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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:41:38 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:41:38 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/13223-0.txt b/13223-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..61c1180 --- /dev/null +++ b/13223-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12374 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13223 *** + +POEMS + +BY + +JEAN INGELOW + +_IN TWO VOLUMES_ + + + + +VOL. I. + + + + +BOSTON + +ROBERTS BROTHERS + +1896 + + +AUTHOR'S COMPLETE EDITION + + + + +_DEDICATION_ + + +TO + +GEORGE KILGOUR INGELOW + + +YOUR LOVING SISTER + +OFFERS YOU THESE POEMS, PARTLY AS + +AN EXPRESSION OF HER AFFECTION, PARTLY FOR THE + +PLEASURE OF CONNECTING HER EFFORTS + +WITH YOUR NAME + + + +KENSINGTON: _June_, 1863 + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. I. + + +DIVIDED +HONORS.--PART I. +HONORS.--PART II. +REQUIESCAT IN PACE +SUPPER AT THE MILL +SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER +THE STAR'S MONUMENT +A DEAD YEAR +REFLECTIONS +THE LETTER L +THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE (1571) +AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE +SONGS OF SEVEN +A COTTAGE IN A CHINE +PERSEPHONE +A SEA SONG +BROTHERS, AND A SERMON +A WEDDING SONG +THE FOUR BRIDGES +A MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD +STRIFE AND PEACE + +THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE + +SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. + INTRODUCTION.--CHILD AND BOATMAN + THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD BY THE UNSATISFIED HEART + SAND MARTINS + A POET IN HIS YOUTH AND THE CUCKOO-BIRD + A RAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE + THE WARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS + SEA-MEWS IN WINTER-TIME + +LAURANCE + +SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. + INTRODUCTORY.--EVENING + THE FIRST WATCH.--TIRED + THE MIDDLE WATCH + THE MORNING WATCH + CONCLUDING.--EARLY DAWN + +CONTRASTED SONGS. + SAILING BEYOND SEAS + REMONSTRANCE + SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF CHRIST'S RESURRECTION + SONG OF MARGARET + SONG OF THE GOING AWAY + A LILY AND A LUTE + +GLADYS AND HER ISLAND + +SONGS WITH PRELUDES. + WEDLOCK + REGRET + LAMENTATION + DOMINION + FRIENDSHIP + +WINSTANLEY + + + + +DIVIDED. + + +I. + +An empty sky, a world of heather, + Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom; +We two among them wading together, + Shaking out honey, treading perfume. + +Crowds of bees are giddy with clover, + Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet, +Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, + Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. + +Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, + Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, +'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver, + Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. + +We two walk till the purple dieth + And short dry grass under foot is brown. +But one little streak at a distance lieth + Green like a ribbon to prank the down. + + +II. + +Over the grass we stepped unto it, + And God He knoweth how blithe we were! +Never a voice to bid us eschew it: + Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair! + +Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it, + We parted the grasses dewy and sheen; +Drop over drop there filtered and slided + A tiny bright beck that trickled between. + +Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sang to us, + Light was our talk as of faëry bells-- +Faëry wedding-bells faintly rung to us + Down in their fortunate parallels. + +Hand in hand, while the sun peered over, + We lapped the grass on that youngling spring; +Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover, + And said, "Let us follow it westering." + + +III. + +A dappled sky, a world of meadows, + Circling above us the black rooks fly +Forward, backward; lo, their dark shadows + Flit on the blossoming tapestry-- + +Flit on the beck, for her long grass parteth + As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back; +And, lo, the sun like a lover darteth + His flattering smile on her wayward track. + +Sing on! we sing in the glorious weather + Till one steps over the tiny strand, +So narrow, in sooth, that still together + On either brink we go hand in hand. + +The beck grows wider, the hands must sever. + On either margin, our songs all done, +We move apart, while she singeth ever, + Taking the course of the stooping sun. + +He prays, "Come over"--I may not follow; + I cry, "Return"--but he cannot come: +We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow; + Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb. + + +IV. + +A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, + A little talking of outward things +The careless beck is a merry dancer, + Keeping sweet time to the air she sings. + +A little pain when the beck grows wider; + "Cross to me now--for her wavelets swell." +"I may not cross,"--and the voice beside her + Faintly reacheth, though heeded well. + +No backward path; ah! no returning; + No second crossing that ripple's flow: +"Come to me now, for the west is burning; + Come ere it darkens;"--"Ah, no! ah, no!" + +Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching-- + The beck grows wider and swift and deep: +Passionate words as of one beseeching-- + The loud beck drowns them; we walk, and weep. + + +V. + +A yellow moon in splendor drooping, + A tired queen with her state oppressed, +Low by rushes and swordgrass stooping, + Lies she soft on the waves at rest. + +The desert heavens have felt her sadness; + Her earth will weep her some dewy tears; +The wild beck ends her tune of gladness, + And goeth stilly as soul that fears. + +We two walk on in our grassy places + On either marge of the moonlit flood, +With the moon's own sadness in our faces, + Where joy is withered, blossom and bud. + + +VI. + +A shady freshness, chafers whirring, + A little piping of leaf-hid birds; +A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring, + A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds. + +Bare grassy slopes, where kids are tethered + Round valleys like nests all ferny-lined; +Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, + Swell high in their freckled robes behind. + +A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver, + When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide; +A flashing edge for the milk-white river, + The beck, a river--with still sleek tide. + +Broad and white, and polished as silver, + On she goes under fruit-laden trees; +Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver, + And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties. + +Glitters the dew and shines the river, + Up comes the lily and dries her bell; +But two are walking apart forever, + And wave their hands for a mute farewell. + + +VII. + +A braver swell, a swifter sliding; + The river hasteth, her banks recede: +Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding + Bear down the lily and drown the reed. + +Stately prows are rising and bowing + (Shouts of mariners winnow the air), +And level sands for banks endowing + The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. + +While, O my heart! as white sails shiver, + And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide +How hard to follow, with lips that quiver, + That moving speck on the far-off side! + +Farther, farther--I see it--know it-- + My eyes brim over, it melts away: +Only my heart to my heart shall show it + As I walk desolate day by day. + + +VII. + +And yet I know past all doubting, truly-- + A knowledge greater than grief can dim-- +I know, as he loved, he will love me duly-- + Yea better--e'en better than I love him. + +And as I walk by the vast calm river, + The awful river so dread to see, +I say, "Thy breadth and thy depth forever + Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me." + + + + +HONORS.--PART I. + +(_A Scholar is musing on his want of success._) + + +To strive--and fail. Yes, I did strive and fail; + I set mine eyes upon a certain night +To find a certain star--and could not hail + With them its deep-set light. + +Fool that I was! I will rehearse my fault: + I, wingless, thought myself on high to lift +Among the winged--I set these feet that halt + To run against the swift. + +And yet this man, that loved me so, can write-- + That loves me, I would say, can let me see; +Or fain would have me think he counts but light + These Honors lost to me. + + (_The letter of his friend._) +"What are they? that old house of yours which gave + Such welcome oft to me, the sunbeams fall +Yet, down the squares of blue and white which pave + Its hospitable hall. + +"A brave old house! a garden full of bees, + Large dropping poppies, and Queen hollyhocks, +With butterflies for crowns--tree peonies + And pinks and goldilocks. + +"Go, when the shadow of your house is long + Upon the garden--when some new-waked bird. +Pecking and fluttering, chirps a sudden song, + And not a leaf is stirred; + +"But every one drops dew from either edge + Upon its fellow, while an amber ray +Slants up among the tree-tops like a wedge + Of liquid gold--to play + +"Over and under them, and so to fall + Upon that lane of water lying below-- +That piece of sky let in, that you do call + A pond, but which I know + +"To be a deep and wondrous world; for I + Have seen the trees within it--marvellous things +So thick no bird betwixt their leaves could fly + But she would smite her wings;-- + +"Go there, I say; stand at the water's brink, + And shoals of spotted barbel you shall see +Basking between the shadows--look, and think + 'This beauty is for me; + +"'For me this freshness in the morning hours, + For me the water's clear tranquillity; +For me the soft descent of chestnut flowers; + The cushat's cry for me. + +"'The lovely laughter of the wind-swayed wheat + The easy slope of yonder pastoral hill; +The sedgy brook whereby the red kine meet + And wade and drink their fill.' + +"Then saunter down that terrace whence the sea + All fair with wing-like sails you may discern; +Be glad, and say 'This beauty is for me-- + A thing to love and learn. + +"'For me the bounding in of tides; for me + The laying bare of sands when they retreat; +The purple flush of calms, the sparkling glee + When waves and sunshine meet.' + +"So, after gazing, homeward turn, and mount + To that long chamber in the roof; there tell +Your heart the laid-up lore it holds to count + And prize and ponder well. + +"The lookings onward of the race before + It had a past to make it look behind; +Its reverent wonder, and its doubting sore, + Its adoration blind. + +"The thunder of its war-songs, and the glow + Of chants to freedom by the old world sung; +The sweet love cadences that long ago + Dropped from the old-world tongue. + +"And then this new-world lore that takes account + Of tangled star-dust; maps the triple whirl +Of blue and red and argent worlds that mount + And greet the IRISH EARL; + +"Or float across the tube that HERSCHEL sways, + Like pale-rose chaplets, or like sapphire mist; +Or hang or droop along the heavenly ways, + Like scarves of amethyst. + +"O strange it is and wide the new-world lore, + For next it treateth of our native dust! +Must dig out buried monsters, and explore + The green earth's fruitful crust; + +"Must write the story of her seething youth-- + How lizards paddled in her lukewarm seas; +Must show the cones she ripened, and forsooth + Count seasons on her trees; + +"Must know her weight, and pry into her age, + Count her old beach lines by their tidal swell; +Her sunken mountains name, her craters gauge, + Her cold volcanoes tell; + +"And treat her as a ball, that one might pass + From this hand to the other--such a ball +As he could measure with a blade of grass, + And say it was but small! + +"Honors! O friend, I pray you bear with me: + The grass hath time to grow in meadow lands, +And leisurely the opal murmuring sea + Breaks on her yellow sands; + +"And leisurely the ring-dove on her nest + Broods till her tender chick will peck the shell +And leisurely down fall from ferny crest + The dew-drops on the well; + +"And leisurely your life and spirit grew, + With yet the time to grow and ripen free: +No judgment past withdraws that boon from you, + Nor granteth it to me. + +"Still must I plod, and still in cities moil; + From precious leisure, learned leisure far, +Dull my best self with handling common soil; + Yet mine those honors are. + +"Mine they are called; they are a name which means, + 'This man had steady pulses, tranquil nerves: +Here, as in other fields, the most he gleans + Who works and never swerves. + +"We measure not his mind; we cannot tell + What lieth under, over, or beside +The test we put him to; he doth excel, + We know, where he is tried; + +"But, if he boast some farther excellence-- + Mind to create as well as to attain; +To sway his peers by golden eloquence, + As wind doth shift a fane; + +"'To sing among the poets--we are nought: + We cannot drop a line into that sea +And read its fathoms off, nor gauge a thought, + Nor map a simile. + +"'It may be of all voices sublunar + The only one he echoes we did try; +We may have come upon the only star + That twinkles in his sky,' + +"And so it was with me." + O false my friend! + False, false, a random charge, a blame undue; +Wrest not fair reasoning to a crooked end: + False, false, as you are true! + +But I read on: "And so it was with me; + Your golden constellations lying apart +They neither hailed nor greeted heartily, + Nor noted on their chart. + +"And yet to you and not to me belong + Those finer instincts that, like second sight +And hearing, catch creation's undersong, + And see by inner light. + +"You are a well, whereon I, gazing, see + Reflections of the upper heavens--a well +From whence come deep, deep echoes up to me-- + Some underwave's low swell. + +"I cannot soar into the heights you show, + Nor dive among the deeps that you reveal; +But it is much that high things ARE to know, + That deep things ARE to feel. + +"'Tis yours, not mine, to pluck out of your breast + Some human truth, whose workings recondite +Were unattired in words, and manifest + And hold it forth to light + +"And cry, 'Behold this thing that I have found,' + And though they knew not of it till that day, +Nor should have done with no man to expound + Its meaning, yet they say, + +"'We do accept it: lower than the shoals + We skim, this diver went, nor did create, +But find it for us deeper in our souls + Than we can penetrate.' + +"You were to me the world's interpreter, + The man that taught me Nature's unknown tongue, +And to the notes of her wild dulcimer + First set sweet words, and sung. + +"And what am I to you? A steady hand + To hold, a steadfast heart to trust withal; +Merely a man that loves you, and will stand + By you, whatever befall. + +"But need we praise his tendance tutelar + Who feeds a flame that warms him? Yet 'tis true +I love you for the sake of what you are, + And not of what you do:-- + +"As heaven's high twins, whereof in Tyrian blue + The one revolveth: through his course immense +Might love his fellow of the damask hue, + For like, and difference. + +"For different pathways evermore decreed + To intersect, but not to interfere; +For common goal, two aspects, and one speed, + One centre and one year; + +"For deep affinities, for drawings strong, + That by their nature each must needs exert; +For loved alliance, and for union long, + That stands before desert. + +"And yet desert makes brighter not the less, + For nearest his own star he shall not fail +To think those rays unmatched for nobleness, + That distance counts but pale. + +"Be pale afar, since still to me you shine, + And must while Nature's eldest law shall hold;"-- +Ah, there's the thought which makes his random line + Dear as refinèd gold! + +Then shall I drink this draft of oxymel, + Part sweet, part sharp? Myself o'erprized to know +Is sharp; the cause is sweet, and truth to tell + Few would that cause forego, + +Which is, that this of all the men on earth + Doth love me well enough to count me great-- +To think my soul and his of equal girth-- + O liberal estimate! + +And yet it is so; he is bound to me, + For human love makes aliens near of kin; +By it I rise, there is equality: + I rise to thee, my twin. + +"Take courage"--courage! ay, my purple peer + I will take courage; for thy Tyrian rays +Refresh me to the heart, and strangely dear + And healing is thy praise. + +"Take courage," quoth he, "and respect the mind + Your Maker gave, for good your fate fulfil; +The fate round many hearts your own to wind." + Twin soul, I will! I will! + +[Illustration] + + + + +HONORS.--PART II. + +(_The Answer._) + + +As one who, journeying, checks the rein in haste + Because a chasm doth yawn across his way +Too wide for leaping, and too steeply faced + For climber to essay-- + +As such an one, being brought to sudden stand, + Doubts all his foregone path if 'twere the true, +And turns to this and then to the other hand + As knowing not what to do,-- + +So I, being checked, am with my path at strife + Which led to such a chasm, and there doth end. +False path! it cost me priceless years of life, + My well-beloved friend. + +There fell a flute when Ganymede went up-- + The flute that he was wont to play upon: +It dropped beside the jonquil's milk-white cup, + And freckled cowslips wan-- + +Dropped from his heedless hand when, dazed and mute, + He sailed upon the eagle's quivering wing, +Aspiring, panting--aye, it dropped--the flute + Erewhile a cherished thing. + +Among the delicate grasses and the bells + Of crocuses that spotted a rill side, +I picked up such a flute, and its clear swells + To my young lips replied. + +I played thereon, and its response was sweet; + But lo, they took from me that solacing reed. +"O shame!" they said; "such music is not meet; + Go up like Ganymede. + +"Go up, despise these humble grassy things, + Sit on the golden edge of yonder cloud." +Alas! though ne'er for me those eagle wings + Stooped from their eyry proud. + +My flute! and flung away its echoes sleep; + But as for me, my life-pulse beateth low; +And like a last-year's leaf enshrouded deep + Under the drifting snow, + +Or like some vessel wrecked upon the sand + Of torrid swamps, with all her merchandise, +And left to rot betwixt the sea and land, + My helpless spirit lies. + +Rueing, I think for what then was I made; + What end appointed for--what use designed? +Now let me right this heart that was bewrayed-- + Unveil these eyes gone blind. + +My well-beloved friend, at noon to-day + Over our cliffs a white mist lay unfurled, +So thick, one standing on their brink might say, + Lo, here doth end the world. + +A white abyss beneath, and nought beside; + Yet, hark! a cropping sound not ten feet down: +Soon I could trace some browsing lambs that hied + Through rock-paths cleft and brown. + +And here and there green tufts of grass peered through, + Salt lavender, and sea thrift; then behold +The mist, subsiding ever, bared to view + A beast of giant mould. + +She seemed a great sea-monster lying content + With all her cubs about her: but deep--deep-- +The subtle mist went floating; its descent + Showed the world's end was steep. + +It shook, it melted, shaking more, till, lo, + The sprawling monster was a rock; her brood +Were boulders, whereon sea-mews white as snow + Sat watching for their food. + +Then once again it sank, its day was done: + Part rolled away, part vanished utterly, +And glimmering softly under the white sun, + Behold! a great white sea. + +O that the mist which veileth my To-come + Would so dissolve and yield unto mine eyes +A worthy path! I'd count not wearisome + Long toil, nor enterprise, + +But strain to reach it; ay, with wrestlings stout + And hopes that even in the dark will grow +(Like plants in dungeons, reaching feelers out), + And ploddings wary and slow. + +Is there such path already made to fit + The measure of my foot? It shall atone +For much, if I at length may light on it + And know it for mine own. + +But is there none? why, then, 'tis more than well: + And glad at heart myself will hew one out, +Let me he only sure; for, sooth to tell, + The sorest dole is doubt-- + +Doubt, a blank twilight of the heart, which mars + All sweetest colors in its dimness same; +A soul-mist, through whose rifts familiar stare + Beholding, we misname. + +A ripple on the inner sea, which shakes + Those images that on its breast reposed; +A fold upon a wind-swayed flag, that breaks + The motto it disclosed. + +O doubt! O doubt! I know my destiny; + I feel thee fluttering bird-like in my breast; +I cannot loose, but I will sing to thee, + And flatter thee to rest. + +There is no certainty, "my bosom's guest," + No proving for the things whereof ye wot; +For, like the dead to sight unmanifest, + They are, and they are not. + +But surely as they are, for God is truth, + And as they are not, for we saw them die, +So surely from the heaven drops light for youth, + If youth will walk thereby. + +And can I see this light? It may be so; + "But see it thus and thus," my fathers said. +The living do not rule this world; ah no! + It is the dead, the dead. + +Shall I be slave to every noble soul, + Study the dead, and to their spirits bend; +Or learn to read my own heart's folded scroll, + And make self-rule my end? + +Thought from _without_--O shall I take on trust, + And life from others modelled steal or win; +Or shall I heave to light, and clear of rust + My true life from _within_? + +O, let me be myself! But where, O where, + Under this heap of precedent, this mound +Of customs, modes, and maxims, cumbrance rare, + Shall the Myself be found? + +O thou _Myself_, thy fathers thee debarred + None of their wisdom, but their folly came +Therewith; they smoothed thy path, but made it hard + For thee to quit the same. + +With glosses they obscured God's natural truth, + And with tradition tarnished His revealed; +With vain protections they endangered youth, + With layings bare they sealed. + +What aileth thee, myself? Alas! thy hands + Are tied with old opinions--heir and son, +Thou hast inherited thy father's lands + And all his debts thereon. + +O that some power would give me Adam's eyes! + O for the straight simplicity of Eve! +For I see nought, or grow, poor fool, too wise + With seeing to believe. + +Exemplars may be heaped until they hide + The rules that they were made to render plain; +Love may be watched, her nature to decide, + Until love's self doth wane. + +Ah me! and when forgotten and foregone + We leave the learning of departed days, +And cease the generations past to con, + Their wisdom and their ways,-- + +When fain to learn we lean into the dark, + And grope to feel the floor of the abyss, +Or find the secret boundary lines which mark + Where soul and matter kiss-- + +Fair world! these puzzled souls of ours grow weak + With beating their bruised wings against the rim +That bounds their utmost flying, when they seek + The distant and the dim. + +We pant, we strain like birds against their wires; + Are sick to reach the vast and the beyond;-- +And what avails, if still to our desires + Those far-off gulfs respond? + +Contentment comes not therefore; still there lies + An outer distance when the first is hailed, +And still forever yawns before our eyes + An UTMOST--that is veiled. + +Searching those edges of the universe, + We leave the central fields a fallow part; +To feed the eye more precious things amerce, + And starve the darkened heart. + +Then all goes wrong: the old foundations rock; + One scorns at him of old who gazed unshod; +One striking with a pickaxe thinks the shock + Shall move the seat of God. + +A little way, a very little way + (Life is so short), they dig into the rind, +And they are very sorry, so they say,-- + Sorry for what they find. + +But truth is sacred--ay, and must be told: + There is a story long beloved of man; +We must forego it, for it will not hold-- + Nature had no such plan. + +And then, if "God hath said it," some should cry, + We have the story from the fountain-head: +Why, then, what better than the old reply, + The first "Yea, HATH God said?" + +The garden, O the garden, must it go, + Source of our hope and our most dear regret? +The ancient story, must it no more show + How man may win it yet? + +And all upon the Titan child's decree, + The baby science, born but yesterday, +That in its rash unlearned infancy + With shells and stones at play, + +And delving in the outworks of this world, + And little crevices that it could reach, +Discovered certain bones laid up, and furled + Under an ancient beach, + +And other waifs that lay to its young mind + Some fathoms lower than they ought to lie, +By gain whereof it could not fail to find + Much proof of ancientry, + +Hints at a Pedigree withdrawn and vast, + Terrible deeps, and old obscurities, +Or soulless origin, and twilight passed + In the primeval seas, + +Whereof it tells, as thinking it hath been + Of truth not meant for man inheritor; +As if this knowledge Heaven had ne'er foreseen + And not provided for! + +Knowledge ordained to live! although the fate + Of much that went before it was--to die, +And be called ignorance by such as wait + Till the next drift comes by. + +O marvellous credulity of man! + If God indeed kept secret, couldst thou know +Or follow up the mighty Artisan + Unless He willed it so? + +And canst thou of the Maker think in sooth + That of the Made He shall be found at fault, +And dream of wresting from Him hidden truth + By force or by assault? + +But if He keeps not secret--if thine eyes + He openeth to His wondrous work of late-- +Think how in soberness thy wisdom lies, + And have the grace to wait. + +Wait, nor against the half-learned lesson fret, + Nor chide at old belief as if it erred, +Because thou canst not reconcile as yet + The Worker and the word. + +Either the Worker did in ancient days + Give us the word, His tale of love and might; +(And if in truth He gave it us, who says + He did not give it right?) + +Or else He gave it not, and then indeed + We know not if HE is--by whom our years +Are portioned, who the orphan moons doth lead, + And the unfathered spheres. + +We sit unowned upon our burial sod + And know not whence we come or whose we be, +Comfortless mourners for the mount of God, + The rocks of Calvary: + +Bereft of heaven, and of the long-loved page + Wrought us by some who thought with death to cope. +Despairing comforters, from age to age + Sowing the seeds of hope: + +Gracious deceivers, who have lifted us + Out of the slough where passed our unknown youth. +Beneficent liars, who have gifted us + With sacred love of truth! + +Farewell to them: yet pause ere thou unmoor + And set thine ark adrift on unknown seas; +How wert thou bettered so, or more secure + Thou, and thy destinies? + +And if thou searchest, and art made to fear + Facing of unread riddles dark and hard, +And mastering not their majesty austere, + Their meaning locked and barred: + +How would it make the weight and wonder less, + If, lifted from immortal shoulders down, +The worlds were cast on seas of emptiness + In realms without a crown. + +And (if there were no God) were left to rue + Dominion of the air and of the fire? +Then if there be a God, "Let God be true, + And every man a liar." + +But as for me, I do not speak as one + That is exempt: I am with life at feud: +My heart reproacheth me, as there were none + Of so small gratitude. + +Wherewith shall I console thee, heart o' mine. + And still thy yearning and resolve thy doubt? +That which I know, and that which I divine, + Alas! have left thee out. + +I have aspired to know the might of God, + As if the story of His love was furled, +Nor sacred foot the grasses e'er had trod + Of this redeemèd world:-- + +Have sunk my thoughts as lead into the deep, + To grope for that abyss whence evil grew, +And spirits of ill, with eyes that cannot weep, + Hungry and desolate flew; + +As if their legions did not one day crowd + The death-pangs of the Conquering Good to see! +As if a sacred head had never bowed + In death for man--for me; + +Nor ransomed back the souls beloved, the sons + Of men, from thraldom with the nether kings +In that dark country where those evil ones + Trail their unhallowed wings. + +And didst Thou love the race that loved not Thee, + And didst Thou take to heaven a human brow? +Dost plead with man's voice by the marvellous sea? + Art Thou his kinsman now? + +O God, O kinsman loved, but not enough! + O man, with eyes majestic after death, +Whose feet have toiled along our pathways rough, + Whose lips drawn human breath! + +By that one likeness which is ours and Thine, + By that one nature which doth hold us kin, +By that high heaven where, sinless, Thou dost shine + To draw us sinners in, + +By Thy last silence in the judgment-hall, + By long foreknowledge of the deadly tree, +By darkness, by the wormwood and the gall, + I pray Thee visit me. + +Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away, + Die ere the guest adored she entertain-- +Lest eyes which never saw Thine earthly day + Should miss Thy heavenly reign. + +Come, weary-eyed from seeking in the night + Thy wanderers strayed upon the pathless wold, +Who wounded, dying, cry to Thee for light, + And cannot find their fold. + +And deign, O Watcher, with the sleepless brow, + Pathetic in its yearning--deign reply: +Is there, O is there aught that such as Thou + Wouldst take from such as I? + +Are there no briers across Thy pathway thrust? + Are there no thorns that compass it about? +Nor any stones that Thou wilt deign to trust + My hands to gather out? + +O if Thou wilt, and if such bliss might be, + It were a cure for doubt, regret, delay-- +Let my lost pathway go--what aileth me?