Letter Poems. *RossETTr (Dante G.). Sacred Poems. '^Schiller. *SCOTT. ^ ^Shakespeare. *Shelley. Shipton (Anna). Spenser. Surf and Wave. *swinburne. *Tennyson. Thomson. TUPPEE. Virgil. White (Kirke). *Wordsworth. The above are also furnished with Plain Edges, not Illustrated, at Sl.OO per volun^.e. Those marked with an asterisk (*) furnished in Alligator Leather, at $5.00 per volume. For Sale by all BooJcsellers. Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., 13 Astor Place, N. Y. •^::2^^