-- + There is a better way. + +What though unmarked the happy workman toil, + And break unthanked of man the stubborn clod? +It is enough, for sacred is the soil, + Dear are the hills of God. + +Far better in its place the lowliest bird + Should sing aright to Him the lowliest song, +Than that a seraph strayed should take the word + And sing His glory wrong. + +Friend, it is time to work. I say to thee, + Thou dost all earthly good by much excel; +Thou and God's blessing are enough for me: + My work, my work--farewell! + + + + +REQUIESCAT IN PACE! + + +My heart is sick awishing and awaiting: + The lad took up his knapsack, he went, he went his way; +And I looked on for his coming, as a prisoner through the grating + Looks and longs and longs and wishes for its opening day. + +On the wild purple mountains, all alone with no other, + The strong terrible mountains he longed, he longed to be; +And he stooped to kiss his father, and he stooped to kiss his mother, + And till I said, "Adieu, sweet Sir," he quite forgot me. + +He wrote of their white raiment, the ghostly capes that screen them, + Of the storm winds that beat them, their thunder-rents and scars, +And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes atween them, + And fields, where grow God's gentian bells, and His crocus stars. + +He wrote of frail gauzy clouds, that drop on them like fleeces, + And make green their fir forests, and feed their mosses hoar; +Or come sailing up the valleys, and get wrecked and go to pieces, + Like sloops against their cruel strength: then he wrote no more. + +O the silence that came next, the patience and long aching! + They never said so much as "He was a dear loved son;" +Not the father to the mother moaned, that dreary stillness breaking: + "Ah! wherefore did he leave us so--this, our only one." + +They sat within, as waiting, until the neighbors prayed them, + At Cromer, by the sea-coast, 'twere peace and change to be; +And to Cromer, in their patience, or that urgency affrayed them, + Or because the tidings tarried, they came, and took me. + +It was three months and over since the dear lad had started: + On the green downs at Cromer I sat to see the view; +On an open space of herbage, where the ling and fern had parted, + Betwixt the tall white lighthouse towers, the old and the new. + +Below me lay the wide sea, the scarlet sun was stooping, + And he dyed the waste water, as with a scarlet dye; +And he dyed the lighthouse towers; every bird with white wing swooping + Took his colors, and the cliffs did, and the yawning sky. + +Over grass came that strange flush, and over ling and heather, + Over flocks of sheep and lambs, and over Cromer town; +And each filmy cloudlet crossing drifted like a scarlet feather + Torn from the folded wings of clouds, while he settled down. + +When I looked, I dared not sigh:--In the light of God's splendor, + With His daily blue and gold, who am I? what am I? +But that passion and outpouring seemed an awful sign and tender, + Like the blood of the Redeemer, shown on earth and sky. + +O for comfort, O the waste of a long doubt and trouble! + On that sultry August eve trouble had made me meek; +I was tired of my sorrow--O so faint, for it was double + In the weight of its oppression, that I could not speak! + +And a little comfort grew, while the dimmed eyes were feeding, + And the dull ears with murmur of water satisfied; +But a dream came slowly nigh me, all my thoughts and fancy leading + Across the bounds of waking life to the other side. + +And I dreamt that I looked out, to the waste waters turning, + And saw the flakes of scarlet from wave to wave tossed on; +And the scarlet mix with azure, where a heap of gold lay burning + On the clear remote sea reaches; for the sun was gone. + +Then I thought a far-off shout dropped across the still water-- + A question as I took it, for soon an answer came +From the tall white ruined lighthouse: "If it be the old man's daughter + That we wot of," ran the answer, "what then--who's to blame?" + +I looked up at the lighthouse all roofless and storm-broken: + A great white bird sat on it, with neck stretched out to sea; +Unto somewhat which was sailing in a skiff the bird had spoken, + And a trembling seized my spirit, for they talked of me. + +I was the old man's daughter, the bird went on to name him; + "He loved to count the starlings as he sat in the sun; +Long ago he served with Nelson, and his story did not shame him: + Ay, the old man was a good man--and his work was done." + +The skiff was like a crescent, ghost of some moon departed, + Frail, white, she rocked and curtseyed as the red wave she crossed, +And the thing within sat paddling, and the crescent dipped and darted, + Flying on, again was shouting, but the words were lost. + +I said, "That thing is hooded; I could hear but that floweth + The great hood below its mouth:" then the bird made reply. +"If they know not, more's the pity, for the little shrew-mouse knoweth, + And the kite knows, and the eagle, and the glead and pye." + +And he stooped to whet his beak on the stones of the coping; + And when once more the shout came, in querulous tones he spake, +"What I said was 'more's the pity;' if the heart be long past hoping, + Let it say of death, 'I know it,' or doubt on and break. + +"Men must die--one dies by day, and near him moans his mother, + They dig his grave, tread it down, and go from it full loth: +And one dies about the midnight, and the wind moans, and no other, + And the snows give him a burial--and God loves them both. + +"The first hath no advantage--it shall not soothe his slumber + That a lock of his brown hair his father aye shall keep; +For the last, he nothing grudgeth, it shall nought his quiet cumber, + That in a golden mesh of HIS callow eaglets sleep. + +"Men must die when all is said, e'en the kite and glead know it, + And the lad's father knew it, and the lad, the lad too; +It was never kept a secret, waters bring it and winds blow it, + And he met it on the mountain--why then make ado?" + +With that he spread his white wings, and swept across the water, + Lit upon the hooded head, and it and all went down; +And they laughed as they went under, and I woke, "the old man's daughter." + And looked across the slope of grass, and at Cromer town. + +And I said, "Is that the sky, all gray and silver-suited?" + And I thought, "Is that the sea that lies so white and wan? +I have dreamed as I remember: give me time--I was reputed + Once to have a steady courage--O, I fear 'tis gone!" + +And I said, "Is this my heart? if it be, low 'tis beating + So he lies on the mountain, hard by the eagles' brood; +I have had a dream this evening, while the white and gold were fleeting, + But I need not, need not tell it--where would be the good? + +"Where would be the good to them, his father and his mother? + For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth to them still. +While a lonely watch-fire smoulders, who its dying red would smother, + That gives what little light there is to a darksome hill?" + +I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor falter, + But slowly in the twilight I came to Cromer town. +What can wringing of the hands do that which is ordained to alter? + He had climbed, had climbed the mountain, he would ne'er come down. + +But, O my first, O my best, I could not choose but love thee: + O, to be a wild white bird, and seek thy rocky bed! +From my breast I'd give thee burial, pluck the down and spread above thee; + I would sit and sing thy requiem on the mountain head. + +Fare thee well, my love of loves! would I had died before thee! + O, to be at least a cloud, that near thee I might flow, +Solemnly approach the mountain, weep away my being o'er thee, + And veil thy breast with icicles, and thy brow with snow! + + + + +SUPPER AT THE MILL. + + +_Mother._ +Well, Frances. + +_Frances._ +Well, good mother, how are you? + + _M._ I'm hearty, lass, but warm; the weather's warm: +I think 'tis mostly warm on market days. +I met with George behind the mill: said he, +"Mother, go in and rest awhile." + + _F._ Ay, do, +And stay to supper; put your basket down. + + _M._ Why, now, it is not heavy? + + _F._ Willie, man, +Get up and kiss your Granny. Heavy, no! +Some call good churning luck; but, luck or skill, +Your butter mostly comes as firm and sweet +As if 'twas Christmas. So you sold it all? + + _M._ All but this pat that I put by for George; +He always loved my butter. + + _F._ That he did. + + _M._ And has your speckled hen brought off her brood? + + _F._ Not yet; but that old duck I told you of, +She hatched eleven out of twelve to-day. + + _Child._ And, Granny, they're so yellow. + + _M._ Ay, my lad, +Yellow as gold--yellow as Willie's hair. + + _C._ They're all mine, Granny, father says they're mine. + + _M._ To think of that! + + _F._ Yes, Granny, only think! +Why, father means to sell them when they're fat. +And put the money in the savings-bank, +And all against our Willie goes to school: +But Willie would not touch them--no, not he; +He knows that father would be angry else. + + _C._ But I want one to play with--O, I want +A little yellow duck to take to bed! + + _M._ What! would ye rob the poor old mother, then? + + _F._ Now, Granny, if you'll hold the babe awhile; +'Tis time I took up Willie to his crib. + _[Exit FRANCES._ + +[_Mother sings to the infant_.] + + Playing on the virginals, + Who but I? Sae glad, sae free, + Smelling for all cordials, + The green mint and marjorie; + Set among the budding broom, + Kingcup and daffodilly; + By my side I made him room: + O love my Willie! + + "Like me, love me, girl o' gowd," + Sang he to my nimble strain; + Sweet his ruddy lips o'erflowed + Till my heartstrings rang again: + By the broom, the bonny broom, + Kingcup and daffodilly, + In my heart I made him room: + O love my Willie! + + "Pipe and play, dear heart," sang he, + "I must go, yet pipe and play; + Soon I'll come and ask of thee + For an answer yea or nay;" + And I waited till the flocks + Panted in yon waters stilly, + And the corn stood in the shocks: + O love my Willie! + + I thought first when thou didst come + I would wear the ring for thee, + But the year told out its sum, + Ere again thou sat'st by me; + Thou hadst nought to ask that day + By kingcup and daffodilly; + I said neither yea nor nay: + O love my Willie! + +_Enter_ GEORGE. + + _George_. Well, mother, 'tis a fortnight now, or more, +Since I set eyes on you. + + _M._ Ay, George, my dear, +I reckon you've been busy: so have we. + + _G._ And how does father? + + _M._ He gets through his work. +But he grows stiff, a little stiff, my dear; +He's not so young, you know, by twenty years +As I am--not so young by twenty years, +And I'm past sixty. + + _G._ Yet he's hale and stout, +And seems to take a pleasure in his pipe; +And seems to take a pleasure in his cows, +And a pride, too. + + _M._ And well he may, my dear. + + _G._ Give me the little one, he tires your arm, +He's such a kicking, crowing, wakeful rogue, +He almost wears our lives out with his noise +Just at day-dawning, when we wish to sleep. +What! you young villain, would you clench your fist +In father's curls? a dusty father, sure, +And you're as clean as wax. + Ay, you may laugh; +But if you live a seven years more or so, +These hands of yours will all be brown and scratched +With climbing after nest-eggs. They'll go down +As many rat-holes as are round the mere; +And you'll love mud, all manner of mud and dirt, +As your father did afore you, and you'll wade +After young water-birds; and you'll get bogged +Setting of eel-traps, and you'll spoil your clothes, +And come home torn and dripping: then, you know, +You'll feel the stick--you'll feel the stick, my lad! + +_Enter FRANCES._ + + _F._ You should not talk so to the blessed babe-- +How can you, George? why, he may be in heaven +Before the time you tell of. + + _M._ Look at him: +So earnest, such an eager pair of eyes! +He thrives, my dear. + + _F._ Yes, that he does, thank God +My children are all strong. + + _M._ 'Tis much to say; +Sick children fret their mother's hearts to shreds, +And do no credit to their keep nor care. +Where is your little lass? + + _F._ Your daughter came +And begged her of us for a week or so. + + _M._ Well, well, she might be wiser, that she might, +For she can sit at ease and pay her way; +A sober husband, too--a cheerful man-- +Honest as ever stepped, and fond of her; +Yet she is never easy, never glad, +Because she has not children. Well-a-day! +If she could know how hard her mother worked, +And what ado I had, and what a moil +With my half-dozen! Children, ay, forsooth, +They bring their own love with them when they come, +But if they come not there is peace and rest; +The pretty lambs! and yet she cries for more: +Why the world's full of them, and so is heaven-- +They are not rare. + +_G._ No, mother, not at all; +But Hannah must not keep our Fanny long-- +She spoils her. + + _M._ Ah! folks spoil their children now; +When I was a young woman 'twas not so; +We made our children fear us, made them work, +Kept them in order. + + _G._ Were not proud of them-- +Eh, mother? + + _M._ I set store by mine, 'tis true, +But then I had good cause. + + _G._ My lad, d'ye hear? +Your Granny was not proud, by no means proud! +She never spoilt your father--no, not she, +Nor ever made him sing at harvest-home, +Nor at the forge, nor at the baker's shop, +Nor to the doctor while she lay abed +Sick, and he crept upstairs to share her broth. + + _M._ Well, well, you were my youngest, and, what's more +Your father loved to hear you sing--he did, +Although, good man, he could not tell one tune +From the other. + + _F._ No, he got his voice from you: +Do use it, George, and send the child to sleep. + + _G._ What must I sing? + + _F._ The ballad of the man +That is so shy he cannot speak his mind. + + _G._ Ay, of the purple grapes and crimson leaves; +But, mother, put your shawl and bonnet off. +And, Frances, lass, I brought some cresses in: +Just wash them, toast the bacon, break some eggs, +And let's to supper shortly. + +[_Sings._] + + My neighbor White--we met to-day-- + He always had a cheerful way, + As if he breathed at ease; + My neighbor White lives down the glade, + And I live higher, in the shade + Of my old walnut-trees. + + So many lads and lasses small, + To feed them all, to clothe them all, + Must surely tax his wit; + I see his thatch when I look out, + His branching roses creep about, + And vines half smother it. + + There white-haired urchins climb his eaves, + And little watch-fires heap with leaves, + And milky filberts hoard; + And there his oldest daughter stands + With downcast eyes and skilful hands + Before her ironing-board. + + She comforts all her mother's days, + And with her sweet obedient ways + She makes her labor light; + So sweet to hear, so fair to see! + O, she is much too good for me, + That lovely Lettice White! + + 'Tis hard to feel one's self a fool! + With that same lass I went to school-- + I then was great and wise; + She read upon an easier book, + And I--I never cared to look + Into her shy blue eyes. + + And now I know they must be there + Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair + That will not raise their rim: + If maids be shy, he cures who can; + But if a man be shy--a man-- + Why then the worse for him! + + My mother cries, "For such a lad + A wife is easy to be had + And always to be found; + A finer scholar scarce can be, + And for a foot and leg," says she, + "He beats the country round! + + "My handsome boy must stoop his head + To clear her door whom he would wed." + Weak praise, but fondly sung! + "O mother! scholars sometimes fail-- + And what can foot and leg avail + To him that wants a tongue?" + + When by her ironing-board I sit, + Her little sisters round me flit, + And bring me forth their store; + Dark cluster grapes of dusty blue, + And small sweet apples bright of hue + And crimson to the core. + + But she abideth silent, fair, + All shaded by her flaxen hair + The blushes come and go; + I look, and I no more can speak + Than the red sun that on her cheek + Smiles as he lieth low. + + Sometimes the roses by the latch + Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch + Come sailing down like birds; + When from their drifts her board I clear, + She thanks me, but I scarce can hear + The shyly uttered words. + + Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White + By daylight and by candlelight + When we two were apart. + Some better day come on apace, + And let me tell her face to face, + "Maiden, thou hast my heart." + + How gently rock yon poplars high + Against the reach of primrose sky + With heaven's pale candles stored! + She sees them all, sweet Lettice White; + I'll e'en go sit again to-night + Beside her ironing-board! + +Why, you young rascal! who would think it, now? +No sooner do I stop than you look up. +What would you have your poor old father do? +'Twas a brave song, long-winded, and not loud. + + _M._ He heard the bacon sputter on the fork, +And heard his mother's step across the floor. +Where did you get that song?--'tis new to me. + + _G._ I bought it of a peddler. + + _M._ Did you so? +Well, you were always for the love-songs, George. + + _F._ My dear, just lay his head upon your arm. +And if you'll pace and sing two minutes more +He needs must sleep--his eyes are full of sleep. + + _G._ Do you sing, mother. + + _F._ Ay, good mother, do; +'Tis long since we have heard you. + + _M._ Like enough; +I'm an old woman, and the girls and lads +I used to sing to sleep o'ertop me now. +What should I sing for? + + _G._ Why, to pleasure us. +Sing in the chimney corner, where you sit, +And I'll pace gently with the little one. + +[_Mother sings._] + + When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, + My old sorrow wakes and cries, + For I know there is dawn in the far, far north, + And a scarlet sun doth rise; + Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, + And the icy founts run free, + And the bergs begin to bow their heads, + And plunge, and sail in the sea. + + O my lost love, and my own, own love, + And my love that loved me so! + Is there never a chink in the world above + Where they listen for words from below? + Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore, + I remember all that I said, + And now thou wilt hear me no more--no more + Till the sea gives up her dead. + + Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail + To the ice-fields and the snow; + Thou wert sad, for thy love did not avail, + And the end I could not know; + How could I tell I should love thee to-day, + Whom that day I held not dear? + How could I know I should love thee away + When I did not love thee anear? + + We shall walk no more through the sodden plain + With the faded bents o'erspread, + We shall stand no more by the seething main + While the dark wrack drives overhead; + We shall part no more in the wind and the rain, + Where thy last farewell was said; + But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again + When the sea gives up her dead. + + _F._ Asleep at last, and time he was, indeed. +Turn back the cradle-quilt, and lay him in; +And, mother, will you please to draw your chair?-- +The supper's ready. + + + + +SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. + + +While ripening corn grew thick and deep, +And here and there men stood to reap, +One morn I put my heart to sleep, + And to the lanes I took my way. +The goldfinch on a thistle-head +Stood scattering seedlets while she fed; +The wrens their pretty gossip spread, + Or joined a random roundelay. + +On hanging cobwebs shone the dew, +And thick the wayside clovers grew; +The feeding bee had much to do, + So fast did honey-drops exude: +She sucked and murmured, and was gone, +And lit on other blooms anon, +The while I learned a lesson on + The source and sense of quietude. + +For sheep-bells chiming from a wold, +Or bleat of lamb within its fold, +Or cooing of love-legends old + To dove-wives make not quiet less; +Ecstatic chirp of wingèd thing, +Or bubbling of the water-spring, +Are sounds that more than silence bring + Itself and its delightsomeness. + +While thus I went to gladness fain, +I had but walked a mile or twain +Before my heart woke up again, + As dreaming she had slept too late; +The morning freshness that she viewed +With her own meanings she endued, +And touched with her solicitude + The natures she did meditate. + +"If quiet is, for it I wait; +To it, ah! let me wed my fate, +And, like a sad wife, supplicate + My roving lord no more to flee; +If leisure is--but, ah! 'tis not-- +'Tis long past praying for, God wot; +The fashion of it men forgot, + About the age of chivalry. + +"Sweet is the leisure of the bird; +She craves no time for work deferred; +Her wings are not to aching stirred + Providing for her helpless ones. +Fair is the leisure of the wheat; +All night the damps about it fleet; +All day it basketh in the heat, + And grows, and whispers orisons. + +"Grand is the leisure of the earth; +She gives her happy myriads birth, +And after harvest fears not dearth, + But goes to sleep in snow-wreaths dim. +Dread is the leisure up above +The while He sits whose name is Love, +And waits, as Noah did, for the dove, + To wit if she would fly to him. + +"He waits for us, while, houseless things, +We beat about with bruisèd wings +On the dark floods and water-springs, + The ruined world, the desolate sea; +With open windows from the prime +All night, all day, He waits sublime, +Until the fulness of the time + Decreed from His eternity. + +"Where is OUR leisure?--give us rest. +Where is the quiet we possessed? +We must have had it once--were blest + With peace whose phantoms yet entice. +Sorely the mother of mankind +Longed for the garden left behind; +For we prove yet some yearnings blind + Inherited from Paradise." + +"Hold, heart!" I cried; "for trouble sleeps; +I hear no sound of aught that weeps; +I will not look into thy deeps-- + I am afraid, I am afraid!" +"Afraid!" she saith; "and yet 'tis true +That what man dreads he still should view-- +Should do the thing he fears to do, + And storm the ghosts in ambuscade." + +"What good?" I sigh. "Was reason meant +To straighten branches that are bent, +Or soothe an ancient discontent, + The instinct of a race dethroned? +Ah! doubly should that instinct go +Must the four rivers cease to flow, +Nor yield those rumors sweet and low + Wherewith man's life is undertoned." + +"Yet had I but the past," she cries, +"And it was lost, I would arise +And comfort me some other wise. + But more than loss about me clings: +I am but restless with my race; +The whispers from a heavenly place, +Once dropped among us, seem to chase + Rest with their prophet-visitings. + +"The race is like a child, as yet +Too young for all things to be set +Plainly before him with no let + Or hindrance meet for his degree; +But nevertheless by much too old +Not to perceive that men withhold +More of the story than is told, + And so infer a mystery. + +"If the Celestials daily fly +With messages on missions high, +And float, our masts and turrets nigh, + Conversing on Heaven's great intents; +What wonder hints of coming things, +Whereto man's hope and yearning clings, +Should drop like feathers from their wings + And give us vague presentiments? + +"And as the waxing moon can take +The tidal waters in her wake, +And lead them round and round to break + Obedient to her drawings dim; +So may the movements of His mind, +The first Great Father of mankind, +Affect with answering movements blind, + And draw the souls that breathe by Him. + +"We had a message long ago +That like a river peace should flow, +And Eden bloom again below. + We heard, and we began to wait: +Full soon that message men forgot; +Yet waiting is their destined lot, +And waiting for they know not what + They strive with yearnings passionate. + +"Regret and faith alike enchain; +There was a loss, there comes a gain; +We stand at fault betwixt the twain, + And that is veiled for which we pant. +Our lives are short, our ten times seven; +We think the councils held in heaven +Sit long, ere yet that blissful leaven + Work peace amongst the militant. + +"Then we blame God that sin should be; +Adam began it at the tree, +'The woman whom THOU gavest me; + And we adopt his dark device. +O long Thou tarriest! come and reign, +And bring forgiveness in Thy train, +And give us in our hands again + The apples of Thy Paradise." + +"Far-seeing heart! if that be all +The happy things that did not fall," +I sighed, "from every coppice call + They never from that garden went. +Behold their joy, so comfort thee, +Behold the blossom and the bee, +For they are yet as good and free + As when poor Eve was innocent + +"But reason thus: 'If we sank low, +If the lost garden we forego, +Each in his day, nor ever know + But in our poet souls its face; +Yet we may rise until we reach +A height untold of in its speech-- +A lesson that it could not teach + Learn in this darker dwelling-place. + +"And reason on: 'We take the spoil; +Loss made us poets, and the soil +Taught us great patience in our toil, + And life is kin to God through death. +Christ were not One with us but so, +And if bereft of Him we go; +Dearer the heavenly mansions grow, + HIS home, to man that wandereth.' + +"Content thee so, and ease thy smart." +With that she slept again, my heart, +And I admired and took my part + With crowds of happy things the while: +With open velvet butterflies +That swung and spread their peacock eyes, +As if they cared no more to rise + From off their beds of camomile. + +The blackcaps in an orchard met, +Praising the berries while they ate: +The finch that flew her beak to whet + Before she joined them on the tree; +The water mouse among the reeds-- +His bright eyes glancing black as beads, +So happy with a bunch of seeds-- + I felt their gladness heartily. + +But I came on, I smelt the hay, +And up the hills I took my way, +And down them still made holiday, + And walked, and wearied not a whit; +But ever with the lane I went +Until it dropped with steep descent, +Cut deep into the rock, a tent + Of maple branches roofing it. + +Adown the rock small runlets wept, +And reckless ivies leaned and crept, +And little spots of sunshine slept + On its brown steeps and made them fair; +And broader beams athwart it shot, +Where martins cheeped in many a knot, +For they had ta'en a sandy plot + And scooped another Petra there. + +And deeper down, hemmed in and hid +From upper light and life amid +The swallows gossiping, I thrid + Its mazes, till the dipping land +Sank to the level of my lane. +That was the last hill of the chain, +And fair below I saw the plain + That seemed cold cheer to reprimand. + +Half-drowned in sleepy peace it lay, +As satiate with the boundless play +Of sunshine in its green array. + And clear-cut hills of gloomy blue, +To keep it safe rose up behind, +As with a charmèd ring to bind +The grassy sea, where clouds might find + A place to bring their shadows to. + +I said, and blest that pastoral grace, +"How sweet thou art, thou sunny place! +Thy God approves thy smiling face:" + But straight my heart put in her word; +She said, "Albeit thy face I bless, +There have been times, sweet wilderness, +When I have wished to love thee less, + Such pangs thy smile administered." + +But, lo! I reached a field of wheat, +And by its gate full clear and sweet +A workman sang, while at his feet + Played a young child, all life and stir-- +A three years' child, with rosy lip, +Who in the song had partnership, +Made happy with each falling chip + Dropped by the busy carpenter. + +This, reared a new gate for the old, +And loud the tuneful measure rolled, +But stopped as I came up to hold + Some kindly talk of passing things. +Brave were his eyes, and frank his mien; +Of all men's faces, calm or keen, +A better I have never seen + In all my lonely wanderings. + +And how it was I scarce can tell, +We seemed to please each other well; +I lingered till a noonday bell + Had sounded, and his task was done. +An oak had screened us from the heat; +And 'neath it in the standing wheat, +A cradle and a fair retreat, + Full sweetly slept the little one. + +The workman rested from his stroke, +And manly were the words he spoke, +Until the smiling babe awoke + And prayed to him for milk and food. +Then to a runlet forth he went, +And brought a wallet from the bent, +And bade me to the meal, intent + I should not quit his neighborhood. + +"For here," said he, "are bread and beer, +And meat enough to make good cheer; +Sir, eat with me, and have no fear, + For none upon my work depend, +Saving this child; and I may say +That I am rich, for every day +I put by somewhat; therefore stay, + And to such eating condescend." + +We ate. The child--child fair to see-- +Began to cling about his knee, +And he down leaning fatherly + Received some softly-prattled prayer; +He smiled as if to list were balm, +And with his labor-hardened palm +Pushed from the baby-forehead calm + Those shining locks that clustered there. + +The rosy mouth made fresh essay-- +"O would he sing, or would he play?" +I looked, my thought would make its way-- + "Fair is your child of face and limb, +The round blue eyes full sweetly shine." +He answered me with glance benign-- +"Ay, Sir; but he is none of mine. + Although I set great store by him." + +With that, as if his heart was fain +To open--nathless not complain-- +He let my quiet questions gain + His story: "Not of kin to me," +Repeating; "but asleep, awake, +For worse, for better, him I take, +To cherish for my dead wife's sake, + And count him as her legacy. + +"I married with the sweetest lass +That ever stepped on meadow grass; +That ever at her looking-glass + Some pleasure took, some natural care; +That ever swept a cottage floor +And worked all day, nor e'er gave o'er +Till eve, then watched beside the door + Till her good man should meet her there. + +"But I lost all in its fresh prime; +My wife fell ill before her time-- +Just as the bells began to chime + One Sunday morn. By next day's light +Her little babe was born and dead, +And she, unconscious what she said, +With feeble hands about her spread, + Sought it with yearnings infinite. + +"With mother-longing still beguiled, +And lost in fever-fancies wild, +She piteously bemoaned her child + That we had stolen, she said, away. +And ten sad days she sighed to me, +'I cannot rest until I see +My pretty one! I think that he + Smiled in my face but yesterday.' + +"Then she would change, and faintly try +To sing some tender lullaby; +And 'Ah!' would moan, 'if I should die, + Who, sweetest babe, would cherish thee?' +Then weep, 'My pretty boy is grown; +With tender feet on the cold stone +He stands, for he can stand alone, + And no one leads him motherly.' + +"Then she with dying movements slow +Would seem to knit, or seem to sew: +'His feet are bare, he must not go + Unshod:' and as her death drew on, +'O little baby,' she would sigh; +'My little child, I cannot die +Till I have you to slumber nigh-- + You, you to set mine eyes upon.' + +"When she spake thus, and moaning lay, +They said, 'She cannot pass away, +So sore she longs:' and as the day + Broke on the hills, I left her side. +Mourning along this lane I went; +Some travelling folk had pitched their tent +Up yonder: there a woman, bent + With age, sat meanly canopied. + +"A twelvemonths' child was at her side: +'Whose infant may that be?' I cried. +'His that will own him,' she replied; + 'His mother's dead, no worse could be.' +'Since you can give--or else I erred-- +See, you are taken at your word,' +Quoth I; 'That child is mine; I heard, + And own him! Rise, and give him me.' + +"She rose amazed, but cursed me too; +She could not hold such luck for true, +But gave him soon, with small ado. + I laid him by my Lucy's side: +Close to her face that baby crept, +And stroked it, and the sweet soul wept; +Then, while upon her arm he slept, + She passed, for she was satisfied. + +"I loved her well, I wept her sore, +And when her funeral left my door +I thought that I should never more + Feel any pleasure near me glow; +But I have learned, though this I had, +'Tis sometimes natural to be glad, +And no man can be always sad + Unless he wills to have it so. + +"Oh, I had heavy nights at first, +And daily wakening was the worst: +For then my grief arose, and burst + Like something fresh upon my head; +Yet when less keen it seemed to grow, +I was not pleased--I wished to go +Mourning adown this vale of woe, + For all my life uncomforted. + +"I grudged myself the lightsome air, +That makes man cheerful unaware; +When comfort came, I did not care + To take it in, to feel it stir: +And yet God took with me his plan, +And now for my appointed span +I think I am a happier man + For having wed and wept for her. + +"Because no natural tie remains, +On this small thing I spend my gains; +God makes me love him for my pains, + And binds me so to wholesome care +I would not lose from my past life +That happy year, that happy wife! +Yet now I wage no useless strife + With feelings blithe and debonair. + +"I have the courage to be gay, +Although she lieth lapped away +Under the daisies, for I say, + 'Thou wouldst be glad if thou couldst see': +My constant thought makes manifest +I have not what I love the best, +But I must thank God for the rest + While I hold heaven a verity." + +He rose, upon his shoulder set +The child, and while with vague regret +We parted, pleased that we had met, + My heart did with herself confer; +With wholesome shame she did repent +Her reasonings idly eloquent, +And said, "I might be more content: + But God go with the carpenter." + + + + +THE STAR'S MONUMENT. + +IN THE CONCLUDING PART OF A DISCOURSE ON FAME. + + +(_He thinks._) + +If there be memory in the world to come, + If thought recur to SOME THINGS silenced here, +Then shall the deep heart be no longer dumb, + But find expression in that happier sphere; +It shall not be denied their utmost sum + Of love, to speak without or fault or fear, +But utter to the harp with changes sweet +Words that, forbidden still, then heaven were incomplete. + +(_He speaks._) + +Now let us talk about the ancient days, + And things which happened long before our birth: +It is a pity to lament that praise + Should be no shadow in the train of worth. +What is it, Madam, that your heart dismays? + Why murmur at the course of this vast earth? +Think rather of the work than of the praise; +Come, we will talk about the ancient days. + +There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he); + I will relate his story to you now. +While through the branches of this apple-tree + Some spots of sunshine flicker on your brow; +While every flower hath on its breast a bee, + And every bird in stirring doth endow +The grass with falling blooms that smoothly glide, +As ships drop down a river with the tide. + +For telling of his tale no fitter place + Then this old orchard, sloping to the west; +Through its pink dome of blossom I can trace + Some overlying azure; for the rest, +These flowery branches round us interlace; + The ground is hollowed like a mossy nest: +Who talks of fame while the religious Spring +Offers the incense of her blossoming? + +There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he), + Who, while he walked at sundown in a lane, +Took to his heart the hope that destiny + Had singled him this guerdon to obtain, +That by the power of his sweet minstrelsy + Some hearts for truth and goodness he should gain. +And charm some grovellers to uplift their eyes +And suddenly wax conscious of the skies. + +"Master, good e'en to ye!" a woodman said, + Who the low hedge was trimming with his shears. +"This hour is fine"--the Poet bowed his head. + "More fine," he thought, "O friend! to me appears +The sunset than to you; finer the spread + Of orange lustre through these azure spheres, +Where little clouds lie still, like flocks of sheep, +Or vessels sailing in God's other deep. + +"O finer far! What work so high as mine, + Interpreter betwixt the world and man, +Nature's ungathered pearls to set and shrine, + The mystery she wraps her in to scan; +Her unsyllabic voices to combine, + And serve her with such love as poets can; +With mortal words, her chant of praise to bind, +Then die, and leave the poem to mankind? + +"O fair, O fine, O lot to be desired! + Early and late my heart appeals to me, +And says, 'O work, O will--Thou man, be fired + To earn this lot,'--she says, 'I would not be +A worker for mine OWN bread, or one hired + For mine OWN profit. O, I would be free +To work for others; love so earned of them +Should be my wages and my diadem. + +"'Then when I died I should not fall,' says she, + 'Like dropping flowers that no man noticeth, +But like a great branch of some stately tree + Rent in a tempest, and flung down to death, +Thick with green leafage--so that piteously + Each passer by that ruin shuddereth, +And saith, The gap this branch hath left is wide; +The loss thereof can never be supplied.'" + +But, Madam, while the Poet pondered so, + Toward the leafy hedge he turned his eye, +And saw two slender branches that did grow, + And from it rising spring and flourish high: +Their tops were twined together fast, and, lo, + Their shadow crossed the path as he went by-- +The shadow of a wild rose and a brier, +And it was shaped in semblance like a lyre. + +In sooth, a lyre! and as the soft air played, + Those branches stirred, but did not disunite. +"O emblem meet for me!" the Poet said; + "Ay, I accept and own thee for my right; +The shadowy lyre across my feet is laid, + Distinct though frail, and clear with crimson light, +Fast is it twined to bear the windy strain, +And, supple, it will bend and rise again. + +"This lyre is cast across the dusty way, + The common path that common men pursue, +I crave like blessing for my shadowy lay, + Life's trodden paths with beauty to renew, +And cheer the eve of many a toil-stained day. + Light it, old sun, wet it, thou common dew, +That 'neath men's feet its image still may be +While yet it waves above them, living lyre, like thee!" + +But even as the Poet spoke, behold + He lifted up his face toward the sky; +The ruddy sun dipt under the gray wold, + His shadowy lyre was gone; and, passing by, +The woodman lifting up his shears, was bold + Their temper on those branches twain to try, +And all their loveliness and leafage sweet +Fell in the pathway, at the Poet's feet. + +"Ah! my fair emblem that I chose," quoth he, + "That for myself I coveted but now, +Too soon, methinks, them hast been false to me; + The lyre from pathway fades, the light from brow." +Then straightway turned he from it hastily, +As dream that waking sense will disallow; +And while the highway heavenward paled apace, +He went on westward to his dwelling-place. + +He went on steadily, while far and fast + The summer darkness dropped upon the world, +A gentle air among the cloudlets passed + And fanned away their crimson; then it curled +The yellow poppies in the field, and cast + A dimness on the grasses, for it furled +Their daisies, and swept out the purple stain +That eve had left upon the pastoral plain. + +He reached his city. Lo! the darkened street + Where he abode was full of gazing crowds; +He heard the muffled tread of many feet; + A multitude stood gazing at the clouds. +"What mark ye there," said he, "and wherefore meet? + Only a passing mist the heaven o'ershrouds; +It breaks, it parts, it drifts like scattered spars-- +What lies behind it but the nightly stars?" + +Then did the gazing crowd to him aver + They sought a lamp in heaven whose light was hid: +For that in sooth an old Astronomer + Down from his roof had rushed into their mid, +Frighted, and fain with others to confer, + That he had cried, "O sirs!"--and upward bid +Them gaze--"O sirs, a light is quenched afar; +Look up, my masters, we have lost a star!" + +The people pointed, and the Poet's eyes + Flew upward, where a gleaming sisterhood +Swam in the dewy heaven. The very skies + Were mutable; for all-amazed he stood +To see that truly not in any wise + He could behold them as of old, nor could +His eyes receive the whole whereof he wot, +But when he told them over, one WAS NOT. + +While yet he gazed and pondered reverently, + The fickle folk began to move away. +"It is but one star less for us to see; + And what does one star signify?" quoth they: +"The heavens are full of them." "But, ah!" said he, + "That star was bright while yet she lasted." "Ay!" +They answered: "Praise her, Poet, an' ye will: +Some are now shining that are brighter still." + +"Poor star! to be disparagèd so soon + On her withdrawal," thus the Poet sighed; +"That men should miss, and straight deny her noon + Its brightness!" But the people in their pride +Said, "How are we beholden? 'twas no boon + She gave. Her nature 'twas to shine so wide: +She could not choose but shine, nor could we know +Such star had ever dwelt in heaven but so." + +The Poet answered sadly, "That is true!" + And then he thought upon unthankfulness; +While some went homeward; and the residue, + Reflecting that the stars are numberless, +Mourned that man's daylight hours should be so few, + So short the shining that his path may bless: +To nearer themes then tuned their willing lips, +And thought no more upon the star's eclipse. + +But he, the Poet, could not rest content + Till he had found that old Astronomer; +Therefore at midnight to his house he went + And prayed him be his tale's interpreter. +And yet upon the heaven his eyes he bent, + Hearing the marvel; yet he sought for her +That was a wanting, in the hope her face +Once more might fill its reft abiding-place. + +Then said the old Astronomer: "My son. + I sat alone upon my roof to-night; +I saw the stars come forth, and scarcely shun + To fringe the edges of the western light; +I marked those ancient clusters one by one, + The same that blessed our old forefather's sight +For God alone is older--none but He +Can charge the stars with mutability: + +"The elders of the night, the steadfast stars, + The old, old stars which God has let us see, +That they might be our soul's auxiliars, + And help us to the truth how young we be-- +God's youngest, latest born, as if, some spars + And a little clay being over of them--He +Had made our world and us thereof, yet given, +To humble us, the sight of His great heaven. + +"But ah! my son, to-night mine eyes have seen + The death of light, the end of old renown; +A shrinking back of glory that had been, + A dread eclipse before the Eternal's frown. +How soon a little grass will grow between + These eyes and those appointed to look down +Upon a world that was not made on high +Till the last scenes of their long empiry! + +"To-night that shining cluster now despoiled + Lay in day's wake a perfect sisterhood; +Sweet was its light to me that long had toiled, + It gleamed and trembled o'er the distant wood, +Blown in a pile the clouds from it recoiled, + Cool twilight up the sky her way made good; +I saw, but not believed--it was so strange-- +That one of those same stars had suffered change. + +"The darkness gathered, and methought she spread, + Wrapped in a reddish haze that waxed and waned; +But notwithstanding to myself I said-- + 'The stars are changeless; sure some mote hath stained +Mine eyes, and her fair glory minishèd.' + Of age and failing vision I complained, +And I bought 'some vapor in the heavens doth swim, +That makes her look so large and yet so dim.' + +"But I gazed round, and all her lustrous peers + In her red presence showed but wan and white +For like a living coal beheld through tears + She glowed and quivered with a gloomy light: +Methought she trembled, as all sick through fears, + Helpless, appalled, appealing to the night; +Like one who throws his arms up to the sky +And bows down suffering, hopeless of reply. + +"At length, as if an everlasting Hand + Had taken hold upon her in her place, +And swiftly, like a golden grain of sand, + Through all the deep infinitudes of space +Was drawing her--God's truth as here I stand-- + Backward and inward to itself; her face +Fast lessened, lessened, till it looked no more +Than smallest atom on a boundless shore. + +"And she that was so fair, I saw her lie, + The smallest thing in God's great firmament, +Till night was lit the darkest, and on high + Her sisters glittered, though her light was spent; +I strained, to follow her, each aching eye, + So swiftly at her Maker's will she went; +I looked again--I looked--the star was gone, +And nothing marked in heaven where she had shone." + +"Gone!" said the Poet, "and about to be + Forgotten: O, how sad a fate is hers!" +"How is it sad, my son?" all reverently + The old man answered; "though she ministers +No longer with her lamp to me and thee, + She has fulfilled her mission. God transfers +Or dims her ray; yet was she blest as bright, +For all her life was spent in giving light." + +"Her mission she fulfilled assuredly," + The Poet cried; "but, O unhappy star! +None praise and few will bear in memory + The name she went by. O, from far, from far +Comes down, methinks, her mournful voice to me, + Full of regrets that men so thankless are." +So said, he told that old Astronomer +All that the gazing crowd had said of her. + +And he went on to speak in bitter wise, + As one who seems to tell another's fate, +But feels that nearer meaning underlies, + And points its sadness to his own estate: +"If such be the reward," he said with sighs, + "Envy to earn for love, for goodness hate-- +If such be thy reward, hard case is thine! +It had been better for thee not to shine. + +"If to reflect a light that is divine + Makes that which doth reflect it better seen, +And if to see is to contemn the shrine, + 'Twere surely better it had never been: +It had been better for her NOT TO SHINE, + And for me NOT TO SING. Better, I ween, +For us to yield no more that radiance bright, +For them, to lack the light than scorn the light." + +Strange words were those from Poet lips (said he); + And then he paused and sighed, and turned to look +Upon the lady's downcast eyes, and see + How fast the honey-bees in settling shook +Those apple blossoms on her from the tree: + He watched her busy lingers as they took +And slipped the knotted thread, and thought how much +He would have given that hand to hold--to touch. + +At length, as suddenly become aware + Of this long pause, she lifted up her face, +And he withdrew his eyes--she looked so fair + And cold, he thought, in her unconscious grace. +"Ah! little dreams she of the restless care," + He thought, "that makes my heart to throb apace: +Though we this morning part, the knowledge sends +No thrill to her calm pulse--we are but FRIENDS." + +Ah! turret clock (he thought), I would thy hand + Were hid behind yon towering maple-trees! +Ah! tell-tale shadow, but one moment stand-- + Dark shadow--fast advancing to my knees; +Ah! foolish heart (he thought), that vainly planned + By feigning gladness to arrive at ease; +Ah! painful hour, yet pain to think it ends; +I must remember that we are but friends. + +And while the knotted thread moved to and fro, + In sweet regretful tones that lady said: +"It seemeth that the fame you would forego + The Poet whom you tell of coveted; +But I would fain, methinks, his story know. + And was he loved?" said she, "or was he wed? +And had he friends?" "One friend, perhaps," said he, +"But for the rest, I pray you let it be." + +Ah! little bird (he thought), most patient bird, + Breasting thy speckled eggs the long day through, +By so much as my reason is preferred + Above thine instinct, I my work would do +Better than thou dost thine. Thou hast not stirred + This hour thy wing. Ah! russet bird, I sue +For a like patience to wear through these hours-- +Bird on thy nest among the apple-flowers. + +I will not speak--I will not speak to thee, + My star! and soon to be my lost, lost star. +The sweetest, first, that ever shone on me, + So high above me and beyond so far; +I can forego thee, but not bear to see + My love, like rising mist, thy lustre mar: +That were a base return for thy sweet light. +Shine, though I never more-shall see that thou art bright. + +Never! 'Tis certain that no hope is--none! + No hope for me, and yet for thee no fear. +The hardest part of my hard task is done; + Thy calm assures me that I am not dear; +Though far and fast the rapid moments run, + Thy bosom heaveth not, thine eyes are clear; +Silent, perhaps a little sad at heart +She is. I am her friend, and I depart. + +Silent she had been, but she raised her face; + "And will you end," said she, "this half-told tale?" +"Yes, it were best," he answered her. "The place + Where I left off was where he felt to fail +His courage, Madam, through the fancy base + That they who love, endure, or work, may rail +And cease--if all their love, the works they wrought, +And their endurance, men have set at nought." + +"It had been better for me NOT to sing," + My Poet said, "and for her NOT to shine;" +But him the old man answered, sorrowing, + "My son, did God who made her, the Divine +Lighter of suns, when down to yon bright ring + He cast her, like some gleaming almandine, +And set her in her place, begirt with rays, +Say unto her 'Give light,' or say 'Earn praise?'" + +The Poet said, "He made her to give light." + "My son," the old man answered, "Blest are such; +A blessed lot is theirs; but if each night + Mankind had praised her radiance, inasmuch +As praise had never made it wax more bright, + And cannot now rekindle with its touch +Her lost effulgence, it is nought. I wot +That praise was not her blessing nor her lot." + +"Ay," said the Poet, "I my words abjure, + And I repent me that I uttered them; +But by her light and by its forfeiture + She shall not pass without her requiem. +Though my name perish, yet shall hers endure; + Though I should be forgotten, she, lost gem, +Shall be remembered; though she sought not fame, +It shall be busy with her beauteous name. + +"For I will raise in her bright memory, + Lost now on earth, a lasting monument, +And graven on it shall recorded be + That all her rays to light mankind were spent; +And I will sing albeit none heedeth me, + On her exemplar being still intent: +While in men's sight shall stand the record thus-- +'So long as she did last she lighted us.'" + +So said, he raised, according to his vow, + On the green grass where oft his townsfolk met, +Under the shadow of a leafy bough + That leaned toward a singing rivulet, +One pure white stone, whereon, like crown on brow, + The image of the vanished star was set; +And this was graven on the pure white stone +In golden letters--"WHILE SHE LIVED SHE SHONE." + +Madam, I cannot give this story well-- + My heart is beating to another chime; +My voice must needs a different cadence swell; + It is yon singing bird, which all the time +Wooeth his nested mate, that doth dispel + My thoughts. What, deem you, could a lover's rhyme +The sweetness of that passionate lay excel? +O soft, O low her voice--"I cannot tell." + +(_He thinks_.) + +The old man--ay, he spoke, he was not hard; + "She was his joy," he said, "his comforter, +But he would trust me. I was not debarred + Whate'er my heart approved to say to her." +Approved! O torn and tempted and ill-starred + And breaking heart, approve not nor demur; +It is the serpent that beguileth thee +With "God doth know" beneath this apple-tree. + +Yea, God DOTH know, and only God doth know. + Have pity, God, my spirit groans to Thee! +I bear Thy curse primeval, and I go; + But heavier than on Adam falls on me +My tillage of the wilderness; for lo, + I leave behind the woman, and I see +As 'twere the gates of Eden closing o'er +To hide her from my sight for evermore. + +(_He speaks_.) + +I am a fool, with sudden start he cried, + To let the song-bird work me such unrest: +If I break off again, I pray you chide, + For morning neeteth, with my tale at best +Half told. That white stone, Madam, gleamed beside + The little rivulet, and all men pressed +To read the lost one's story traced thereon, +The golden legend--"While she lived she shone." + +And, Madam, when the Poet heard them read, + And children spell the letters softly through, +It may be that he felt at heart some need, + Some craving to be thus remembered too; +It may be that he wondered if indeed + He must die wholly when he passed from view; +It may be, wished when death his eyes made dim, +That some kind hand would raise such stone for him. + +But shortly, as there comes to most of us, + There came to him the need to quit his home: +To tell you why were simply hazardous. + What said I, Madam?--men were made to roam +My meaning is. It hath been always thus: + They are athirst for mountains and sea-foam; +Heirs of this world, what wonder if perchance +They long to see their grand inheritance? + +He left his city, and went forth to teach + Mankind, his peers, the hidden harmony +That underlies God's discords, and to reach + And touch the master-string that like a sigh +Thrills in their souls, as if it would beseech + Some hand to sound it, and to satisfy +Its yearning for expression: but no word +Till poet touch it hath to make its music heard. + +(_He thinks_.) + +I know that God is good, though evil dwells + Among us, and doth all things holiest share; +That there is joy in heaven, while yet our knells + Sound for the souls which He has summoned there: +That painful love unsatisfied hath spells + Earned by its smart to soothe its fellows care: +But yet this atom cannot in the whole +Forget itself--it aches a separate soul. + +(_He speaks._) + +But, Madam, to my Poet I return. + With his sweet cadences of woven words +He made their rude untutored hearts to burn + And melt like gold refined. No brooding birds +Sing better of the love that doth sojourn + Hid in the nest of home, which softly girds +The beating heart of life; and, strait though it be, +Is straitness better than wide liberty. + +He taught them, and they learned, but not the less + Remained unconscious whence that lore they drew, +But dreamed that of their native nobleness + Some lofty thoughts, that he had planted, grew; +His glorious maxims in a lowly dress + Like seed sown broadcast sprung in all men's view. +The sower, passing onward, was not known, +And all men reaped the harvest as their own. + +It may be, Madam, that those ballads sweet, + Whose rhythmic words we sang but yesterday, +Which time and changes make not obsolete, + But (as a river blossoms bears away +That on it drop) take with them while they fleet-- + It may be his they are, from him bear sway: +But who can tell, since work surviveth fame?-- +The rhyme is left, but lost the Poet's name. + +He worked, and bravely he fulfilled his trust-- + So long he wandered sowing worthy seed, +Watering of wayside buds that were adust, + And touching for the common ear his reed-- +So long to wear away the cankering rust + That dulls the gold of life--so long to plead +With sweetest music for all souls oppressed, +That he was old ere he had thought of rest. + +Old and gray-headed, leaning on a staff, + To that great city of his birth he came, +And at its gates he paused with wondering laugh + To think how changed were all his thoughts of fame +Since first he carved the golden epitaph + To keep in memory a worthy name, +And thought forgetfulness had been its doom +But for a few bright letters on a tomb. + +The old Astronomer had long since died; + The friends of youth were gone and far dispersed, +Strange were the domes that rose on every side; + Strange fountains on his wondering vision burst; +The men of yesterday their business plied; + No face was left that he had known at first; +And in the city gardens, lo, he sees +The saplings that he set are stately trees. + +Upon the grass beneath their welcome shade, + Behold! he marks the fair white monument, +And on its face the golden words displayed, + For sixty years their lustre have not spent; +He sitteth by it and is not afraid, + But in its shadow he is well content; +And envies not, though bright their gleamings are, +The golden letters of the vanished star. + +He gazeth up; exceeding bright appears + That golden legend to his aged eyes, +For they are dazzled till they fill with tears, + And his lost Youth doth like a vision rise; +She saith to him, "In all these toilsome years, + What hast thou won by work or enterprise? +What hast thou won to make amends to thee, +As thou didst swear to do, for loss of me? + +"O man! O white-haired man!" the vision said + "Since we two sat beside this monument +Life's clearest hues are all evanishèd; + The golden wealth thou hadst of me is spent; +The wind hath swept thy flowers, their leaves are shed + The music is played out that with thee went." +"Peace, peace!" he cried, "I lost thee, but, in truth, +There are worse losses than the loss of youth." + +He said not what those losses were--but I-- + But I must leave them, for the time draws near. +Some lose not ONLY joy, but memory + Of how it felt: not love that was so dear +Lose only, but the steadfast certainty + That once they had it; doubt comes on, then fear, +And after that despondency. I wis +The Poet must have meant such loss as this. + +But while he sat and pondered on his youth, + He said, "It did one deed that doth remain, +For it preserved the memory and the truth + Of her that now doth neither set nor wane, +But shine in all men's thought; nor sink forsooth, + And be forgotten like the summer rain. +O, it is good that man should not forget +Or benefits foregone or brightness set!" + +He spoke and said, "My lot contented: me; + I am right glad for this her worthy fame; +That which was good and great I fain would see + Drawn with a halo round what rests--its name." +This while the Poet said, behold there came + A workman with his tools anear the tree, +And when he read the words he paused awhile +And pondered on them with a wondering smile. + +And then he said, "I pray you, Sir, what mean + The golden letters of this monument?" +In wonder quoth the Poet, "Hast thou been + A dweller near at hand, and their intent +Hast neither heard by voice of fame, nor seen + The marble earlier?" "Ay," said he, and leant +Upon his spade to hear the tale, then sigh, +And say it was a marvel, and pass by. + +Then said the Poet, "This is strange to me." + But as he mused, with trouble in his mind, +A band of maids approached him leisurely, + Like vessels sailing with a favoring wind; +And of their rosy lips requested he, + As one that for a doubt would solving find, +The tale, if tale there were, of that white stone, +And those fair letters--"While she lived she shone." + +Then like a fleet that floats becalmed they stay. + "O, Sir," saith one, "this monument is old; +But we have heard our virtuous mothers say + That by their mothers thus the tale was told: +A Poet made it; journeying then away, + He left us; and though some the meaning hold +For other than the ancient one, yet we +Receive this legend for a certainty:-- + +"There was a lily once, most purely white, + Beneath the shadow of these boughs it grew; +Its starry blossom it unclosed by night, + And a young Poet loved its shape and hue. +He watched it nightly, 'twas so fair a sight, + Until a stormy wind arose and blew, +And when he came once more his flower to greet +Its fallen petals drifted to his feet. + +"And for his beautiful white lily's sake, + That she might be remembered where her scent +Had been right sweet, he said that he would make + In her dear memory a monument: +For she was purer than a driven flake + Of snow, and in her grace most excellent; +The loveliest life that death did ever mar, +As beautiful to gaze on as a star." + +"I thank you, maid," the Poet answered her. + "And I am glad that I have heard your tale." +With that they passed; and as an inlander, + Having heard breakers raging in a gale, +And falling down in thunder, will aver + That still, when far away in grassy vale, +He seems to hear those seething waters bound, +So in his ears the maiden's voice did sound. + +He leaned his face upon his hand, and thought, + And thought, until a youth came by that way; +And once again of him the Poet sought + The story of the star. But, well-a-day! +He said, "The meaning with much doubt is fraught, + The sense thereof can no man surely say; +For still tradition sways the common ear, +That of a truth a star DID DISAPPEAR. + +"But they who look beneath the outer shell + That wraps the 'kernel of the people's lore,' +Hold THAT for superstition; and they tell + That seven lovely sisters dwelt of yore +In this old city, where it so befell + That one a Poet loved; that, furthermore, +As stars above us she was pure and good, +And fairest of that beauteous sisterhood. + +"So beautiful they were, those virgins seven, + That all men called them clustered stars in song, +Forgetful that the stars abide in heaven: + But woman bideth not beneath it long; +For O, alas! alas! one fated even + When stars their azure deeps began to throng, +That virgin's eyes of Poet loved waxed dim, +And all their lustrous shining waned to him. + +"In summer dusk she drooped her head and sighed + Until what time the evening star went down, +And all the other stars did shining bide + Clear in the lustre of their old renown. +And then--the virgin laid her down and died: + Forgot her youth, forgot her beauty's crown, +Forgot the sisters whom she loved before, +And broke her Poet's heart for evermore." + +"A mournful tale, in sooth," the lady saith: + "But did he truly grieve for evermore?" +"It may be you forget," he answereth, + "That this is but a fable at the core +O' the other fable." "Though it be but breath," + She asketh, "was it true?"--then he, "This lore, +Since it is fable, either way may go; +Then, if it please you, think it might be so." + +"Nay, but," she saith, "if I had told your tale, + The virgin should have lived his home to bless, +Or, must she die, I would have made to fail + His useless love." "I tell you not the less," +He sighs, "because it was of no avail: + His heart the Poet would not dispossess +Thereof. But let us leave the fable now. +My Poet heard it with an aching brow." + +And he made answer thus: "I thank thee, youth; + Strange is thy story to these aged ears, +But I bethink me thou hast told a truth + Under the guise of fable. If my tears, +Thou lost belovèd star, lost now, forsooth, + Indeed could bring thee back among thy peers, +So new thou should'st be deemed as newly seen, +For men forget that thou hast ever been. + +"There was a morning when I longed for fame, + There was a noontide when I passed it by, +There is an evening when I think not shame + Its substance and its being to deny; +For if men bear in mind great deeds, the name + Of him that wrought them shall they leave to die; +Or if his name they shall have deathless writ, +They change the deeds that first ennobled it. + +"O golden letters of this monument! + O words to celebrate a loved renown +Lost now or wrested! and to fancies lent, + Or on a fabled forehead set for crown, +For my departed star, I am content, + Though legends dim and years her memory drown: +For nought were fame to her, compared and set +By this great truth which ye make lustrous yet." + +"Adieu!" the Poet said, "my vanished star, + Thy duty and thy happiness were one. +Work is heaven's best; its fame is sublunar: + The fame thou dost not need--the work is done. +For thee I am content that these things are; + More than content were I, my race being run, +Might it be true of me, though none thereon +Should muse regretful--'While he lived he shone.'" + +So said, the Poet rose and went his way, + And that same lot he proved whereof he spake. +Madam, my story is told out; the day + Draws out her shadows, time doth overtake +The morning. That which endeth call a lay, + Sung after pause--a motto in the break +Between two chapters of a tale not new, +Nor joyful--but a common tale. Adieu! + +And that same God who made your face so fair, + And gave your woman's heart its tenderness, +So shield the blessing He implanted there, + That it may never turn to your distress, +And never cost you trouble or despair, + Nor granted leave the granter comfortless; +But like a river blest where'er it flows, +Be still receiving while it still bestows. + +Adieu, he said, and paused, while she sat mute + In the soft shadow of the apple-tree; +The skylark's song rang like a joyous flute, + The brook went prattling past her restlessly: +She let their tongues be her tongue's substitute; + It was the wind that sighed, it was not she: +And what the lark, the brook, the wind, had said, +We cannot tell, for none interpreted. + +Their counsels might be hard to reconcile, + They might not suit the moment or the spot. +She rose, and laid her work aside the while + Down in the sunshine of that grassy plot; +She looked upon him with an almost smile, + And held to him a hand that faltered not. +One moment--bird and brook went warbling on, +And the wind sighed again--and he was gone. + +So quietly, as if she heard no more + Or skylark in the azure overhead, +Or water slipping past the cressy shore, + Or wind that rose in sighs, and sighing fled-- +So quietly, until the alders hoar + Took him beneath them; till the downward spread +Of planes engulfed him in their leafy seas-- +She stood beneath her rose-flushed apple-trees. + +And then she stooped toward the mossy grass, + And gathered up her work and went her way; +Straight to that ancient turret she did pass, + And startle back some fawns that were at play. +She did not sigh, she never said "Alas!" + Although he was her friend: but still that day, +Where elm and hornbeam spread a towering dome, +She crossed the dells to her ancestral home. + +And did she love him?--what if she did not? + Then home was still the home of happiest years +Nor thought was exiled to partake his lot, + Nor heart lost courage through forboding fears; +Nor echo did against her secret plot, + Nor music her betray to painful tears; +Nor life become a dream, and sunshine dim, +And riches poverty, because of him. + +But did she love him?--what and if she did? + Love cannot cool the burning Austral sand, +Nor show the secret waters that lie hid + In arid valleys of that desert land. +Love has no spells can scorching winds forbid, + Or bring the help which tarries near to hand, +Or spread a cloud for curtaining faded eyes +That gaze up dying into alien skies. + + + + +A DEAD YEAR. + + +I took a year out of my life and story-- + A dead year, and said, "I will hew thee a tomb! + 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory;' +Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom; +Swathed in linen, and precious unguents old; +Painted with cinnabar, and rich with gold. + + "Silent they rest, in solemn salvatory, +Sealed from the moth and the owl and the flitter-mouse-- + Each with his name on his brow. + 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory, +Every one in his own house:' + Then why not thou? + + "Year," I said, "thou shalt not lack + Bribes to bar thy coming back; + Doth old Egypt wear her best + In the chambers of her rest? + Doth she take to her last bed + Beaten gold, and glorious red? + Envy not! for thou wilt wear + In the dark a shroud as fair; + Golden with the sunny ray + Thou withdrawest from my day; + Wrought upon with colors fine, + Stolen from this life of mine; + Like the dusty Lybian kings, + Lie with two wide open wings + On thy breast, as if to say, + On these wings hope flew away; + And so housed, and thus adorned, + Not forgotten, but not scorned, + Let the dark for evermore + Close thee when I close the door; + And the dust for ages fall + In the creases of thy pall; + And no voice nor visit rude + Break thy sealèd solitude." + + I took the year out of my life and story, +The dead year, and said, "I have hewed thee a tomb + 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory,' +Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom; +But for the sword, and the sceptre, and diadem, +Sure thou didst reign like them." +So I laid her with those tyrants old and hoary, + According to my vow; +For I said, "The kings of the nations lie in glory, + And so shalt thou!" + + "Rock," I said, "thy ribs are strong. + That I bring thee guard it long; + Hide the light from buried eyes-- + Hide it, lest the dead arise." + "Year," I said, and turned away, + "I am free of thee this day; + All that we two only know, + I forgive and I forego, + So thy face no more I meet, + In the field or in the street." + + Thus we parted, she and I; + Life hid death, and put it by: + Life hid death, and said, "Be free + I have no more need of thee." + No more need! O mad mistake, + With repentance in its wake! + Ignorant, and rash, and blind, + Life had left the grave behind; + But had locked within its hold + With the spices and the gold, + All she had to keep her warm + In the raging of the storm. + + Scarce the sunset bloom was gone, + And the little stars outshone, + Ere the dead year, stiff and stark, + Drew me to her in the dark; + Death drew life to come to her, + Beating at her sepulchre, + Crying out, "How can I part + With the best share of my heart? + Lo, it lies upon the bier, + Captive, with the buried year. + O my heart!" And I fell prone, + Weeping at the sealèd stone; + "Year among the shades," I said, + "Since I live, and thou art dead, + Let my captive heart be free, + Like a bird to fly to me." + And I stayed some voice to win, + But none answered from within; + And I kissed the door--and night + Deepened till the stars waxed bright + And I saw them set and wane, + And the world turn green again. + + "So," I whispered, "open door, + I must tread this palace floor-- + Sealèd palace, rich and dim. + Let a narrow sunbeam swim + After me, and on me spread + While I look upon my dead; + Let a little warmth be free + To come after; let me see + Through the doorway, when I sit + Looking out, the swallows flit, + Settling not till daylight goes; + Let me smell the wild white rose, + Smell the woodbine and the may; + Mark, upon a sunny day, + Sated from their blossoms rise, + Honey-bees and butterflies. + Let me hear, O! let me hear, + Sitting by my buried year, + Finches chirping to their young, + And the little noises flung + Out of clefts where rabbits play, + Or from falling water-spray; + And the gracious echoes woke + By man's work: the woodman's stroke, + Shout of shepherd, whistlings blithe. + And the whetting of the scythe; + Let this be, lest shut and furled + From the well-beloved world, + I forget her yearnings old, + And her troubles manifold, + Strivings sore, submissions meet, + And my pulse no longer beat, + Keeping time and bearing part + With the pulse of her great heart. + + "So; swing open door, and shade + Take me; I am not afraid, + For the time will not be long; + Soon I shall have waxen strong-- + Strong enough my own to win + From the grave it lies within." + And I entered. On her bier + Quiet lay the buried year; + I sat down where I could see + Life without and sunshine free, + Death within. And I between, + Waited my own heart to wean + From the shroud that shaded her + In the rock-hewn sepulchre-- + Waited till the dead should say, + "Heart, be free of me this day"-- + Waited with a patient will-- + AND I WAIT BETWEEN THEM STILL. + + I take the year back to my life and story, +The dead year, and say, "I will share in thy tomb. + 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory;' +Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom! +They reigned in their lifetime with sceptre and diadem, + But thou excellest them; +For life doth make thy grave her oratory, + And the crown is still on thy brow; +'All the kings of the nations lie in glory,' + And so dost thou." + + + + +REFLECTIONS. + +LOOKING OVER A GATE AT A POOL IN A FIELD. + + +What change has made the pastures sweet +And reached the daisies at my feet, + And cloud that wears a golden hem? +This lovely world, the hills, the sward-- +They all look fresh, as if our Lord + But yesterday had finished them. + +And here's the field with light aglow; +How fresh its boundary lime-trees show, + And how its wet leaves trembling shine! +Between their trunks come through to me +The morning sparkles of the sea + Below the level browsing line + +I see the pool more clear by half +Than pools where other waters laugh + Up at the breasts of coot and rail. +There, as she passed it on her way, +I saw reflected yesterday + A maiden with a milking-pail. + +There, neither slowly nor in haste, +One hand upon her slender waist, + The other lifted to her pail, +She, rosy in the morning light, +Among the water-daisies white, + Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. + +Against her ankles as she trod +The lucky buttercups did nod. + I leaned upon the gate to see: +The sweet thing looked, but did not speak; +A dimple came in either cheek, + And all my heart was gone from me. + +Then, as I lingered on the gate, +And she came up like coming fate, + I saw my picture in her eyes-- +Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes, +Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows + Among white-headed majesties. + +I said, "A tale was made of old +That I would fain to thee unfold; + Ah! let me--let me tell the tale." +But high she held her comely head; +"I cannot heed it now," she said, + "For carrying of the milking-pail." + +She laughed. What good to make ado? +I held the gate, and she came through, + And took her homeward path anon. +From the clear pool her face had fled; +It rested on my heart instead, + Reflected when the maid was gone. + +With happy youth, and work content, +So sweet and stately on she went, + Right careless of the untold tale. +Each step she took I loved her more, +And followed to her dairy door + The maiden with the milking-pail. + + +II. + +For hearts where wakened love doth lurk, +How fine, how blest a thing is work! + For work does good when reasons fail-- +Good; yet the axe at every stroke +The echo of a name awoke-- + Her name is Mary Martindale. + +I'm glad that echo was not heard +Aright by other men: a bird + Knows doubtless what his own notes tell; +And I know not, but I can say +I felt as shame-faced all that day + As if folks heard her name right well. + +And when the west began to glow +I went--I could not choose but go-- + To that same dairy on the hill; +And while sweet Mary moved about +Within, I came to her without. + And leaned upon the window-sill. + +The garden border where I stood +Was sweet with pinks and southernwood. + I spoke--her answer seemed to fail: +I smelt the pinks--I could not see; +The dusk came down and sheltered me, + And in the dusk she heard my tale. + +And what is left that I should tell? +I begged a kiss, I pleaded well: + The rosebud lips did long decline; +But yet I think, I think 'tis true, +That, leaned at last into the dew, + One little instant they were mine. + +O life! how dear thou hast become: +She laughed at dawn and I was dumb, + But evening counsels best prevail. +Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads, +Green be the pastures where she treads, + The maiden with the milking-pail! + + + + +THE LETTER L. + + +ABSENT. + +We sat on grassy slopes that meet + With sudden dip the level strand; +The trees hung overhead--our feet + Were on the sand. + +Two silent girls, a thoughtful man, + We sunned ourselves in open light, +And felt such April airs as fan + The Isle of Wight; + +And smelt the wall-flower in the crag + Whereon that dainty waft had fed, +Which made the bell-hung cowslip wag + Her delicate head; + +And let alighting jackdaws fleet + Adown it open-winged, and pass +Till they could touch with outstretched feet + The warmèd grass. + +The happy wave ran up and rang + Like service bells a long way off, +And down a little freshet sprang + From mossy trough, + +And splashed into a rain of spray, + And fretted on with daylight's loss, +Because so many bluebells lay + Leaning across. + +Blue martins gossiped in the sun, + And pairs of chattering daws flew by, +And sailing brigs rocked softly on + In company. + +Wild cherry-boughs above us spread, + The whitest shade was ever seen, +And flicker, flicker, came and fled + Sun spots between. + +Bees murmured in the milk-white bloom, + As babes will sigh for deep content +When their sweet hearts for peace make room, + As given, not lent. + +And we saw on: we said no word, + And one was lost in musings rare, +One buoyant as the waft that stirred + Her shining hair. + +His eyes were bent upon the sand, + Unfathomed deeps within them lay. +A slender rod was in his hand-- + A hazel spray. + +Her eyes were resting on his face, + As shyly glad, by stealth to glean +Impressions of his manly grace + And guarded mien; + +The mouth with steady sweetness set, + And eyes conveying unaware +The distant hint of some regret + That harbored there. + +She gazed, and in the tender flush + That made her face like roses blown, +And in the radiance and the hush, + Her thought was shown. + +It was a happy thing to sit + So near, nor mar his reverie; +She looked not for a part in it, + So meek was she. + +But it was solace for her eyes, + And for her heart, that yearned to him, +To watch apart in loving wise + Those musings dim. + +Lost--lost, and gone! The Pelham woods + Were full of doves that cooed at ease; +The orchis filled her purple hoods + For dainty bees. + +He heard not; all the delicate air + Was fresh with falling water-spray: +It mattered not--he was not there, + But far away. + +Till with the hazel in his hand, + Still drowned in thought it thus befell; +He drew a letter on the sand-- + The letter L. + +And looking on it, straight there wrought + A ruddy flush about his brow; +His letter woke him: absent thought + Rushed homeward now. + +And half-abashed, his hasty touch + Effaced it with a tell-tale care, +As if his action had been much, + And not his air. + +And she? she watched his open palm + Smooth out the letter from the sand, +And rose, with aspect almost calm, + And filled her hand + +With cherry-bloom, and moved away + To gather wild forget-me-not, +And let her errant footsteps stray + To one sweet spot, + +As if she coveted the fair + White lining of the silver-weed, +And cuckoo-pint that shaded there + Empurpled seed. + +She had not feared, as I divine, + Because she had not hoped. Alas! +The sorrow of it! for that sign + Came but to pass; + +And yet it robbed her of the right + To give, who looked not to receive, +And made her blush in love's despite + That she should grieve. + +A shape in white, she turned to gaze; + Her eyes were shaded with her hand, +And half-way up the winding ways + We saw her stand. + +Green hollows of the fringèd cliff, + Red rocks that under waters show, +Blue reaches, and a sailing skiff, + Were spread below. + +She stood to gaze, perhaps to sigh, + Perhaps to think; but who can tell +How heavy on her heart must lie + The letter L! + + * * * * * + +She came anon with quiet grace; + And "What," she murmured, "silent yet!" +He answered, "'Tis a haunted place, + And spell-beset. + +"O speak to us, and break the spell!" + "The spell is broken," she replied. +"I crossed the running brook, it fell, + It could not bide. + +"And I have brought a budding world, + Of orchis spires and daisies rank, +And ferny plumes but half uncurled, + From yonder bank; + +"And I shall weave of them a crown, + And at the well-head launch it free, +That so the brook may float it down, + And out to sea. + +"There may it to some English hands + From fairy meadow seem to come; +The fairyest of fairy lands-- + The land of home." + +"Weave on," he said, and as she wove + We told how currents in the deep, +With branches from a lemon grove, + Blue bergs will sweep. + +And messages from shipwrecked folk + Will navigate the moon-led main, +And painted boards of splintered oak + Their port regain. + +Then floated out by vagrant thought, + My soul beheld on torrid sand +The wasteful water set at nought + Man's skilful hand, + +And suck out gold-dust from the box, + And wash it down in weedy whirls, +And split the wine-keg on the rocks, + And lose the pearls. + +"Ah! why to that which needs it not," + Methought, "should costly things be given? +How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot, + On this side heaven!" + +So musing, did mine ears awake + To maiden tones of sweet reserve, +And manly speech that seemed to make + The steady curve + +Of lips that uttered it defer + Their guard, and soften for the thought: +She listened, and his talk with her + Was fancy fraught. + +"There is not much in liberty"-- + With doubtful pauses he began; +And said to her and said to me, + "There was a man-- + +"There was a man who dreamed one night + That his dead father came to him; +And said, when fire was low, and light + Was burning dim-- + +"'Why vagrant thus, my sometime pride, + Unloved, unloving, wilt thou roam? +Sure home is best!' The son replied, + 'I have no home.' + +"'Shall not I speak?' his father said, + 'Who early chose a youthful wife, +And worked for her, and with her led + My happy life. + +"'Ay, I will speak, for I was young + As thou art now, when I did hold +The prattling sweetness of thy tongue + Dearer than gold; + +"'And rosy from thy noonday sleep + Would bear thee to admiring kin, +And all thy pretty looks would keep + My heart within. + +"'Then after, mid thy young allies-- + For thee ambition flushed my brow-- +I coveted the school-boy prize + Far more than thou. + +"'I thought for thee, I thought for all + My gamesome imps that round me grew; +The dews of blessing heaviest fall + Where care falls too. + +"'And I that sent my boys away, + In youthful strength to earn their bread, +And died before the hair was gray + Upon my head-- + +"'I say to thee, though free from care, + A lonely lot, an aimless life, +The crowning comfort is not there-- + Son, take a wife.' + +"'Father beloved,' the son replied, + And failed to gather to his breast, +With arms in darkness searching wide, + The formless guest. + +"'I am but free, as sorrow is, + To dry her tears, to laugh, to talk; +And free, as sick men are, I wis + To rise and walk. + +"'And free, as poor men are, to buy + If they have nought wherewith to pay; +Nor hope, the debt before they die, + To wipe away. + +"'What 'vails it there are wives to win, + And faithful hearts for those to yearn, +Who find not aught thereto akin + To make return? + +"'Shall he take much who little gives, + And dwells in spirit far away, +When she that in his presence lives + Doth never stray, + +"But waking, guideth as beseems + The happy house in order trim, +And tends her babes; and sleeping, dreams + Of them and him? + +"'O base, O cold,'"--while thus he spake + The dream broke off, the vision fled; +He carried on his speech awake + And sighing said-- + +"'I had--ah happy man!--I had + A precious jewel in my breast, +And while I kept it I was glad + At work, at rest! + +"'Call it a heart, and call it strong + As upward stroke of eagle's wing; +Then call it weak, you shall not wrong + The beating thing. + +"'In tangles of the jungle reed, + Whose heats are lit with tiger eyes, +In shipwreck drifting with the weed + 'Neath rainy skies, + +"'Still youthful manhood, fresh and keen, + At danger gazed with awed delight +As if sea would not drown, I ween, + Nor serpent bite. + +"'I had--ah happy! but 'tis gone, + The priceless jewel; one came by, +And saw and stood awhile to con + With curious eye, + +"'And wished for it, and faintly smiled + From under lashes black as doom, +With subtle sweetness, tender, mild, + That did illume + +"'The perfect face, and shed on it + A charm, half feeling, half surprise, +And brim with dreams the exquisite + Brown blessèd eyes. + +"'Was it for this, no more but this, + I took and laid it in her hand, +By dimples ruled, to hint submiss, + By frown unmanned? + +"'It was for this--and O farewell + The fearless foot, the present mind, +And steady will to breast the swell + And face the wind! + +"'I gave the jewel from my breast, + She played with it a little while +As I sailed down into the west, + Fed by her smile; + +"'Then weary of it--far from land, + With sigh as deep as destiny, +She let it drop from her fair hand + Into the sea, + +"'And watched it sink; and I--and I,-- + What shall I do, for all is vain? +No wave will bring, no gold will buy, + No toil attain; + +"'Nor any diver reach to raise + My jewel from the blue abyss; +Or could they, still I should but praise + Their work amiss. + +"'Thrown, thrown away! But I love yet + The fair, fair hand which did the deed: +That wayward sweetness to forget + Were bitter meed. + +"'No, let it lie, and let the wave + Roll over it for evermore; +Whelmed where the sailor hath his grave-- + The sea her store. + +"'My heart, my sometime happy heart! + And O for once let me complain, +I must forego life's better part-- + Man's dearer gain. + +"'I worked afar that I might rear + A peaceful home on English soil; +I labored for the gold and gear-- + I loved my toil. + +"'Forever in my spirit spake + The natural whisper, "Well 'twill be +When loving wife and children break + Their bread with thee!" + +"'The gathered gold is turned to dross, + The wife hath faded into air, +My heart is thrown away, my loss + I cannot spare. + +"'Not spare unsated thought her food-- + No, not one rustle of the fold, +Nor scent of eastern sandal-wood, + Nor gleam of gold; + +"'Nor quaint devices of the shawl, + Far less the drooping lashes meek; +The gracious figure, lithe and tall, + The dimpled cheek; + +"'And all the wonders of her eyes, + And sweet caprices of her air, +Albeit, indignant reason cries, + Fool! have a care. + +"'Fool! join not madness to mistake; + Thou knowest she loved thee not a whit; +Only that she thy heart might break-- + She wanted it, + +"'Only the conquered thing to chain + So fast that none might set it free, +Nor other woman there might reign + And comfort thee. + +"'Robbed, robbed of life's illusions sweet; + Love dead outside her closèd door, +And passion fainting at her feet + To wake no more; + +"'What canst thou give that unknown bride + Whom thou didst work for in the waste, +Ere fated love was born, and cried-- + Was dead, ungraced? + +"'No more but this, the partial care, + The natural kindness for its own, +The trust that waxeth unaware, + As worth is known: + +"'Observance, and complacent thought + Indulgent, and the honor due +That many another man has brought + Who brought love too. + +"'Nay, then, forbid it Heaven!' he said, + 'The saintly vision fades from me; +O bands and chains! I cannot wed-- + I am not free.'" + +With that he raised his face to view; + "What think you," asking, "of my tale? +And was he right to let the dew + Of morn exhale, + +"And burdened in the noontide sun, + The grateful shade of home forego-- +Could he be right--I ask as one + Who fain would know?" + +He spoke to her and spoke to me; + The rebel rose-hue dyed her cheek; +The woven crown lay on her knee; + She would not speak. + +And I with doubtful pause--averse + To let occasion drift away-- +I answered--"If his case were worse + Than word can say, + +"Time is a healer of sick hearts, + And women have been known to choose, +With purpose to allay their smarts, + And tend their bruise, + +"These for themselves. Content to give, + In their own lavish love complete, +Taking for sole prerogative + Their tendance sweet. + +"Such meeting in their diadem + Of crowning love's ethereal fire, +Himself he robs who robbeth them + Of their desire. + +"Therefore the man who, dreaming, cried + Against his lot that even-song, +I judge him honest, and decide + That he was wrong." + +"When I am judged, ah may my fate," + He whispered, "in thy code be read! +Be thou both judge and advocate." + Then turned, he said-- + +"Fair weaver!" touching, while he spoke, + The woven crown, the weaving hand, +"And do you this decree revoke, + Or may it stand? + +"This friend, you ever think her right-- + She is not wrong, then?" Soft and low +The little trembling word took flight: + She answered, "No." + + +PRESENT. + +A meadow where the grass was deep, + Rich, square, and golden to the view, +A belt of elms with level sweep + About it grew. + +The sun beat down on it, the line + Of shade was clear beneath the trees; +There, by a clustering eglantine, + We sat at ease. + +And O the buttercups! that field + O' the cloth of gold, where pennons swam-- +Where France set up his lilied shield, + His oriflamb, + +And Henry's lion-standard rolled: + What was it to their matchless sheen, +Their million million drops of gold + Among the green! + +We sat at ease in peaceful trust, + For he had written, "Let us meet; +My wife grew tired of smoke and dust, + And London heat, + +"And I have found a quiet grange, + Set back in meadows sloping west, +And there our little ones can range + And she can rest. + +"Come down, that we may show the view, + And she may hear your voice again, +And talk her woman's talk with you + Along the lane." + +Since he had drawn with listless hand + The letter, six long years had fled, +And winds had blown about the sand, + And they were wed. + +Two rosy urchins near him played, + Or watched, entranced, the shapely ships +That with his knife for them he made + Of elder slips. + +And where the flowers were thickest shed, + Each blossom like a burnished gem, +A creeping baby reared its head, + And cooed at them. + +And calm was on the father's face, + And love was in the mother's eyes; +She looked and listened from her place, + In tender wise. + +She did not need to raise her voice + That they might hear, she sat so nigh; +Yet we could speak when 'twas our choice, + And soft reply. + +Holding our quiet talk apart + Of household things; till, all unsealed, +The guarded outworks of the heart + Began to yield; + +And much that prudence will not dip + The pen to fix and send away, +Passed safely over from the lip + That summer day. + +"I should be happy," with a look + Towards her husband where he lay, +Lost in the pages of his book, + Soft did she say. + +"I am, and yet no lot below + For one whole day eludeth care; +To marriage all the stories flow, + And finish there: + +"As if with marriage came the end, + The entrance into settled rest, +The calm to which love's tossings tend, + The quiet breast. + +"For me love played the low preludes, + Yet life began but with the ring, +Such infinite solicitudes + Around it cling. + +"I did not for my heart divine + Her destiny so meek to grow; +The higher nature matched with mine + Will have it so. + +"Still I consider it, and still + Acknowledge it my master made, +Above me by the steadier will + Of nought afraid. + +"Above me by the candid speech; + The temperate judgment of its own; +The keener thoughts that grasp and reach + At things unknown. + +"But I look up and he looks down, + And thus our married eyes can meet; +Unclouded his, and clear of frown, + And gravely sweet. + +"And yet, O good, O wise and true! + I would for all my fealty, +That I could be as much to you + As you to me; + +"And knew the deep secure content + Of wives who have been hardly won, +And, long petitioned, gave assent, + Jealous of none. + +"But proudly sure in all the earth + No other in that homage shares, +Nor other woman's face or worth + Is prized as theirs." + +I said: "And yet no lot below + For one whole day eludeth care. +Your thought." She answered, "Even so. + I would beware + +"Regretful questionings; be sure + That very seldom do they rise, +Nor for myself do I endure-- + I sympathize. + +"For once"--she turned away her head, + Across the grass she swept her hand-- +"There was a letter once," she said, + "Upon the sand." + +"There was, in truth, a letter writ + On sand," I said, "and swept from view; +But that same hand which fashioned it + Is given to you. + +"Efface the letter; wherefore keep + An image which the sands forego?" +"Albeit that fear had seemed to sleep," + She answered low, + +"I could not choose but wake it now; + For do but turn aside your face, +A house on yonder hilly brow + Your eyes may trace. + +"The chestnut shelters it; ah me, + That I should have so faint a heart! +But yester-eve, as by the sea + I sat apart, + +"I heard a name, I saw a hand + Of passing stranger point that way-- +And will he meet her on the strand, + When late we stray? + +"For she is come, for she is there, + I heard it in the dusk, and heard +Admiring words, that named her fair, + But little stirred + +"By beauty of the wood and wave, + And weary of an old man's sway; +For it was sweeter to enslave + Than to obey." + +--The voice of one that near us stood, + The rustle of a silken fold, +A scent of eastern sandal wood, + A gleam of gold! + +A lady! In the narrow space + Between the husband and the wife, +But nearest him--she showed a face + With dangers rife; + +A subtle smile that dimpling fled, + As night-black lashes rose and fell: +I looked, and to myself I said, + "The letter L." + +He, too, looked up, and with arrest + Of breath and motion held his gaze, +Nor cared to hide within his breast + His deep amaze; + +Nor spoke till on her near advance + His dark cheek flushed a ruddier hue; +And with his change of countenance + Hers altered too. + +"Lenore!" his voice was like the cry + Of one entreating; and he said +But that--then paused with such a sigh + As mourns the dead. + +And seated near, with no demur + Of bashful doubt she silence broke, +Though I alone could answer her + When first she spoke. + +She looked: her eyes were beauty's own; + She shed their sweetness into his; +Nor spared the married wife one moan + That bitterest is. + +She spoke, and lo, her loveliness + Methought she damaged with her tongue; +And every sentence made it less, + All falsely rung. + +The rallying voice, the light demand, + Half flippant, half unsatisfied; +The vanity sincere and bland-- + The answers wide. + +And now her talk was of the East, + And next her talk was of the sea; +"And has the love for it increased + You shared with me?" + +He answered not, but grave and still + With earnest eyes her face perused, +And locked his lips with steady will, + As one that mused-- + +That mused and wondered. Why his gaze + Should dwell on her, methought, was plain; +But reason that should wonder raise + I sought in vain. + +And near and near the children drew, + Attracted by her rich array, +And gems that trembling into view + Like raindrops lay. + +He spoke: the wife her baby took + And pressed the little face to hers; +What pain soe'er her bosom shook, + What jealous stirs + +Might stab her heart, she hid them so, + The cooing babe a veil supplied; +And if she listened none might know, + Or if she sighed; + +Or if forecasting grief and care + Unconscious solace thence she drew, +And lulled her babe, and unaware + Lulled sorrow too. + +The lady, she interpreter + For looks or language wanted none, +If yet dominion stayed with her-- + So lightly won; + +If yet the heart she wounded sore + Could yearn to her, and let her see +The homage that was evermore + Disloyalty; + +If sign would yield that it had bled, + Or rallied from the faithless blow, +Or sick or sullen stooped to wed, + She craved to know. + +Now dreamy deep, now sweetly keen, + Her asking eyes would round him shine; +But guarded lips and settled mien + Refused the sign. + +And unbeguiled and unbetrayed, + The wonder yet within his breast, +It seemed a watchful part he played + Against her quest. + +Until with accent of regret + She touched upon the past once more, +As if she dared him to forget + His dream of yore. + +And words of little weight let fall + The fancy of the lower mind; +How waxing life must needs leave all + Its best behind; + +How he had said that "he would fain + (One morning on the halcyon sea) +That life would at a stand remain + Eternally; + +"And sails be mirrored in the deep, + As then they were, for evermore, +And happy spirits wake and sleep + Afar from shore: + +"The well-contented heart be fed + Ever as then, and all the world +(It were not small) unshadowèd + When sails were furled. + +"Your words"--a pause, and quietly + With touch of calm self-ridicule: +"It may be so--for then," said he, + "I was a fool." + +With that he took his book, and left + An awkward silence to my care, +That soon I filled with questions deft + And debonair; + +And slid into an easy vein, + The favorite picture of the year; +The grouse upon her lord's domain-- + The salmon weir; + +Till she could fain a sudden thought + Upon neglected guests, and rise, +And make us her adieux, with nought + In her dark eyes + +Acknowledging or shame or pain; + But just unveiling for our view +A little smile of still disdain + As she withdrew. + +Then nearer did the sunshine creep, + And warmer came the wafting breeze; +The little babe was fast asleep + On mother's knees. + +Fair was the face that o'er it leant, + The cheeks with beauteous blushes dyed; +The downcast lashes, shyly bent, + That failed to hide + +Some tender shame. She did not see; + She felt his eyes that would not stir, +She looked upon her babe, and he + So looked at her. + +So grave, so wondering, so content, + As one new waked to conscious life, +Whose sudden joy with fear is blent, + He said, "My wife." + +"My wife, how beautiful you are!" + Then closer at her side reclined, +"The bold brown woman from afar + Comes, to me blind. + +"And by comparison, I see + The majesty of matron grace, +And learn how pure, how fair can be + My own wife's face: + +"Pure with all faithful passion, fair + With tender smiles that come and go, +And comforting as April air + After the snow. + +"Fool that I was! my spirit frets + And marvels at the humbling truth, +That I have deigned to spend regrets + On my bruised youth. + +"Its idol mocked thee, seated nigh, + And shamed me for the mad mistake; +I thank my God he could deny, + And she forsake. + +"Ah, who am I, that God hath saved + Me from the doom I did desire, +And crossed the lot myself had craved, + To set me higher? + +"What have I done that He should bow + From heaven to choose a wife for me? +And what deserved, He should endow + My home with THEE? + +"My wife!" With that she turned her face + To kiss the hand about her neck; +And I went down and sought the place + Where leaped the beck-- + +The busy beck, that still would run + And fall, and falter its refrain; +And pause and shimmer in the sun, + And fall again. + +It led me to the sandy shore, + We sang together, it and I-- +"The daylight comes, the dark is o'er, + The shadows fly." + +I lost it on the sandy shore, + "O wife!" its latest murmurs fell, +"O wife, be glad, and fear no more + The letter L." + + + + +THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. + +(1571.) + + +The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, + The ringers ran by two, by three; +"Pull, if ye never pulled before; + Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. +"Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! +Ply all your changes, all your swells, + Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'" + +Men say it was a stolen tyde-- + The Lord that sent it, He knows all; +But in myne ears doth still abide + The message that the bells let fall: +And there was nought of strange, beside +The nights of mews and peewits pied + By millions crouched on the old sea wall. + +I sat and spun within the doore, + My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; +The level sun, like ruddy ore, + Lay sinking in the barren skies; +And dark against day's golden death +She moved where Lindis wandereth, +My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. + + "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, + Ere the early dews were falling, + Farre away I heard her song. + "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; + Where the reedy Lindis floweth, + Floweth, floweth. + From the meads where melick groweth + Faintly came her milking song-- + + "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, + "For the dews will soone be falling; + Leave your meadow grasses mellow, + Mellow, mellow; + Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; + Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot + Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; + Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, + From the clovers lift your head; + Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, + Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, + Jetty, to the milking shed." + +If it be long, ay, long ago, + When I beginne to think howe long, +Againe I hear the Lindis flow, + Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; +And all the aire, it seemeth mee, +Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), +That ring the tune of Enderby. + +Alle fresh the level pasture lay, + And not a shadowe mote be seene, +Save where full fyve good miles away + The steeple towered from out the greene; +And lo! the great bell farre and wide +Was heard in all the country side +That Saturday at eventide. + +The swanherds where their sedges are + Moved on in sunset's golden breath. +The shepherde lads I heard afarre, + And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; +Till floating o'er the grassy sea +Came downe that kyndly message free, +The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." + +Then some looked uppe into the sky, + And all along where Lindis flows +To where the goodly vessels lie, + And where the lordly steeple shows. +They sayde, "And why should this thing be? +What danger lowers by land or sea? +They ring the tune of Enderby! + +"For evil news from Mablethorpe, + Of pyrate galleys warping down; +For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, + They have not spared to wake the towne +But while the west bin red to see, +And storms be none, and pyrates flee, +Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?" + +I looked without, and lo! my sonne + Came riding downe with might and main +He raised a shout as he drew on, + Till all the welkin rang again, +"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" +(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath +Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) + +"The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, + The rising tide comes on apace, +And boats adrift in yonder towne + Go sailing uppe the market-place." +He shook as one that looks on death: +"God save you, mother!" straight he saith; +"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" + +"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, + With her two bairns I marked her long; +And ere yon bells beganne to play + Afar I heard her milking song." +He looked across the grassy lea, +To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!" +They rang "The Brides of Enderby!" + +With that he cried and beat his breast; + For, lo! along the river's bed +A mighty eygre reared his crest, + And uppe the Lindis raging sped. +It swept with thunderous noises loud; +Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, +Or like a demon in a shroud. + +And rearing Lindis backward pressed, + Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; +Then madly at the eygre's breast + Flung uppe her weltering walls again. +Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-- +Then beaten foam flew round about-- +Then all the mighty floods were out. + +So farre, so fast the eygre drave, + The heart had hardly time to beat, +Before a shallow seething wave + Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: +The feet had hardly time to flee +Before it brake against the knee, +And all the world was in the sea. + +Upon the roofe we sate that night, + The noise of bells went sweeping by; +I marked the lofty beacon light + Stream from the church tower, red and high-- +A lurid mark and dread to see; +And awsome bells they were to mee, +That in the dark rang "Enderby." + +They rang the sailor lads to guide + From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; +And I--my sonne was at my side, + And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; +And yet he moaned beneath his breath, +"O come in life, or come in death! +O lost! my love, Elizabeth." + +And didst thou visit him no more? + Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; +The waters laid thee at his doore, + Ere yet the early dawn was clear. +Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, +The lifted sun shone on thy face, +Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. + +That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, + That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; +A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! + To manye more than myne and me: +But each will mourn his own (she saith). +And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath +Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. + +I shall never hear her more +By the reedy Lindis shore, +"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, +Ere the early dews be falling; +I shall never hear her song, +"Cusha! Cusha!" all along +Where the sunny Lindis floweth, + Goeth, floweth; +From the meads where melick groweth, +When the water winding down, +Onward floweth to the town. + +I shall never see her more +Where the reeds and rushes quiver, + Shiver, quiver; +Stand beside the sobbing river, +Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling +To the sandy lonesome shore; +I shall never hear her calling, +"Leave your meadow grasses mellow. + Mellow, mellow; +Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; +Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; +Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; +Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; + Lightfoot, Whitefoot, +From your clovers lift the head; +Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, +Jetty, to the milking shed." + + + + +AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. + +(THE PARSON'S BROTHER, SISTER, AND TWO CHILDREN) + + +_Preface_. + +What wonder man should fail to stay + A nursling wafted from above, +The growth celestial come astray, + That tender growth whose name is Love! + +It is as if high winds in heaven + Had shaken the celestial trees, +And to this earth below had given + Some feathered seeds from one of these. + +O perfect love that 'dureth long! + Dear growth, that shaded by the palms. +And breathed on by the angel's song, + Blooms on in heaven's eternal calms! + +How great the task to guard thee here, + Where wind is rough and frost is keen, +And all the ground with doubt and fear + Is checkered, birth and death between! + +Space is against thee--it can part; + Time is against thee--it can chill; +Words--they but render half the heart; + Deeds--they are poor to our rich will. + + * * * * * + +_Merton_. Though she had loved me, I had never bound +Her beauty to my darkness; that had been +Too hard for her. Sadder to look so near +Into a face all shadow, than to stand +Aloof, and then withdraw, and afterwards +Suffer forgetfulness to comfort her. +I think so, and I loved her; therefore I +Have no complaint; albeit she is not mine: +And yet--and yet, withdrawing I would fain +She would have pleaded duty--would have said +"My father wills it"; would have turned away, +As lingering, or unwillingly; for then +She would have done no damage to the past: +Now she has roughly used it--flung it down +And brushed its bloom away. If she had said, +"Sir, I have promised; therefore, lo! my hand"-- +Would I have taken it? Ah no! by all +Most sacred, no! + I would for my sole share +Have taken first her recollected blush +The day I won her; next her shining tears-- +The tears of our long parting; and for all +The rest--her cry, her bitter heart-sick cry, +That day or night (I know not which it was, +The days being always night), that darkest night. +When being led to her I heard her cry, +"O blind! blind! blind!" +Go with thy chosen mate: +The fashion of thy going nearly cured +The sorrow of it. I am yet so weak +That half my thoughts go after thee; but not +So weak that I desire to have it so. + +JESSIE, _seated at the piano, sings_. + +When the dimpled water slippeth, + Full of laughter, on its way, +And her wing the wagtail dippeth, + Running by the brink at play; +When the poplar leaves atremble + Turn their edges to the light, +And the far-up clouds resemble + Veils of gauze most clear and white; +And the sunbeams fall and flatter + Woodland moss and branches brown. +And the glossy finches chatter + Up and down, up and down: +Though the heart be not attending, + Having music of her own, +On the grass, through meadows wending, + It is sweet to walk alone. + +When the falling waters utter + Something mournful on their way, +And departing swallows flutter, + Taking leave of bank and brae; +When the chaffinch idly sitteth + With her mate upon the sheaves, +And the wistful robin flitteth + Over beds of yellow leaves; +When the clouds, like ghosts that ponder + Evil fate, float by and frown, +And the listless wind doth wander + Up and down, up and down: +Though the heart be not attending, + Having sorrows of her own, +Through the fields and fallows wending, + It is sad to walk alone. + +_Merton_. Blind! blind! blind! +Oh! sitting in the dark for evermore, +And doing nothing--putting out a hand +To feel what lies about me, and to say +Not "This is blue or red," but "This is cold, +And this the sun is shining on, and this +I know not till they tell its name to me." + +O that I might behold once more my God! +The shining rulers of the night and day; +Or a star twinkling; or an almond-tree, +Pink with her blossom and alive with bees, +Standing against the azure! O my sight! +Lost, and yet living in the sunlit cells +Of memory--that only lightsome place +Where lingers yet the dayspring of my youth: +The years of mourning for thy death are long. + +Be kind, sweet memory! O desert me not! +For oft thou show'st me lucent opal seas, +Fringed with their cocoa-palms and dwarf red crags, +Whereon the placid moon doth "rest her chin", +For oft by favor of thy visitings +I feel the dimness of an Indian night, +And lo! the sun is coming. Red as rust +Between the latticed blind his presence burns, +A ruby ladder running up the wall; +And all the dust, printed with pigeons' feet, +Is reddened, and the crows that stalk anear +Begin to trail for heat their glossy wings, +And the red flowers give back at once the dew, +For night is gone, and day is born so fast, +And is so strong, that, huddled as in flight, +The fleeting darkness paleth to a shade, +And while she calls to sleep and dreams "Come on," +Suddenly waked, the sleepers rub their eyes, +Which having opened, lo! she is no more. + +O misery and mourning! I have felt-- +Yes, I have felt like some deserted world +That God had done with, and had cast aside +To rock and stagger through the gulfs of space, +He never looking on it any more-- +Untilled, no use, no pleasure, not desired, +Nor lighted on by angels in their flight +From heaven to happier planets, and the race +That once had dwelt on it withdrawn or dead +Could such a world have hope that some blest day +God would remember her, and fashion her +Anew? + +_Jessie_. What, dearest? Did you speak to me? + +_Child_. I think he spoke to us. + +_M_. No, little elves, +You were so quiet that I half forgot +Your neighborhood. What are you doing there? + +_J_. They sit together on the window-mat +Nursing their dolls. + +_C_. Yes, Uncle, our new dolls-- +Our best dolls, that you gave us. + +_M_. Did you say +The afternoon was bright? + +_J_. Yes, bright indeed! +The sun is on the plane-tree, and it flames +All red and orange. + +_C_. I can see my father-- +Look! look! the leaves are falling on his gown. + +_M_. Where? + +_C_. In the churchyard, Uncle--he is gone: +He passed behind the tower. + +_M_. I heard a bell: +There is a funeral, then, behind the church. + +_2d Child_. Are the trees sorry when their leaves drop off? + +_1st Child_. You talk such silly words;--no, not at all. +There goes another leaf. + +_2d Child_. I did not see. + +_1st Child_. Look! on the grass, between the little hills. +Just where they planted Amy. + +_J._ Amy died-- +Dear little Amy! when you talk of her, +Say, she is gone to heaven. + +_2d Child_. They planted her-- +Will she come up next year? + +_1st Child_. No, not so soon; +But some day God will call her to come up, +And then she will. Papa knows everything-- +He said she would before he planted her. + +_2d Child_. It was at night she went to heaven. Last night +We saw a star before we went to bed. + +_1st Child_. Yes, Uncle, did you know? A large bright star, +And at her side she had some little ones-- +Some young ones. + +_M_. Young ones! no, my little maid, +Those stars are very old. + +_1st Child_. What! all of them? + +_M_. Yes. + +_1st Child_. Older than our father? + +_M_. Older, far. + +_2d Child_. They must be tired of shining there so long. +Perhaps they wish they might come down. + +_J_. Perhaps! +Dear children, talk of what you understand. +Come, I must lift the trailing creepers up +That last night's wind has loosened. + +_1st Child_. May we help? +Aunt, may we help to nail them? + +_J._ We shall see. +Go, find and bring the hammer, and some shreds. + +_[Steps outside the window, lifts a branch, and sings.]_ + +Should I change my allegiance for rancor + If fortune changes her side? +Or should I, like a vessel at anchor, + Turn with the turn of the tide? +Lift! O lift, thou lowering sky; + An thou wilt, thy gloom forego! +An thou wilt not, he and I + Need not part for drifts of snow. + + _M. [within_] Lift! no, thou lowering sky, thou wilt not lift-- +Thy motto readeth, "Never." + +_Children_. Here they are! +Here are the nails! and may we help? + +_J_. You shall, +If I should want help. + +_1st Child_. Will you want it, then? +Please want it--we like nailing. + +_2d Child_. Yes, we do. + +_J_. It seems I ought to want it: hold the bough, +And each may nail in turn. + +[_Sings._] + +Like a daisy I was, near him growing: + Must I move because favors flag, +And be like a brown wall-flower blowing + Far out of reach in a crag? +Lift! O lift, thou lowering sky; + An thou canst, thy blue regain! +An thou canst not, he and I + Need not part for drops of rain. + +_1st Child_. Now, have we nailed enough? + +_J. [trains the creepers_] Yes, you may go; +But do not play too near the churchyard path. + +_M. [within_] Even misfortune does not strike so near +As my dependence. O, in youth and strength +To sit a timid coward in the dark, +And feel before I set a cautious step! +It is so very dark, so far more dark +Than any night that day comes after--night +In which there would be stars, or else at least +The silvered portion of a sombre cloud +Through which the moon is plunging. + +_J. [entering]_ Merton! + +_M_. Yes + +_J_. Dear Merton, did you know that I could hear? + +_M_. No: e'en my solitude is not mine now, +And if I be alone is ofttimes doubt. +Alas! far more than eyesight have I lost; +For manly courage drifteth after it-- +E'en as a splintered spar would drift away +From some dismasted wreck. Hear, I complain-- +Like a weak ailing woman I complain. + +_J_. For the first time. + +_M_. I cannot bear the dark. + +_J_. My brother! you do bear it--bear it well-- +Have borne it twelve long months, and not complained +Comfort your heart with music: all the air +Is warm with sunbeams where the organ stands. +You like to feel them on you. Come and play. + +_M_. My fate, my fate is lonely! + +_J_. So it is-- +I know it is. + +_M_. And pity breaks my heart. + +_J_. Does it, dear Merton? + +_M_. Yes, I say it does. +What! do you think I am so dull of ear +That I can mark no changes in the tones +That reach me? Once I liked not girlish pride +And that coy quiet, chary of reply, +That held me distant: now the sweetest lips +Open to entertain me--fairest hands +Are proffered me to guide. + +_J_. That is not well? + +_M_. No: give me coldness, pride, or still disdain, +Gentle withdrawal. Give me anything +But this--a fearless, sweet, confiding ease, +Whereof I may expect, I may exact, +Considerate care, and have it--gentle speech, +And have it. Give me anything but this! +For they who give it, give it in the faith +That I will not misdeem them, and forget +My doom so far as to perceive thereby +Hope of a wife. They make this thought too plain; +They wound me--O they cut me to the heart! +When have I said to any one of them, +"I am a blind and desolate man;--come here, +I pray you--be as eyes to me?" When said, +Even to her whose pitying voice is sweet +To my dark ruined heart, as must be hands +That clasp a lifelong captive's through the grate, +And who will ever lend her delicate aid +To guide me, dark encumbrance that I am!-- +When have I said to her, "Comforting voice, +Belonging to a face unknown, I pray +Be my wife's voice?" + +_J_. Never, my brother--no, +You never have! + +_M_. What could she think of me +If I forgot myself so far? or what +Could she reply? + +_J_. You ask not as men ask +Who care for an opinion, else perhaps, +Although I am not sure--although, perhaps, +I have no right to give one--I should say +She would reply, "I will" + + * * * * * + +_Afterthought_. + +Man dwells apart, though not alone, + He walks among his peers unread; +The best of thoughts which he hath known. + For lack of listeners are not said. + +Yet dreaming on earth's clustered isles, + He saith "They dwell not lone like men, +Forgetful that their sunflecked smiles + Flash far beyond each other's ken." + +He looks on God's eternal suns + That sprinkle the celestial blue, +And saith, "Ah! happy shining ones, + I would that men were grouped like you!" + +Yet this is sure, the loveliest star + That clustered with its peers we see, +Only because from us so far + Doth near its fellows seem to be. + + + + +SONGS OF SEVEN. + + +SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION. + +There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, + There's no rain left in heaven: +I've said my "seven times" over and over, + Seven times one are seven. + +I am old, so old, I can write a letter; + My birthday lessons are done; +The lambs play always, they know no better; + They are only one times one. + +O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing + And shining so round and low; +You were bright! ah bright! but your light is failing-- + You are nothing now but a bow. + +You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven + That God has hidden your face? +I hope if you have you will soon be forgiven, + And shine again in your place. + +O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, + You've powdered your legs with gold! +O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, + Give me your money to hold! + +O columbine, open your folded wrapper, + Where two twin turtle-doves dwell! +O cuckoo pint, toll me the purple clapper + That hangs in your clear green bell! + +And show me your nest with the young ones in it; + I will not steal them away; +I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet-- + I am seven times one to-day. + + +SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE. + +You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, + How many soever they be, +And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges + Come over, come over to me. + +Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling + No magical sense conveys, +And bells have forgotten their old art of telling + The fortune of future days. + +"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, + While a boy listened alone; +Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily + All by himself on a stone. + +Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, + And mine, they are yet to be; +No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: + You leave the story to me. + +The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, + And hangeth her hoods of snow; +She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: + O, children take long to grow. + +I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, + Nor long summer bide so late; +And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, + For some things are ill to wait. + +I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, + While dear hands are laid on my head; +"The child is a woman, the book may close over, + For all the lessons are said." + +I wait for my story--the birds cannot sing it, + Not one, as he sits on the tree; +The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it! + Such as I wish it to be. + + +SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE. + +I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, + Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; +"Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover-- + Hush, nightingale, hush! O, sweet nightingale, wait + Till I listen and hear + If a step draweth near, + For my love he is late! + +"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, + A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, +The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: + To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? + Let the star-clusters glow, + Let the sweet waters flow, + And cross quickly to me. + +"You night-moths that hover where honey brims over + From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; +You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover + To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. + Ah, my sailor, make haste, + For the time runs to waste, + And my love lieth deep-- + +"Too deep for swift telling: and yet my one lover + I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." + +By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover, + Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight: + But I'll love him more, more + Than e'er wife loved before, + Be the days dark or bright. + + +SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITY. + +Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, + Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! +When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, + And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small! +Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, + Eager to gather them all. + +Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups! + Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; +Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, + That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; +Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow"-- + Sing once, and sing it again. + +Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, + Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; +A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, + And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. +O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, + Maybe he thinks on you now! + +Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, + Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall-- +A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, + And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall! +Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, + God that is over us all! + + +SEVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOWHOOD. + +I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan + Before I am well awake; +"Let me bleed! O let me alone, + Since I must not break!" + +For children wake, though fathers sleep + With a stone at foot and at head: +O sleepless God, forever keep, + Keep both living and dead! + +I lift mine eyes, and what to see + But a world happy and fair! +I have not wished it to mourn with me-- + Comfort is not there. + +O what anear but golden brooms, + And a waste of reedy rills! +O what afar but the fine glooms + On the rare blue hills! + +I shall not die, but live forlore-- + How bitter it is to part! +O to meet thee, my love, once more! + O my heart, my heart! + +No more to hear, no more to see! + O that an echo might wake +And waft one note of thy psalm to me + Ere my heart-strings break! + +I should know it how faint soe'er, + And with angel voices blent; +O once to feel thy spirit anear, + I could be content! + +Or once between the gates of gold, + While an angel entering trod, +But once--thee sitting to behold + On the hills of God! + + +SEVEN TIMES SIX. GIVING IN MARRIAGE. + +To bear, to nurse, to rear, + To watch, and then to lose: +To see my bright ones disappear, + Drawn up like morning dews-- +To bear, to nurse, to rear, + To watch, and then to lose: +This have I done when God drew near + Among his own to choose. + +To hear, to heed, to wed, + And with thy lord depart +In tears that he, as soon as shed, + Will let no longer smart.-- +To hear, to heed, to wed, + This while thou didst I smiled, +For now it was not God who said, +"Mother, give ME thy child." + +O fond, O fool, and blind, + To God I gave with tears; +But when a man like grace would find, + My soul put by her fears-- +O fond, O fool, and blind, + God guards in happier spheres; +That man will guard where he did bind + Is hope for unknown years. + +To hear, to heed, to wed, + Fair lot that maidens choose, +Thy mother's tenderest words are said, + Thy face no more she views; +Thy mother's lot, my dear, + She doth in nought accuse; +Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, + To love--and then to lose. + + +SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. LONGING FOR HOME. + +I. + + A song of a boat:-- + There was once a boat on a billow: + Lightly she rocked to her port remote, +And the foam was white in her wake like snow, +And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow + And bent like a wand of willow. + +II. + + I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat + Went curtseying over the billow, + I marked her course till a dancing mote +She faded out on the moonlit foam, +And I stayed behind in the dear loved home; + And my thoughts all day were about the boat, + And my dreams upon the pillow. + +III. + +I pray you hear my song of a boat, + For it is but short:-- +My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat, + In river or port. +Long I looked out for the lad she bore, + On the open desolate sea, +And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, + For he came not back to me-- + Ah me! + +IV. + + A song of a nest:-- + There was once a nest in a hollow: +Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, + Soft and warm, and full to the brim-- + Vetches leaned over it purple and dim, + With buttercup buds to follow. + +V. + +I pray you hear my song of a nest, + For it is not long:-- +You shall never light, in a summer quest + The bushes among-- +Shall never light on a prouder sitter, + A fairer nestful, nor ever know +A softer sound than their tender twitter + That wind-like did come and go. + +VI. + + I had a nestful once of my own, + Ah happy, happy I! +Right dearly I loved them: but when they were grown + They spread out their wings to fly-- + O, one after one they flew away + Far up to the heavenly blue, + To the better country, the upper day, + And--I wish I was going too. + +VII. + +I pray you, what is the nest to me, + My empty nest? +And what is the shore where I stood to see + My boat sail down to the west? +Can I call that home where I anchor yet, + Though my good man has sailed? +Can I call that home where my nest was set, + Now all its hope hath failed? +Nay, but the port where my sailor went, + And the land where my nestlings be: +There is the home where my thoughts are sent, + The only home for me-- + Ah me! + + + + +A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. + + +We reached the place by night, + And heard the waves breaking: +They came to meet us with candles alight + To show the path we were taking. +A myrtle, trained on the gate, was white + With tufted flowers down shaking. + +With head beneath her wing, + A little wren was sleeping-- +So near, I had found it an easy thing + To steal her for my keeping +From the myrtle-bough that with easy swing + Across the path was sweeping. + +Down rocky steps rough-hewed, + Where cup-mosses flowered, +And under the trees, all twisted and rude, + Wherewith the dell was dowered, +They led us, where deep in its solitude + Lay the cottage, leaf-embowered. + +The thatch was all bespread + With climbing passion-flowers; +They were wet, and glistened with raindrops, shed + That day in genial showers. +"Was never a sweeter nest," we said, + "Than this little nest of ours." + +We laid us down to sleep: + But as for me--waking, +I marked the plunge of the muffled deep + On its sandy reaches breaking; +For heart-joyance doth sometimes keep + From slumber, like heart-aching. + +And I was glad that night, + With no reason ready, +To give my own heart for its deep delight, + That flowed like some tidal eddy, +Or shone like a star that was rising bright + With comforting radiance steady. + +But on a sudden--hark! + Music struck asunder +Those meshes of bliss, and I wept in the dark, + So sweet was the unseen wonder; +So swiftly it touched, as if struck at a mark, + The trouble that joy kept under. + +I rose--the moon outshone: + I saw the sea heaving, +And a little vessel sailing alone, + The small crisp wavelet cleaving; +'Twas she as she sailed to her port unknown-- + Was that track of sweetness leaving. + +We know they music made + In heaven, ere man's creation; +But when God threw it down to us that strayed + It dropt with lamentation, +And ever since doth its sweetness shade + With sighs for its first station. + +Its joy suggests regret-- + Its most for more is yearning; +And it brings to the soul that its voice hath met, + No rest that cadence learning, +But a conscious part in the sighs that fret + Its nature for returning. + +O Eve, sweet Eve! methought + When sometimes comfort winning, +As she watched the first children's tender sport, + Sole joy born since her sinning, +If a bird anear them sang, it brought + The pang as at beginning. + +While swam the unshed tear, + Her prattlers little heeding, +Would murmur, "This bird, with its carol clear. + When the red clay was kneaden, +And God made Adam our father dear, + Sang to him thus in Eden." + +The moon went in--the sky + And earth and sea hiding, +I laid me down, with the yearning sigh + Of that strain in my heart abiding; +I slept, and the barque that had sailed so nigh + In my dream was ever gliding. + +I slept, but waked amazed, + With sudden noise frighted, +And voices without, and a flash that dazed + My eyes from candles lighted. +"Ah! surely," methought, "by these shouts upraised + Some travellers are benighted." + +A voice was at my side-- + "Waken, madam, waken! +The long prayed-for ship at her anchor doth ride. + Let the child from its rest be taken, +For the captain doth weary for babe and for bride-- + Waken, madam, waken! + +"The home you left but late, + He speeds to it light-hearted; +By the wires he sent this news, and straight + To you with it they started." +O joy for a yearning heart too great, + O union for the parted! + +We rose up in the night, + The morning star was shining; +We carried the child in its slumber light + Out by the myrtles twining: +Orion over the sea hung bright, + And glorious in declining. + +Mother, to meet her son, + Smiled first, then wept the rather; +And wife, to bind up those links undone, + And cherished words to gather, +And to show the face of her little one, + That had never seen its father. + +That cottage in a chine + We were not to behold it; +But there may the purest of sunbeams shine, + May freshest flowers enfold it, +For sake of the news which our hearts must twine + With the bower where we were told it! + +Now oft, left lone again, + Sit mother and sit daughter, +And bless the good ship that sailed over the main, + And the favoring winds that brought her; +While still some new beauty they fable and feign + For the cottage by the water. + + + + +PERSEPHONE. + +(Written for THE PORTFOLIO SOCIETY, January, 1862. + +Subject given--"Light and Shade.") + + +She stepped upon Sicilian grass, + Demeter's daughter fresh and fair, +A child of light, a radiant lass, + And gamesome as the morning air. +The daffodils were fair to see, +They nodded lightly on the lea, +Persephone--Persephone! + +Lo! one she marked of rarer growth + Than orchis or anemone; +For it the maiden left them both, + And parted from her company. +Drawn nigh she deemed it fairer still, +And stooped to gather by the rill +The daffodil, the daffodil. + +What ailed the meadow that it shook? + What ailed the air of Sicily? +She wondered by the brattling brook, + And trembled with the trembling lea. +"The coal-black horses rise--they rise: +O mother, mother!" low she cries-- +Persephone--Persephone! + +"O light, light, light!" she cries, "farewell; + The coal-black horses wait for me. +O shade of shades, where I must dwell, + Demeter, mother, far from thee! +Ah, fated doom that I fulfil! +Ah, fateful flower beside the rill! +The daffodil, the daffodil!" + +What ails her that she comes not home? + Demeter seeks her far and wide, +And gloomy-browed doth ceaseless roam + From many a morn till eventide. +"My life, immortal though it be, +Is nought," she cries, "for want of thee, +Persephone--Persephone! + +"Meadows of Enna, let the rain + No longer drop to feed your rills, +Nor dew refresh the fields again, + With all their nodding daffodils! +Fade, fade and droop, O lilied lea, +Where thou, dear heart, wert reft from me-- +Persephone--Persephone!" + +She reigns upon her dusky throne, + Mid shades of heroes dread to see; +Among the dead she breathes alone, + Persephone--Persephone! +Or seated on the Elysian hill +She dreams of earthly daylight still, +And murmurs of the daffodil. + +A voice in Hades soundeth clear, + The shadows mourn and fill below; +It cries--"Thou Lord of Hades, hear, + And let Demeter's daughter go. +The tender corn upon the lea +Droops in her goddess gloom when she +Cries for her lost Persephone. + +"From land to land she raging flies, + The green fruit falleth in her wake, +And harvest fields beneath her eyes + To earth the grain unripened shake. +Arise, and set the maiden free; +Why should the world such sorrow dree +By reason of Persephone?" + +He takes the cleft pomegranate seeds: + "Love, eat with me this parting day;" +Then bids them fetch the coal-black steeds-- + "Demeter's daughter, wouldst away?" +The gates of Hades set her free: +"She will return full soon," saith he-- +"My wife, my wife Persephone." + +Low laughs the dark king on his throne-- + "I gave her of pomegranate seeds." +Demeter's daughter stands alone + Upon the fair Eleusian meads. +Her mother meets her. "Hail!" saith she; +"And doth our daylight dazzle thee, +My love, my child Persephone? + +"What moved thee, daughter, to forsake + Thy fellow-maids that fatal morn, +And give thy dark lord power to take + Thee living to his realm forlorn?" +Her lips reply without her will, +As one addressed who slumbereth still-- +"The daffodil, the daffodil!" + +Her eyelids droop with light oppressed, + And sunny wafts that round her stir, +Her cheek upon her mother's breast-- + Demeter's kisses comfort her. +Calm Queen of Hades, art thou she +Who stepped so lightly on the lea-- +Persephone, Persephone? + +When, in her destined course, the moon + Meets the deep shadow of this world, +And laboring on doth seem to swoon + Through awful wastes of dimness whirled-- +Emerged at length, no trace hath she +Of that dark hour of destiny, +Still silvery sweet--Persephone. + +The greater world may near the less, + And draw it through her weltering shade, +But not one biding trace impress + Of all the darkness that she made; +The greater soul that draweth thee +Hath left his shadow plain to see +On thy fair face, Persephone! + +Demeter sighs, but sure 'tis well + The wife should love her destiny: +They part, and yet, as legends tell, + She mourns her lost Persephone; +While chant the maids of Enna still-- +"O fateful flower beside the rill-- +The daffodil, the daffodil!" + + + + +A SEA SONG. + + +Old Albion sat on a crag of late. + And sang out--"Ahoy! ahoy! +Long, life to the captain, good luck to the mate. +And this to my sailor boy! + Come over, come home, + Through the salt sea foam, + My sailor, my sailor boy. + +"Here's a crown to be given away, I ween, + A crown for my sailor's head, +And all for the worth of a widowed queen, + And the love of the noble dead; + And the fear and fame + Of the island's name + Where my boy was born and bred. + +"Content thee, content thee, let it alone, + Thou marked for a choice so rare; +Though treaties be treaties, never a throne + Was proffered for cause as fair. + Yet come to me home, + Through the salt sea foam, + For the Greek must ask elsewhere. + +"'Tis a pity, my sailor, but who can tell? + Many lands they look to me; +One of these might be wanting a Prince as well, + But that's as hereafter may be." + She raised her white head + And laughed; and she said + "That's as hereafter may be." + + + + +BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. + + +It was a village built in a green rent, +Between two cliffs that skirt the dangerous bay +A reef of level rock runs out to sea, +And you may lie on it and look sheer down, +Just where the "Grace of Sunderland" was lost, +And see the elastic banners of the dulse +Rock softly, and the orange star-fish creep +Across the laver, and the mackerel shoot +Over and under it, like silver boats +Turning at will and plying under water. + +There on that reef we lay upon our breasts, +My brother and I, and half the village lads, +For an old fisherman had called to us +With "Sirs, the syle be come." "And what are they?" +My brother said. "Good lack!" the old man cried, +And shook his head; "To think you gentlefolk +Should ask what syle be! Look you; I can't say +What syle be called in your fine dictionaries, +Nor what name God Almighty calls them by +When their food's ready and He sends them south: +But our folk call them syle, and nought but syle, +And when they're grown, why then we call them herring. +I tell you, Sir, the water is as full +Of them as pastures be of blades of grass; +You'll draw a score out in a landing net, +And none of them be longer than a pin. + +"Syle! ay, indeed, we should be badly off, +I reckon, and so would God Almighty's gulls," +He grumbled on in his quaint piety, +"And all His other birds, if He should say +I will not drive my syle into the south; +The fisher folk may do without my syle, +And do without the shoals of fish it draws +To follow and feed on it." + This said, we made +Our peace with him by means of two small coins, +And down we ran and lay upon the reef, +And saw the swimming infants, emerald green, +In separate shoals, the scarcely turning ebb +Bringing them in; while sleek, and not intent +On chase, but taking that which came to hand, +The full-fed mackerel and the gurnet swam +Between; and settling on the polished sea, +A thousand snow-white gulls sat lovingly +In social rings, and twittered while they fed. +The village dogs and ours, elate and brave, +Lay looking over, barking at the fish; +Fast, fast the silver creatures took the bait, +And when they heaved and floundered on the rock, +In beauteous misery, a sudden pat +Some shaggy pup would deal, then back away, +At distance eye them with sagacious doubt, +And shrink half frighted from the slippery things. + +And so we lay from ebb-tide, till the flow +Rose high enough to drive us from the reef; +The fisher lads went home across the sand; +We climbed the cliff, and sat an hour or more, +Talking and looking down. It was not talk +Of much significance, except for this-- +That we had more in common than of old, +For both were tired, I with overwork. +He with inaction; I was glad at heart +To rest, and he was glad to have an ear +That he could grumble to, and half in jest +Rail at entails, deplore the fate of heirs, +And the misfortune of a good estate-- +Misfortune that was sure to pull him down, +Make him a dreamy, selfish, useless man: +Indeed he felt himself deteriorate +Already. Thereupon he sent down showers +Of clattering stones, to emphasize his words, +And leap the cliffs and tumble noisily +Into the seething wave. And as for me, +I railed at him and at ingratitude, +While rifling of the basket he had slung +Across his shoulders; then with right good will +We fell to work, and feasted like the gods, +Like laborers, or like eager workhouse folk +At Yuletide dinner; or, to say the whole +At once, like tired, hungry, healthy youth, +Until the meal being o'er, the tilted flask +Drained of its latest drop, the meat and bread +And ruddy cherries eaten, and the dogs +Mumbling the bones, this elder brother of mine-- +This man, that never felt an ache or pain +In his broad, well-knit frame, and never knew +The trouble of an unforgiven grudge, +The sting of a regretted meanness, nor +The desperate struggle of the unendowed +For place and for possession--he began +To sing a rhyme that he himself had wrought; +Sending it out with cogitative pause, +As if the scene where he had shaped it first +Had rolled it back on him, and meeting it +Thus unaware, he was of doubtful mind +Whether his dignity it well beseemed +To sing of pretty maiden: + +Goldilocks sat on the grass, + Tying up of posies rare; +Hardly could a sunbeam pass + Through the cloud that was her hair. +Purple orchis lasteth long, + Primrose flowers are pale and clear; +O the maiden sang a song + It would do you good to hear! + +Sad before her leaned the boy, + "Goldilocks that I love well, +Happy creature, fair and coy, + Think o' me, sweet Amabel." +Goldilocks she shook apart, + Looked with doubtful, doubtful eyes; +Like a blossom in her heart, + Opened out her first surprise. + +As a gloriole sign o' grace, + Goldilocks, ah fall and flow, +On the blooming, childlike face, + Dimple, dimple, come and go. +Give her time; on grass and sky + Let her gaze if she be fain: +As they looked ere he drew nigh, + They will never look again. + +Ah! the playtime she has known, + While her goldilocks grew long, +Is it like a nestling flown, + Childhood over like a song? +Yes, the boy may clear his brow, + Though she thinks to say him nay, +When she sighs, "I cannot now-- + Come again some other day." + +"Hold! there," he cried, half angry with himself; +"That ending goes amiss:" then turned again +To the old argument that we had held-- +"Now look you!" said my brother, "You may talk +Till, weary of the talk, I answer 'Ay, +There's reason in your words;' and you may talk +Till I go on to say, 'This should be so;' +And you may talk till I shall further own +'It _is_ so; yes, I am a lucky dog!' +Yet not the less shall I next morning wake. +And with a natural and fervent sigh, +Such as you never heaved, I shall exclaim +'What an unlucky dog I am!'" And here +He broke into a laugh. "But as for you-- +You! on all hands you have the best of me; +Men have not robbed _you_ of your birthright--work, +Nor ravaged in old days a peaceful field, +Nor wedded heiresses against their will, +Nor sinned, nor slaved, nor stooped, nor overreached, +That you might drone a useless life away +'Mid half a score of bleak and barren farms +And half a dozen bogs." + "O rare!" I cried; +"His wrongs go nigh to make him eloquent: +Now we behold how far bad actions reach! +Because five hundred years ago a Knight +Drove geese and beeves out from a Franklin's yard +Because three hundred years ago a squire-- +Against her will, and for her fair estate-- +Married a very ugly red-haired maid, +The blest inheritor of all their pelf, +While in the full enjoyment of the same, +Sighs on his own confession every day. +He cracks no egg without a moral sigh, +Nor eats of beef, but thinking on that wrong; +Then, yet the more to be revenged on them, +And shame their ancient pride, if they should know, +Works hard as any horse for his degree, +And takes to writing verses." + "Ay," he said, +Half laughing at himself. "Yet you and I, +But for those tresses which enrich us yet +With somewhat of the hue that partial fame +Calls auburn when it shines on heads of heirs, +But when it flames round brows of younger sons, +Just red--mere red; why, but for this, I say, +And but for selfish getting of the land, +And beggarly entailing it, we two, +To-day well fed, well grown, well dressed, well read, +We might have been two horny-handed boors-- +Lean, clumsy, ignorant, and ragged boors-- +Planning for moonlight nights a poaching scheme, +Or soiling our dull souls and consciences +With plans for pilfering a cottage roost. + +"What, chorus! are you dumb? you should have cried, +'So good comes out of evil;'" and with that, +As if all pauses it was natural +To seize for songs, his voice broke out again: + + Coo, dove, to thy married mate-- + She has two warm eggs in her nest: + Tell her the hours are few to wait + Ere life shall dawn on their rest; + And thy young shall peck at the shells, elate + With a dream of her brooding breast. + + Coo, dove, for she counts the hours, + Her fair wings ache for flight: + By day the apple has grown in the flowers, + And the moon has grown by night, + And the white drift settled from hawthorn bowers, + Yet they will not seek the light. + + Coo, dove; but what of the sky? + And what if the storm-wind swell, + And the reeling branch come down from on high + To the grass where daisies dwell, + And the brood beloved should with them lie + Or ever they break the shell? + + Coo, dove; and yet black clouds lower, + Like fate, on the far-off sea: + Thunder and wind they bear to thy bower, + As on wings of destiny. + Ah, what if they break in an evil hour, + As they broke over mine and me? + +What next?--we started like to girls, for lo! +The creaking voice, more harsh than rusty crane, +Of one who stooped behind us, cried aloud +"Good lack! how sweet the gentleman does sing-- +So loud and sweet, 'tis like to split his throat. +Why, Mike's a child to him, a two years child-- +Chrisom child." + "Who's Mike?" my brother growled +A little roughly. Quoth the fisherman-- +"Mike, Sir? he's just a fisher lad, no more; +But he can sing, when he takes on to sing, +So loud there's not a sparrow in the spire +But needs must hear. Sir, if I might make bold, +I'd ask what song that was you sung. My mate, +As we were shoving off the mackerel boats, +Said he, 'I'll wager that's the sort o' song +They kept their hearts up with in the Crimea,'" + +"There, fisherman," quoth I, "he showed his wit, +Your mate; he marked the sound of savage war-- +Gunpowder, groans, hot-shot, and bursting shells, +And 'murderous messages,' delivered by +Spent balls that break the heads of dreaming men." + +"Ay, ay, Sir!" quoth the fisherman. "Have done!" +My brother. And I--"The gift belongs to few +Of sending farther than the words can reach +Their spirit and expression;" still--"Have done!" +He cried; and then "I rolled the rubbish out +More loudly than the meaning warranted, +To air my lungs--I thought not on the words." + +Then said the fisherman, who missed the point, +"So Mike rolls out the psalm; you'll hear him, Sir, +Please God you live till Sunday." + "Even so: +And you, too, fisherman; for here, they say, +You are all church-goers." + "Surely, Sir," quoth he, +Took off his hat, and stroked his old white head +And wrinkled face; then sitting by us said, +As one that utters with a quiet mind +Unchallenged truth--"'Tis lucky for the boats." + +The boats! 'tis lucky for the boats! Our eyes +Were drawn to him as either fain would say, +What! do they send the psalm up in the spire, +And pray because 'tis lucky for the boats? + +But he, the brown old man, the wrinkled man, +That all his life had been a church-goer, +Familiar with celestial cadences, +Informed of all he could receive, and sure +Of all he understood--he sat content, +And we kept silence. In his reverend face +There was a simpleness we could not sound; +Much truth had passed him overhead; some error +He had trod under foot;--God comfort him! +He could not learn of us, for we were young +And he was old, and so we gave it up; +And the sun went into the west, and down +Upon the water stooped an orange cloud, +And the pale milky reaches flushed, as glad +To wear its colors; and the sultry air +Went out to sea, and puffed the sails of ships +With thymy wafts, the breath of trodden grass: +It took moreover music, for across +The heather belt and over pasture land +Came the sweet monotone of one slow bell, +And parted time into divisions rare, +Whereof each morsel brought its own delight. + +"They ring for service," quoth the fisherman; +"Our parson preaches in the church to-night." + +"And do the people go?" my brother asked. + +"Ay, Sir; they count it mean to stay away, +He takes it so to heart. He's a rare man, +Our parson; half a head above us all" + +"That's a great gift, and notable," said I. + +"Ay, Sir; and when he was a younger man +He went out in the lifeboat very oft, +Before the 'Grace of Sunderland' was wrecked. +He's never been his own man since that hour: +For there were thirty men aboard of her, +Anigh as close as you are now to me, +And ne'er a one was saved. + They're lying now, +With two small children, in a row: the church +And yard are full of seamen's graves, and few +Have any names. + She bumped upon the reef; +Our parson, my young son, and several more +Were lashed together with a two-inch rope, +And crept along to her; their mates ashore +Ready to haul them in. The gale was high, +The sea was all a boiling seething froth, +And God Almighty's guns were going off, +And the land trembled. + + "When she took the ground, +She went to pieces like a lock of hay +Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that, +The captain reeled on deck with two small things, +One in each arm--his little lad and lass. +Their hair was long, and blew before his face, +Or else we thought he had been saved; he fell, +But held them fast. The crew, poor luckless souls! +The breakers licked them off; and some were crushed, +Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung up dead, +The dear breath beaten out of them: not one +Jumped from the wreck upon the reef to catch +The hands that strained to reach, but tumbled back +With eyes wide open. But the captain lay +And clung--the only man alive. They prayed-- +'For God's sake, captain, throw the children here!' +'Throw them!' our parson cried; and then she struck +And he threw one, a pretty two years child; +But the gale dashed him on the slippery verge, +And down he went. They say they heard him cry. + +"Then he rose up and took the other one, +And all our men reached out their hungry arms, +And cried out, 'Throw her! throw her!' and he did: +He threw her right against the parson's breast, +And all at once a sea broke over them, +And they that saw it from the shore have said +It struck the wreck, and piecemeal scattered it, +Just as a woman might the lump of salt +That 'twixt her hands into the kneading pan +She breaks and crumbles on her rising bread. + +"We hauled our men in: two of them were dead-- +The sea had beaten them, their heads hung down; +Our parson's arms were empty, for the wave +Had torn away the pretty, pretty lamb; +We often see him stand beside her grave: +But 'twas no fault of his, no fault of his. + +"I ask your pardon, Sirs, I prate and prate, +And never have I said what brought me here. +Sirs, if you want a boat to-morrow morn, +I'm bold to say there's ne'er a boat like mine." + +"Ay, that was what we wanted," we replied; +"A boat, his boat;" and off he went, well pleased. + +We, too, rose up (the crimson in the sky +Flushing our faces), and went sauntering on, +And thought to reach our lodging, by the cliff. +And up and down among the heather beds, +And up and down between the sheaves we sped, +Doubling and winding; for a long ravine +Ran up into the land and cut us off, +Pushing out slippery ledges for the birds. +And rent with many a crevice, where the wind +Had laid up drifts of empty eggshells, swept +From the bare berths of gulls and guillemots. + +So as it chanced we lighted on a path +That led into a nutwood; and our talk +Was louder than beseemed, if we had known, +With argument and laughter; for the path, +As we sped onward, took a sudden turn +Abrupt, and we came out on churchyard grass, +And close upon a porch, and face to face +With those within, and with the thirty graves. +We heard the voice of one who preached within, +And stopped. "Come on," my brother whispered me; +"It were more decent that we enter now; +Come on! we'll hear this rare old demigod: +I like strong men and large; I like gray heads, +And grand gruff voices, hoarse though this may be +With shouting in the storm." + It was not hoarse, +The voice that preached to those few fishermen +And women, nursing mothers with the babes +Hushed on their breasts; and yet it held them not: +Their drowsy eyes were drawn to look at us, +Till, having leaned our rods against the wall, +And left the dogs at watch, we entered, sat, +And were apprised that, though he saw us not, +The parson knew that he had lost the eyes +And ears of those before him, for he made +A pause--a long dead pause, and dropped his arms, +And stood awaiting, till I felt the red +Mount to my brow. + And a soft fluttering stir +Passed over all, and every mother hushed +The babe beneath her shawl, and he turned round +And met our eyes, unused to diffidence, +But diffident of his; then with a sigh +Fronted the folk, lifted his grand gray head, +And said, as one that pondered now the words +He had been preaching on with new surprise, +And found fresh marvel in their sound, "Behold! +Behold!" saith He, "I stand at the door and knock." + +Then said the parson: "What! and shall He wait, +And must He wait, not only till we say, +'Good Lord, the house is clean, the hearth is swept. +The children sleep, the mackerel-boats are in, +And all the nets are mended; therefore I +Will slowly to the door and open it:' +But must He also wait where still, behold! +He stands and knocks, while we do say, 'Good Lord. +The gentlefolk are come to worship here, +And I will up and open to Thee soon; +But first I pray a little longer wait, +For I am taken up with them; my eyes +Must needs regard the fashion of their clothes, +And count the gains I think to make by them; +Forsooth, they are of much account, good Lord! +Therefore have patience with me--wait, dear Lord +Or come again?' + What! must He wait for THIS-- +For this? Ay, He doth wait for this, and still, +Waiting for this, He, patient, raileth not; +Waiting for this, e'en this He saith, 'Behold! +I stand at the door and knock,' + O patient hand! +Knocking and waiting--knocking in the night +When work is done! I charge you, by the sea +Whereby you fill your children's mouths, and by +The might of Him that made it--fishermen! +I charge you, mothers! by the mother's milk +He drew, and by His Father, God over all. +Blessed forever, that ye answer Him! +Open the door with shame, if ye have sinned; +If ye be sorry, open it with sighs. +Albeit the place be bare for poverty, +And comfortless for lack of plenishing, +Be not abashed for that, but open it, +And take Him in that comes to sup with thee; +'Behold!' He saith, 'I stand at the door and knock.' + +"Now, hear me: there be troubles in this world +That no man can escape, and there is one +That lieth hard and heavy on my soul, +Concerning that which is to come:-- + I say +As a man that knows what earthly trouble means, +I will not bear this ONE--I cannot bear +This ONE--I cannot bear the weight of you-- +You--every one of you, body and soul; +You, with the care you suffer, and the loss +That you sustain; you, with the growing up +To peril, maybe with the growing old +To want, unless before I stand with you +At the great white throne, I may be free of all, +And utter to the full what shall discharge +Mine obligation: nay, I will not wait +A day, for every time the black clouds rise, +And the gale freshens, still I search my soul +To find if there be aught that can persuade +To good, or aught forsooth that can beguile +From evil, that I (miserable man! +If that be so) have left unsaid, undone. + +"So that when any risen from sunken wrecks, +Or rolled in by the billows to the edge +Of the everlasting strand, what time the sea +Gives up her dead, shall meet me, they may say +Never, 'Old man, you told us not of this; +You left us fisher lads that had to toil +Ever in danger of the secret stab +Of rocks, far deadlier than the dagger; winds +Of breath more murderous than the cannon's; wave +Mighty to rock us to our death; and gulfs, +Ready beneath to suck and swallow us in: +This crime be on your head; and as for us-- +What shall we do? 'but rather--nay, not so, +I will not think it; I will leave the dead, +Appealing but to life: I am afraid +Of you, but not so much if you have sinned +As for the doubt if sin shall be forgiven. +The day was, I have been afraid of pride-- +Hard man's hard pride; but now I am afraid +Of man's humility, I counsel you, +By the great God's great humbleness, and by +His pity, be not humble over-much. +See! I will show at whose unopened doors +He stands and knocks, that you may never says +'I am too mean, too ignorant, too lost; +He knocks at other doors, but not at mine.' + +"See here! it is the night! it is the night! +And snow lies thickly, white untrodden snow, +And the wan moon upon a casement shines-- +A casement crusted o'er with frosty leaves, +That make her ray less bright along the floor. +A woman sits, with hands upon her knees, +Poor tired soul! and she has nought to do, +For there is neither fire nor candle-light: +The driftwood ash lies cold upon her hearth, +The rushlight flickered down an hour ago; +Her children wail a little in their sleep +For cold and hunger, and, as if that sound +Was not enough, another comes to her, +Over God's undefiled snow--a song-- +Nay, never hang your heads--I say, a song. + And doth she curse the alehouse, and the sots +That drink the night out and their earnings there, +And drink their manly strength and courage down, +And drink away the little children's bread, +And starve her, starving by the self-same act +Her tender suckling, that with piteous eye +Looks in her face, till scarcely she has heart +To work, and earn the scanty bit and drop +That feed the others? + Does she curse the song? +I think not, fishermen; I have not heard +Such women curse. God's curse is curse enough. +To-morrow she will say a bitter thing, +Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises show-- +A bitter thing, but meant for an excuse-- +'My master is not worse than many men:' +But now, ay, now she sitteth dumb and still; +No food, no comfort, cold and poverty +Bearing her down. + My heart is sore for her; +How long, how long? When troubles come of God, +When men are frozen out of work, when wives +Are sick, when working fathers fail and die, +When boats go down at sea--then nought behoves +Like patience; but for troubles wrought of men +Patience is hard--I tell you it is hard. + +"O thou poor soul! it is the night--the night; +Against thy door drifts up the silent snow, +Blocking thy threshold: 'Fall' thou sayest, 'fall, fall +Cold snow, and lie and be trod underfoot. +Am not I fallen? wake up and pipe, O wind, +Dull wind, and heat and bluster at my door: +Merciful wind, sing me a hoarse rough song, +For there is other music made to-night +That I would fain not hear. Wake, thou still sea, +Heavily plunge. Shoot on, white waterfall. +O, I could long like thy cold icicles +Freeze, freeze, and hang upon the frosty clift +And not complain, so I might melt at last +In the warm summer sun, as thou wilt do! + +"'But woe is me! I think there is no sun; +My sun is sunken, and the night grows dark: +None care for me. The children cry for bread, +And I have none, and nought can comfort me; +Even if the heavens were free to such as I, +It were not much, for death is long to wait, +And heaven is far to go!' + + "And speak'st thou thus, +Despairing of the sun that sets to thee, +And of the earthly love that wanes to thee, +And of the heaven that lieth far from thee? +Peace, peace, fond fool! One draweth near thy door +Whose footsteps leave no print across the snow; +Thy sun has risen with comfort in his face, +The smile of heaven, to warm thy frozen heart, +And bless with saintly hand. What! is it long +To wait, and far to go? Thou shalt not go; +Behold, across the snow to thee He comes, +Thy heaven descends, and is it long to wait? +Thou shalt not wait: 'This night, this night,' he saith, +'I stand at the door and knock.' + +"It is enough--can such an one be here-- +Yea, here? O God forgive you, fishermen! +One! is there only one? But do thou know, +O woman pale for want, if thou art here, +That on thy lot much thought is spent in heaven; +And, coveting the heart a hard man broke, +One standeth patient, watching in the night, +And waiting in the daytime. + What shall be +If thou wilt answer? He will smile on thee, +One smile of His shall be enough to heal +The wound of man's neglect; and He will sigh, +Pitying the trouble which that sigh shall cure; +And He will speak--speak in the desolate nigh +In the dark night: 'For me a thorny crown +Men wove, and nails were driven in my hands +And feet: there was an earthquake, and I died +I died, and am alive for evermore. + +"'I died for thee; for thee I am alive, +And my humanity doth mourn for thee, +For thou art mine; and all thy little ones, +They, too, are mine, are mine. Behold, the house +Is dark, but there is brightness where the sons +Of God are singing, and, behold, the heart +Is troubled: yet the nations walk in white; +They have forgotten how to weep; and thou +Shalt also come, and I will foster thee +And satisfy thy soul; and thou shall warm +Thy trembling life beneath the smile of God. +A little while--it is a little while-- +A little while, and I will comfort thee; +I go away, but I will come again.' + +"But hear me yet. There was a poor old man +Who sat and listened to the raging sea, +And heard it thunder, lunging at the cliffs +As like to tear them down. He lay at night; +And 'Lord have mercy on the lads,' said he, +'That sailed at noon, though they be none of mine! +For when the gale gets up, and when the wind +Flings at the window, when it beats the roof, +And lulls and stops and rouses up again, +And cuts the crest clean off the plunging wave. +And scatters it like feathers up the field, +Why, then I think of my two lads: my lads +That would have worked and never let me want, +And never let me take the parish pay. +No, none of mine; my lads were drowned at sea-- +My two--before the most of these wore born. +I know how sharp that cuts, since my poor wife +Walked up and down, and still walked up and down. +And I walked after, and one could not hear +A word the other said, for wind and sea +That raged and beat and thundered in the night-- +The awfullest, the longest, lightest night +That ever parents had to spend--a moon +That shone like daylight on the breaking wave. +Ah me! and other men have lost their lads, +And other women wiped their poor dead mouths, +And got them home and dried them in the house, +And seen the driftwood lie along the coast, +That was a tidy boat but one day back. +And seen next tide the neighbors gather it +To lay it on their fires. + Ay, I was strong +And able-bodied--loved my work;--but now +I am a useless hull: 'tis time I sank; +I am in all men's way; I trouble them; +I am a trouble to myself: but yet +I feel for mariners of stormy nights, +And feel for wives that watch ashore. Ay, ay! +If I had learning I would pray the Lord +To bring them in: but I'm no scholar, no; +Book-learning is a world too hard for me: +But I make bold to say, 'O Lord, good Lord, +I am a broken-down poor man, a fool +To speak to Thee: but in the Book 'tis writ, +As I hear say from others that can read, +How, when Thou camest, Thou didst love the sea, +And live with fisherfolk, whereby 'tis sure +Thou knowest all the peril they go through. +And all their trouble. + As for me, good Lord, +I have no boat; I am too old, too old-- +My lads are drowned; I buried my poor wife; +My little lasses died so long ago +That mostly I forget what they were like. +Thou knowest, Lord; they were such little ones. +I know they went to Thee, but I forget +Their faces, though I missed them sore. + O Lord, +I was a strong man; I have drawn good food +And made good money out of Thy great sea: +But yet I cried for them at nights; and now, +Although I be so old, I miss my lads, +And there be many folk this stormy night +Heavy with fear for theirs. Merciful Lord, +Comfort them; save their honest boys, their pride, +And let them hear next ebb the blessedest, +Best sound--the boat-keels grating on the sand. +I cannot pray with finer words: I know +Nothing; I have no learning, cannot learn-- +Too old, too old. They say I want for nought, +I have the parish pay; but I am dull +Of hearing, and the fire scarce warms me through. +God save me, I have been a sinful man-- +And save the lives of them that still can work, +For they are good to me; ay, good to me. +But, Lord, I am a trouble! and I sit, +And I am lonesome, and the nights are few +That any think to come and draw a chair, +And sit in my poor place and talk a while. +Why should they come, forsooth? Only the wind +Knocks at my door, O long and loud it knocks, +The only thing God made that has a mind +To enter in.' + + "Yea, thus the old man spake: +These were the last words of his aged mouth-- +BUT ONE DID KNOCK. One came to sup with him, +That humble, weak, old man; knocked at his door +In the rough pauses of the laboring wind. +I tell you that One knocked while it was dark. +Save where their foaming passion had made white +Those livid seething billows. What He said +In that poor place where He did talk a while, +I cannot tell: but this I am assured, +That when the neighbors came the morrow morn, +What time the wind had bated, and the sun +Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile +He passed away in, and they said, 'He looks +As he had woke and seen the face of Christ, +And with that rapturous smile held out his arms +To come to Him!' + + "Can such an one be here, +So old, so weak, so ignorant, so frail? +The Lord be good to thee, thou poor old man; +It would be hard with thee if heaven were shut +To such as have not learning! Nay, nay, nay, +He condescends to them of low estate; +To such as are despised He cometh down, +Stands at the door and knocks. + + "Yet bear with me. +I have a message; I have more to say. +Shall sorrow win His pity, and not sin-- +That burden ten times heavier to be borne? +What think you? Shall the virtuous have His care +Alone? O virtuous women, think not scorn. +For you may lift your faces everywhere; +And now that it grows dusk, and I can see +None though they front me straight, I fain would tell +A certain thing to you. I say to _you_; +And if it doth concern you, as methinks +It doth, then surely it concerneth all. +I say that there was once--I say not here-- +I say that there was once a castaway, +And she was weeping, weeping bitterly; +Kneeling, and crying with a heart-sick cry +That choked itself in sobs--'O my good name! +Oh my good name!' And none did hear her cry! +Nay; and it lightened, and the storm-bolts fell, +And the rain splashed upon the roof, and still +She, storm-tost as the storming elements-- +She cried with an exceeding bitter cry, +'O my good name!' And then the thunder-cloud +Stooped low and burst in darkness overhead, +And rolled, and rocked her on her knees, and shook +The frail foundations of her dwelling-place. +But she--if any neighbors had come in +(None did): if any neighbors had come in, +They might have seen her crying on her knees. +And sobbing 'Lost, lost, lost!' beating her breast-- +Her breast forever pricked with cruel thorns. +The wounds whereof could neither balm assuage +Nor any patience heal--beating her brow, +Which ached, it had been bent so long to hide +From level eyes, whose meaning was contempt. + +"O ye good women, it is hard to leave +The paths of virtue, and return again. +What if this sinner wept, and none of you +Comforted her? And what if she did strive +To mend, and none of you believed her strife. +Nor looked upon her? Mark, I do not say, +Though it was hard, you therefore were to blame; +That she had aught against you, though your feet +Never drew near her door. But I beseech +Your patience. Once in old Jerusalem +A woman kneeled at consecrated feet, +Kissed them, and washed them with her tears. + What then? +I think that yet our Lord is pitiful: +I think I see the castaway e'en now! +And she is not alone: the heavy rain +Splashes without, and sullen thunder rolls, +But she is lying at the sacred feet +Of One transfigured. + + "And her tears flow down, +Down to her lips,--her lips that kiss the print +Of nails; and love is like to break her heart! +Love and repentance--for it still doth work +Sore in her soul to think, to think that she, +Even she, did pierce the sacred, sacred feet. +And bruise the thorn-crowned head. + + "O Lord, our Lord, +How great is Thy compassion. Come, good Lord, +For we will open. Come this night, good Lord; +Stand at the door and knock. + + "And is this all?-- +Trouble, old age and simpleness, and sin-- +This all? It might be all some other night; +But this night, if a voice said 'Give account +Whom hast thou with thee?' then must I reply, +'Young manhood have I, beautiful youth and strength, +Rich with all treasure drawn up from the crypt +Where lies the learning of the ancient world-- +Brave with all thoughts that poets fling upon +The strand of life, as driftweed after storms: +Doubtless familiar with Thy mountain heads, +And the dread purity of Alpine snows, +Doubtless familiar with Thy works concealed +For ages from mankind--outlying worlds, +And many moonèd spheres--and Thy great store +Of stars, more thick than mealy dust which here +Powders the pale leaves of Auriculas. +This do I know, but, Lord, I know not more. +Not more concerning them--concerning Thee, +I know Thy bounty; where Thou givest much +Standing without, if any call Thee in +Thou givest more.' Speak, then, O rich and strong: +Open, O happy young, ere yet the hand +Of Him that knocks, wearied at last, forbear; +The patient foot its thankless quest refrain, +The wounded heart for evermore withdraw." + +I have heard many speak, but this one man-- +So anxious not to go to heaven alone-- +This one man I remember, and his look, +Till twilight overshadowed him. He ceased. +And out in darkness with the fisherfolk +We passed and stumbled over mounds of moss, +And heard, but did not see, the passing beck. +Ah, graceless heart, would that it could regain +From the dim storehouse of sensations past +The impress full of tender awe, that night, +Which fell on me! It was as if the Christ +Had been drawn down from heaven to track us home, +And any of the footsteps following us +Might have been His. + + + + +A WEDDING SONG. + + +Come up the broad river, the Thames, my Dane, + My Dane with the beautiful eyes! +Thousands and thousands await thee full fain, + And talk of the wind and the skies. +Fear not from folk and from country to part, + O, I swear it is wisely done: +For (I said) I will bear me by thee, sweetheart, + As becometh my father's son. + +Great London was shouting as I went down. + "She is worthy," I said, "of this; +What shall I give who have promised a crown? + O, first I will give her a kiss." +So I kissed her and brought her, my Dane, my Dane, + Through the waving wonderful crowd: +Thousands and thousands, they shouted amain, + Like mighty thunders and loud. + +And they said, "He is young, the lad we love, + The heir of the Isles is young: +How we deem of his mother, and one gone above, + Can neither be said nor sung. + +"He brings us a pledge--he will do his part + With the best of his race and name;"-- +And I will, for I look to live, sweetheart, + As may suit with my mother's fame. + + + + +THE FOUR BRIDGES. + + +I love this gray old church, the low, long nave, + The ivied chancel and the slender spire; +No less its shadow on each heaving grave, + With growing osier bound, or living brier; +I love those yew-tree trunks, where stand arrayed +So many deep-cut names of youth and maid. + +A simple custom this--I love it well-- + A carved betrothal and a pledge of truth; +How many an eve, their linkèd names to spell, + Beneath the yew-trees sat our village youth! +When work was over, and the new-cut hay +Sent wafts of balm from meadows where it lay. + +Ah! many an eve, while I was yet a boy, + Some village hind has beckoned me aside, +And sought mine aid, with shy and awkward joy, + To carve the letters of his rustic bride, +And make them clear to read as graven stone, +Deep in the yew-tree's trunk beside his own. + +For none could carve like me, and here they stand. + Fathers and mothers of this present race: +And underscored by some less practised hand, + That fain the story of its line would trace, +With children's names, and number, and the day +When any called to God have passed away. + +I look upon them, and I turn aside, + As oft when carving them I did erewhile; +And there I see those wooden bridges wide + That cross the marshy hollow; there the stile +In reeds embedded, and the swelling down, +And the white road towards the distant town. + +But those old bridges claim another look. + Our brattling river tumbles through the one; +The second spans a shallow, weedy brook; + Beneath the others, and beneath the sun, +Lie two long stilly pools, and on their breasts +Picture their wooden piles, encased in swallows' nests. + +And round about them grows a fringe of reeds, + And then a floating crown of lily-flowers, +And yet within small silver-budded weeds; + But each clear centre evermore embowers +A deeper sky, where, stooping, you may see +The little minnows darting restlessly. + +My heart is bitter, lilies, at your sweet; + Why did the dewdrop fringe your chalices? +Why in your beauty are you thus complete, + You silver ships--you floating palaces? +O! if need be, you must allure man's eye, + Yet wherefore blossom here? O why? O why? + +O! O! the world is wide, you lily flowers, + It hath warm forests, cleft by stilly pools, +Where every night bathe crowds of stars; and bowers + Of spicery hang over. Sweet air cools +And shakes the lilies among those stars that lie: +Why are not ye content to reign there? Why? + +That chain of bridges, it were hard to tell + How it is linked with all my early joy. +There was a little foot that I loved well, + It danced across them when I was a boy; +There was a careless voice that used to sing; +There was a child, a sweet and happy thing. + +Oft through that matted wood of oak and birch + She came from yonder house upon the hill; +She crossed the wooden bridges to the church, + And watched, with village girls, my boasted skill: +But loved to watch the floating lilies best, +Or linger, peering in a swallow's nest; + +Linger and linger, with her wistful eyes + Drawn to the lily-buds that lay so white +And soft on crimson water; for the skies + Would crimson, and the little cloudlets bright +Would all be flung among the flowers sheer down, +To flush the spaces of their clustering crown. + +Till the green rushes--O, so glossy green-- + The rushes, they would whisper, rustle, shake; +And forth on floating gauze, no jewelled queen + So rich, the green-eyed dragon-flies would break, +And hover on the flowers--aërial things, +With little rainbows flickering on their wings. + +Ah! my heart dear! the polished pools lie still, + Like lanes of water reddened by the west, +Till, swooping down from yon o'erhanging hill, + The bold marsh harrier wets her tawny breast; +We scared her oft in childhood from her prey, +And the old eager thoughts rise fresh as yesterday. + +To yonder copse by moonlight I did go, + In luxury of mischief, half afraid, +To steal the great owl's brood, her downy snow, + Her screaming imps to seize, the while she preyed +With yellow, cruel eyes, whose radiant glare, +Fell with their mother rage, I might not dare. + +Panting I lay till her great fanning wings + Troubled the dreams of rock-doves, slumbering nigh, +And she and her fierce mate, like evil things, + Skimmed the dusk fields; then rising, with a cry +Of fear, joy, triumph, darted on my prey. + And tore it from the nest and fled away. + +But afterward, belated in the wood, + I saw her moping on the rifled tree, +And my heart smote me for her, while I stood + Awakened from my careless reverie; +So white she looked, with moonlight round her shed. +So motherlike she drooped and hung her head. + +O that mine eyes would cheat me! I behold + The godwits running by the water edge, +Tim mossy bridges mirrored as of old; + The little curlews creeping from the sedge, +But not the little foot so gayly light +O that mine eyes would cheat me, that I might!-- + +Would cheat me! I behold the gable ends-- + Those purple pigeons clustering on the cote; +The lane with maples overhung, that bends + Toward her dwelling; the dry grassy moat, +Thick mullions, diamond-latticed, mossed and gray, +And walls bunked up with laurel and with bay. + +And up behind them yellow fields of corn, + And still ascending countless firry spires, +Dry slopes of hills uncultured, bare, forlorn, + And green in rocky clefts with whins and briers; +Then rich cloud masses dyed the violet's hue, +With orange sunbeams dropping swiftly through. + +Ay, I behold all this full easily; + My soul is jealous of my happier eyes. +And manhood envies youth. Ah, strange to see, + By looking merely, orange-flooded skies; +Nay, any dew-drop that may near me shine: +But never more the face of Eglantine! + +She was my one companion, being herself + The jewel and adornment of my days, +My life's completeness. O, a smiling elf, + That I do but disparage with my praise-- +My playmate; and I loved her dearly and long, +And she loved me, as the tender love the strong. + +Ay, but she grew, till on a time there came + A sudden restless yearning to my heart; +And as we went a-nesting, all for shame + And shyness, I did hold my peace, and start; +Content departed, comfort shut me out, +And there was nothing left to talk about. + +She had but sixteen years, and as for me, + Four added made my life. This pretty bird, +This fairy bird that I had cherished--she, + Content, had sung, while I, contented, heard. +The song had ceased; the bird, with nature's art, +Had brought a thorn and set it in my heart. + +The restless birth of love my soul opprest, + I longed and wrestled for a tranquil day, +And warred with that disquiet in my breast + As one who knows there is a better way; +But, turned against myself, I still in vain +Looked for the ancient calm to come again. + +My tired soul could to itself confess + That she deserved a wiser love than mine; +To love more truly were to love her less, + And for this truth I still awoke to pine; +I had a dim belief that it would be +A better thing for her, a blessed thing for me. + +Good hast Thou made them--comforters right sweet; + Good hast Thou made the world, to mankind lent; +Good are Thy dropping clouds that feed the wheat; + Good are Thy stars above the firmament. +Take to Thee, take, Thy worship, Thy renown; +The good which Thou hast made doth wear Thy crown. + +For, O my God, Thy creatures are so frail, + Thy bountiful creation is so fair. +That, drawn before us like the temple veil, + It hides the Holy Place from thought and care, +Giving man's eyes instead its sweeping fold, +Rich as with cherub wings and apples wrought of gold. + +Purple and blue and scarlet--shimmering bells + And rare pomegranates on its broidered rim, +Glorious with chain and fretwork that the swell + Of incense shakes to music dreamy and dim, +Till on a day comes loss, that God makes gain, +And death and darkness rend the veil in twain. + + * * * * * + +Ah, sweetest! my beloved! each outward thing + Recalls my youth, and is instinct with thee; +Brown wood-owls in the dusk, with noiseless wing, + Float from yon hanger to their haunted tree, +And hoot full softly. Listening, I regain +A flashing thought of thee with their remembered strain. + +I will not pine--it is the careless brook. + These amber sunbeams slanting down the vale; +It is the long tree-shadows, with their look + Of natural peace, that make my heart to fail: +The peace of nature--No, I will not pine-- +But O the contrast 'twixt her face and mine! + +And still I changed--I was a boy no more; + My heart was large enough to hold my kind, +And all the world. As hath been oft before + With youth, I sought, but I could never find +Work hard enough to quiet my self-strife, +And use the strength of action-craving life. + +She, too, was changed: her bountiful sweet eyes + Looked out full lovingly on all the world. +O tender as the deeps in yonder skies + Their beaming! but her rosebud lips were curled +With the soft dimple of a musing smile, +Which kept my gaze, but held me mute the while. + +A cast of bees, a slowly moving wain, + The scent of bean-flowers wafted up a dell, +Blue pigeons wheeling over fields of grain, + Or bleat of folded lamb, would please her well; +Or cooing of the early coted dove;-- +She sauntering mused of these; I, following, mused of love. + +With her two lips, that one the other pressed + So poutingly with such a tranquil air, +With her two eyes, that on my own would rest + So dream-like, she denied my silent prayer, +Fronted unuttered words and said them nay, +And smiled down love till it had nought to say. + +The words that through mine eyes would clearly shine + Hovered and hovered on my lips in vain; +If after pause I said but "Eglantine," + She raised to me her quiet eyelids twain, +And looked me this reply--look calm, yet bland-- +"I shall not know, I will not understand." + +Yet she did know my story--knew my life + Was wrought to hers with bindings many and strong +That I, like Israel, served for a wife, + And for the love I bare her thought not long, +But only a few days, full quickly told, +My seven years' service strict as his of old. + +I must be brief: the twilight shadows grow, + And steal the rose-bloom genial summer sheds, +And scented wafts of wind that come and go + Have lifted dew from honeyed clover-heads; +The seven stars shine out above the mill, +The dark delightsome woods lie veiled and still. + +Hush! hush! the nightingale begins to sing, + And stops, as ill-contented with her note; +Then breaks from out the bush with hurried wing. + Restless and passionate. She tunes her throat, +Laments awhile in wavering trills, and then +Floods with a stream of sweetness all the glen. + +The seven stars upon the nearest pool + Lie trembling down betwixt the lily leaves, +And move like glowworms; wafting breezes cool + Come down along the water, and it heaves +And bubbles in the sedge; while deep and wide +The dim night settles on the country side. + +I know this scene by heart. O! once before + I saw the seven stars float to and fro, +And stayed my hurried footsteps by the shore + To mark the starry picture spread below: +Its silence made the tumult in my breast +More audible; its peace revealed my own unrest. + +I paused, then hurried on; my heart beat quick; + I crossed the bridges, reached the steep ascent, +And climbed through matted fern and hazels thick; + Then darkling through the close green maples went +And saw--there felt love's keenest pangs begin-- +An oriel window lighted from within-- + +I saw--and felt that they were scarcely cares + Which I had known before; I drew more near, +And O! methought how sore it frets and wears + The soul to part with that it holds so dear; +Tis hard two woven tendrils to untwine, +And I was come to part with Eglantine. + +For life was bitter through those words repressed, + And youth was burdened with unspoken vows; +Love unrequited brooded in my breast, + And shrank, at glance, from the beloved brows: +And three long months, heart-sick, my foot withdrawn, +I had not sought her side by rivulet, copse, or lawn-- + +Not sought her side, yet busy thought no less + Still followed in her wake, though far behind; +And I, being parted from her loveliness, + Looked at the picture of her in my mind: +I lived alone, I walked with soul oppressed, +And ever sighed for her, and sighed for rest. + +Then I had risen to struggle with my heart. +And said--"O heart! the world is fresh and fair, +And I am young; but this thy restless smart + Changes to bitterness the morning air: +I will, I must, these weary fetters break-- +I will be free, if only for her sake. + +"O let me trouble her no more with sighs! + Heart-healing comes by distance, and with time: +Then let me wander, and enrich mine eyes + With the green forests of a softer clime, +Or list by night at sea the wind's low stave +And long monotonous rockings of the wave. + +"Through open solitudes, unbounded meads, + Where, wading on breast-high in yellow bloom, +Untamed of man, the shy white lama feeds-- + There would I journey and forget my doom; +Or far, O far as sunrise I would see +The level prairie stretch away from me! + +"Or I would sail upon the tropic seas, + Where fathom long the blood-red dulses grow, +Droop from the rock and waver in the breeze, + Lashing the tide to foam; while calm below +The muddy mandrakes throng those waters warm, +And purple, gold, and green, the living blossoms swarm." + +So of my father I did win consent, + With importunities repeated long, +To make that duty which had been my bent, + To dig with strangers alien tombs among, +And bound to them through desert leagues to pace. +Or track up rivers to their starting-place. + +For this I had done battle and had won, + But not alone to tread Arabian sands, +Measure the shadows of a southern sun, + Or dig out gods in the old Egyptian lands; +But for the dream wherewith I thought to cope-- +The grief of love unmated with love's hope. + +And now I would set reason in array, + Methought, and fight for freedom manfully, +Till by long absence there would come a day + When this my love would not be pain to me; +But if I knew my rosebud fair and blest +I should not pine to wear it on my breast. + +The days fled on; another week should fling + A foreign shadow on my lengthening way; +Another week, yet nearness did not bring + A braver heart that hard farewell to say. +I let the last day wane, the dusk begin, +Ere I had sought that window lighted from within. + +Sinking and sinking, O my heart! my heart! + Will absence heal thee whom its shade doth rend? +I reached the little gate, and soft within + The oriel fell her shadow. She did lend +Her loveliness to me, and let me share +The listless sweetness of those features fair. + +Among thick laurels in the gathering gloom, + Heavy for this our parting, I did stand; +Beside her mother in the lighted room, + She sitting leaned her cheek upon her hand +And as she read, her sweet voice floating through +The open casement seemed to mourn me an adieu. + +Youth! youth! how buoyant are thy hopes! they turn, + Like marigolds, toward the sunny side. +My hopes were buried in a funeral urn, + And they sprung up like plants and spread them wide; +Though I had schooled and reasoned them away, +They gathered smiling near and prayed a holiday. + +Ah, sweetest voice! how pensive were its tones, + And how regretful its unconscious pause! +"Is it for me her heart this sadness owns, + And is our parting of to-night the cause? +Ah, would it might be so!" I thought, and stood +Listening entranced among the underwood. + +I thought it would be something worth the pain + Of parting, to look once in those deep eyes, +And take from them an answering look again: + "When eastern palms," I thought, "about me rise, +If I might carve our names upon the rind, +Betrothed, I would not mourn, though leaving thee behind." + +I can be patient, faithful, and most fond + To unacknowledged love; I can be true +To this sweet thraldom, this unequal bond, + This yoke of mine that reaches not to you: +O, how much more could costly parting buy-- +If not a pledge, one kiss, or, failing that, a sigh! + +I listened, and she ceased to read; she turned + Her face towards the laurels where I stood: +Her mother spoke--O wonder! hardly learned; + She said, "There is a rustling in the wood; +Ah, child! if one draw near to bid farewell, +Let not thine eyes an unsought secret tell. + +"My daughter, there is nothing held so dear + As love, if only it be hard to win. +The roses that in yonder hedge appear + Outdo our garden-buds which bloom within; +But since the hand may pluck them every day, +Unmarked they bud, bloom, drop, and drift away. + +"My daughter, my beloved, be not you + Like those same roses." O bewildering word! +My heart stood still, a mist obscured my view: + It cleared; still silence. No denial stirred +The lips beloved; but straight, as one opprest, +She, kneeling, dropped her face upon her mother's breast. + +This said, "My daughter, sorrow comes to all; + Our life is checked with shadows manifold: +But woman has this more--she may not call + Her sorrow by its name. Yet love not told, +And only born of absence and by thought, +With thought and absence may return to nought." + +And my belovèd lifted up her face, + And moved her lips as if about to speak; +She dropped her lashes with a girlish grace, + And the rich damask mantled in her cheek: +I stood awaiting till she should deny +Her love, or with sweet laughter put it by. + +But, closer nestling to her mother's heart, + She, blushing, said no word to break my trance, +For I was breathless; and, with lips apart, + Felt my breast pant and all my pulses dance, +And strove to move, but could not for the weight +Of unbelieving joy, so sudden and so great, + +Because she loved me. With a mighty sigh + Breaking away, I left her on her knees, +And blest the laurel bower, the darkened sky, + The sultry night of August. Through the trees, +Giddy with gladness, to the porch I went, +And hardly found the way for joyful wonderment. + +Yet, when I entered, saw her mother sit + With both hands cherishing the graceful head, +Smoothing the clustered hair, and parting it + From the fair brow; she, rising, only said, +In the accustomed tone, the accustomed word, +The careless greeting that I always heard; + +And she resumed her merry, mocking smile, + Though tear-drops on the glistening lashes hung. +O woman! thou wert fashioned to beguile: + So have all sages said, all poets sung. +She spoke of favoring winds and waiting ships, +With smiles of gratulation on her lips! + +And then she looked and faltered: I had grown + So suddenly in life and soul a man: +She moved her lips, but could not find a tone + To set her mocking music to; began +One struggle for dominion, raised her eyes, +And straight withdrew them, bashful through surprise + +The color over cheek and bosom flushed; + I might have heard the beating of her heart, +But that mine own beat louder; when she blushed, + The hand within mine own I felt to start, +But would not change my pitiless decree +To strive with her for might and mastery. + +She looked again, as one that, half afraid, + Would fain be certain of a doubtful thing; +Or one beseeching "Do not me upbraid!" + And then she trembled like the fluttering +Of timid little birds, and silent stood, +No smile wherewith to mock my hardihood. + +She turned, and to an open casement moved + With girlish shyness, mute beneath my gaze. +And I on downcast lashes unreproved + Could look as long as pleased me; while, the rays +Of moonlight round her, she her fair head bent, +In modest silence to my words attent. + +How fast the giddy whirling moments flew! + The moon had set; I heard the midnight chime, +Hope is more brave than fear, and joy than dread. + And I could wait unmoved the parting time. +It came; for, by a sudden impulse drawn, +She, risen, stepped out upon the dusky lawn. + +A little waxen taper in her hand, + Her feet upon the dry and dewless grass, +She looked like one of the celestial band, + Only that on her cheeks did dawn and pass +Most human blushes; while, the soft light thrown +On vesture pure and white, she seemed yet fairer grown. + +Her mother, looking out toward her, sighed, + Then gave her hand in token of farewell. +And with her warning eyes, that seemed to chide, + Scarce suffered that I sought her child to tell +The story of my life, whose every line +No other burden bore than--Eglantine. + +Black thunder-clouds were rising up behind, + The waxen taper burned full steadily; +It seemed as if dark midnight had a mind + To hear what lovers say, and her decree +Had passed for silence, while she, dropped to ground +With raiment floating wide, drank in the sound. + +O happiness! thou dost not leave a trace + So well defined as sorrow. Amber light, +Shed like a glory on her angel face, + I can remember fully, and the sight +Of her fair forehead and her shining eyes, +And lips that smiled in sweet and girlish wise. + +I can remember how the taper played + Over her small hands and her vesture white; +How it struck up into the trees, and laid + Upon their under leaves unwonted light; +And when she held it low, how far it spread +O'er velvet pansies slumbering on their bed. + +I can remember that we spoke full low, + That neither doubted of the other's truth; +And that with footsteps slower and more slow, + Hands folded close for love, eyes wet for ruth: +Beneath the trees, by that clear taper's flame, +We wandered till the gate of parting came. + +But I forget the parting words she said, + So much they thrilled the all-attentive soul; +For one short moment human heart and head + May bear such bliss--its present is the whole: +I had that present, till in whispers fell +With parting gesture her subdued farewell. + +Farewell! she said, in act to turn away, + But stood a moment yet to dry her tears, +And suffered my enfolding arm to stay + The time of her departure. O ye years +That intervene betwixt that day and this! +You all received your hue from that keen pain and bliss. + +O mingled pain and bliss! O pain to break + At once from happiness so lately found, +And four long years to feel for her sweet sake + The incompleteness of all sight and sound! +But bliss to cross once more the foaming brine-- +O bliss to come again and make her mine! + +I cannot--O, I cannot more recall! + But I will soothe my troubled thoughts to rest +With musing over journeyings wide, and all + Observance of this active-humored west, +And swarming cities steeped in eastern day, +With swarthy tribes in gold and striped array. + +I turn away from these, and straight there will succeed + (Shifting and changing at the restless will), +Imbedded in some deep Circassian mead, + White wagon-tilts, and flocks that eat their fill +Unseen above, while comely shepherds pass, +And scarcely show their heads above the grass. + +--The red Sahara in an angry glow, + With amber fogs, across its hollows trailed +Long strings of camels, gloomy-eyed and slow, + And women on their necks, from gazers veiled, +And sun-swart guides who toil across the sand +To groves of date-trees on the watered land. + +Again--the brown sails of an Arab boat, + Flapping by night upon a glassy sea, +Whereon the moon and planets seem to float, + More bright of hue than they were wont to be, +While shooting-stars rain down with crackling sound, +And, thick as swarming locusts, drop to ground. + +Or far into the heat among the sands + The gembok nations, snuffing up the wind, +Drawn by the scent of water--and the bands + Of tawny-bearded lions pacing, blind +With the sun-dazzle in their midst, opprest +With prey, and spiritless for lack of rest! + +What more? Old Lebanon, the frosty-browed, + Setting his feet among oil-olive trees, +Heaving his bare brown shoulder through a cloud; + And after, grassy Carmel, purple seas, +Flattering his dreams and echoing in his rocks, +Soft as the bleating of his thousand flocks. + +Enough: how vain this thinking to beguile, + With recollected scenes, an aching breast! +Did not I, journeying, muse on her the while? + Ah, yes! for every landscape comes impressed-- +Ay, written on, as by an iron pen-- +With the same thought I nursed about her then. + +Therefore let memory turn again to home; + Feel, as of old, the joy of drawing near; +Watch the green breakers and the wind-tossed foam, + And see the land-fog break, dissolve, and clear; +Then think a skylark's voice far sweeter sound +Than ever thrilled but over English ground; + +And walk, glad, even to tears, among the wheat, + Not doubting this to be the first of lands; +And, while in foreign words this murmuring, meet + Some little village school-girls (with their hands +Full of forget-me-nots), who, greeting me, +I count their English talk delightsome melody; + +And seat me on a bank, and draw them near, + That I may feast myself with hearing it, +Till shortly they forget their bashful fear, + Push back their flaxen curls, and round me sit-- +Tell me their names, their daily tasks, and show +Where wild wood-strawberries in the copses grow. + +So passed the day in this delightful land: + My heart was thankful for the English tongue-- +For English sky with feathery cloudlets spanned-- + For English hedge with glistening dewdrops hung. +I journeyed, and at glowing eventide +Stopped at a rustic inn by the wayside. + +That night I slumbered sweetly, being right glad + To miss the flapping of the shrouds; but lo! +A quiet dream of beings twain I had, + Behind the curtain talking soft and low: +Methought I did not heed their utterance fine, +Till one of them said, softly, "Eglantine." + +I started up awake, 'twas silence all: + My own fond heart had shaped that utterance clear: +And "Ah!" methought, "how sweetly did it fall, + Though but in dream, upon the listening ear! +How sweet from other lips the name well known-- +That name, so many a year heard only from mine own!" + +I thought awhile, then slumber came to me, + And tangled all my fancy in her maze, +And I was drifting on a raft at sea. + The near all ocean, and the far all haze; +Through the while polished water sharks did glide, +And up in heaven I saw no stars to guide. + +"Have mercy, God!" but lo! my raft uprose; + Drip, drip, I heard the water splash from it; +My raft had wings, and as the petrel goes, + It skimmed the sea, then brooding seemed to sit +The milk-white mirror, till, with sudden spring, +She flew straight upward like a living thing. + +But strange!--I went not also in that flight, + For I was entering at a cavern's mouth; +Trees grew within, and screaming birds of night + Sat on them, hiding from the torrid south. +On, on I went, while gleaming in the dark +Those trees with blanched leaves stood pale and stark. + +The trees had flower-buds, nourished in deep night, + And suddenly, as I went farther in, +They opened, and they shot out lambent light; + Then all at once arose a railing din +That frighted me: "It is the ghosts," I said, +And they are railing for their darkness fled. + +"I hope they will not look me in the face; + It frighteth me to hear their laughter loud;" +I saw them troop before with jaunty pace, + And one would shake off dust that soiled her shroud: +But now, O joy unhoped! to calm my dread, +Some moonlight filtered through a cleft o'erhead. + +I climbed the lofty trees--the blanchèd trees-- + The cleft was wide enough to let me through; +I clambered out and felt the balmy breeze, + And stepped on churchyard grasses wet with dew. +O happy chance! O fortune to admire! +I stood beside my own loved village spire. + +And as I gazed upon the yew-tree's trunk, + Lo, far-off music--music in the night! +So sweet and tender as it swelled and sunk; + It charmed me till I wept with keen delight, +And in my dream, methought as it drew near +The very clouds in heaven stooped low to hear. + +Beat high, beat low, wild heart so deeply stirred, + For high as heaven runs up the piercing strain; +The restless music fluttering like a bird + Bemoaned herself, and dropped to earth again, +Heaping up sweetness till I was afraid +That I should die of grief when it did fade. + +And it DID fade; but while with eager ear + I drank its last long echo dying away, +I was aware of footsteps that drew near, + And round the ivied chancel seemed to stray: +O soft above the hallowed place they trod-- +Soft as the fall of foot that is not shod! + +I turned--'twas even so--yes, Eglantine! + For at the first I had divined the same; +I saw the moon on her shut eyelids shine, + And said, "She is asleep:" still on she came; +Then, on her dimpled feet, I saw it gleam, +And thought--"I know that this is but a dream." + +My darling! O my darling! not the less + My dream went on because I knew it such; +She came towards me in her loveliness-- + A thing too pure, methought, for mortal touch; +The rippling gold did on her bosom meet, +The long white robe descended to her feet. + +The fringèd lids dropped low, as sleep-oppressed; + Her dreamy smile was very fair to see, +And her two hands were folded to her breast, + With somewhat held between them heedfully. +O fast asleep! and yet methought she knew +And felt my nearness those shut eyelids through. + +She sighed: my tears ran down for tenderness-- + And have I drawn thee to me in my sleep? +Is it for me thou wanderest shelterless, + Wetting thy steps in dewy grasses deep? +"O if this be!" I said--"yet speak to me; +I blame my very dream for cruelty." + +Then from her stainless bosom she did take + Two beauteous lily flowers that lay therein, +And with slow-moving lips a gesture make, + As one that some forgotten words doth win: +"They floated on the pool," methought she said, +And water trickled from each lily's head. + +It dropped upon her feet--I saw it gleam + Along the ripples of her yellow hair. +And stood apart, for only in a dream + She would have come, methought, to meet me there. +She spoke again--"Ah fair! ah fresh they shine! +And there are many left, and these are mine." + +I answered her with flattering accents meet-- + "Love, they are whitest lilies e'er were blown." +"And sayest thou so?" she sighed in murmurs sweet; + "I have nought else to give thee now, mine own! +For it is night. Then take them, love!" said she: +"They have been costly flowers to thee--and me." + +While thus she said I took them from her hand, + And, overcome with love and nearness, woke; +And overcome with ruth that she should stand + Barefooted in the grass; that, when she spoke, +Her mystic words should take so sweet a tone, +And of all names her lips should choose "My own" + +I rose, I journeyed, neared my home, and soon + Beheld the spire peer out above the hill. +It was a sunny harvest afternoon. + When by the churchyard wicket, standing still, +I cast my eager eyes abroad to know +If change had touched the scenes of long ago. + +I looked across the hollow; sunbeams shone + Upon the old house with the gable ends: +"Save that the laurel trees are taller grown, + No change," methought, "to its gray wall extends +What clear bright beams on yonder lattice shine! +There did I sometime talk with Eglantine." + +There standing with my very goal in sight, + Over my haste did sudden quiet steal; +I thought to dally with my own delight, + Nor rush on headlong to my garnered weal, +But taste the sweetness of a short delay, +And for a little moment hold the bliss at bay. + +The church was open; it perchance might be + That there to offer thanks I might essay, +Or rather, as I think, that I might see + The place where Eglantine was wont to pray. +But so it was; I crossed that portal wide, +And felt my riot joy to calm subside. + +The low depending curtains, gently swayed, + Cast over arch and roof a crimson glow; +But, ne'ertheless, all silence and all shade + It seemed, save only for the rippling flow +Of their long foldings, when the sunset air +Sighed through the casements of the house of prayer. + +I found her place, the ancient oaken stall, + Where in her childhood I had seen her sit, +Most saint-like and most tranquil there of all, + Folding her hands, as if a dreaming fit-- +A heavenly vision had before her strayed +Of the Eternal Child in lowly manger laid. + +I saw her prayer-book laid upon the seat, + And took it in my hand, and felt more near +in fancy to her, finding it most sweet + To think how very oft, low kneeling there, +In her devout thoughts she had let me share, +And set my graceless name in her pure prayer. + +My eyes were dazzled with delightful tears-- + In sooth they were the last I ever shed; +For with them fell the cherished dreams of years. + I looked, and on the wall above my head, +Over her seat, there was a tablet placed, +With one word only on the marble traced.-- + + +Ah well! I would not overstate that woe, + For I have had some blessings, little care; +But since the falling of that heavy blow, + God's earth has never seemed to me so fair; +Nor any of his creatures so divine, +Nor sleep so sweet;--the word was--EGLANTINE. + + + + +A MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD. + +(F.M.L.) + + +Living child or pictured cherub, + Ne'er o'ermatched its baby grace; +And the mother, moving nearer, + Looked it calmly in the face; +Then with slight and quiet gesture, + And with lips that scarcely smiled, +Said--"A Portrait of my daughter + When she was a child." + +Easy thought was hers to fathom, + Nothing hard her glance to read, +For it seemed to say, "No praises + For this little child I need: +If you see, I see far better, + And I will not feign to care +For a stranger's prompt assurance + That the face is fair." + +Softly clasped and half extended, + She her dimpled hands doth lay: +So they doubtless placed them, saying-- + "Little one, you must not play." +And while yet his work was growing, + This the painter's hand hath shown, +That the little heart was making + Pictures of its own. + +Is it warm in that green valley, + Vale of childhood, where you dwell? +Is it calm in that green valley, + Round whose bournes such great hills swell? +Are there giants in the valley-- + Giants leaving footprints yet? +Are there angels in the valley? + Tell me--I forget. + +Answer, answer, for the lilies, + Little one, o'ertop you much, +And the mealy gold within them + You can scarcely reach to touch; +O how far their aspect differs, + Looking up and looking down! +You look up in that green valley-- + Valley of renown. + +Are there voices in the valley, + Lying near the heavenly gate? +When it opens, do the harp-strings, + Touched within, reverberate? +When, like shooting-stars, the angels + To your couch at nightfall go, +Are their swift wings heard to rustle? + Tell me! for you know. + +Yes, you know; and you are silent, + Not a word shall asking win; +Little mouth more sweet than rosebud, + Fast it locks the secret in. +Not a glimpse upon your present + You unfold to glad my view; +Ah, what secrets of your future + I could tell to you! + +Sunny present! thus I read it, + By remembrance of my past:-- +Its to-day and its to-morrow + Are as lifetimes vague and vast; +And each face in that green valley + Takes for you an aspect mild, +And each voice grows soft in saying-- + "Kiss me, little child!" + +As a boon the kiss is granted: + Baby mouth, your touch is sweet, +Takes the love without the trouble + From those lips that with it meet; +Gives the love, O pure! O tender! + Of the valley where it grows, +But the baby heart receiveth + MORE THAN IT BESTOWS. + +Comes the future to the present-- + "Ah!" she saith, "too blithe of mood; +Why that smile which seems to whisper-- + 'I am happy, God is good?' +God is good: that truth eternal + Sown for you in happier years, +I must tend it in my shadow, + Water it with tears. + +"Ah, sweet present! I must lead thee + By a daylight more subdued; +There must teach thee low to whisper-- + 'I am mournful, God is good!'" +Peace, thou future! clouds are coming, + Stooping from the mountain crest, +But that sunshine floods the valley: + Let her--let her rest. + +Comes the future to the present-- + "Child," she saith, "and wilt thou rest? +How long, child, before thy footsteps + Fret to reach yon cloudy crest? +Ah, the valley!--angels guard it, + But the heights are brave to see; +Looking down were long contentment: + Come up, child, to me." + +So she speaks, but do not heed her, + Little maid with wondrous eyes, +Not afraid, but clear and tender, + Blue, and filled with prophecies; +Thou for whom life's veil unlifted + Hangs, whom warmest valleys fold, +Lift the veil, the charm dissolveth-- + Climb, but heights are cold. + +There are buds that fold within them, + Closed and covered from our sight, +Many a richly tinted petal, + Never looked on by the light: +Fain to see their shrouded faces, + Sun and dew are long at strife, +Till at length the sweet buds open-- + Such a bud is life. + +When the rose of thine own being + Shall reveal its central fold, +Thou shalt look within and marvel, + Fearing what thine eyes behold; +What it shows and what it teaches + Are not things wherewith to part; +Thorny rose! that always costeth + Beatings at the heart. + +Look in fear, for there is dimness; + Ills unshapen float anigh. +Look in awe, for this same nature + Once the Godhead deigned to die. +Look in love, for He doth love it, + And its tale is best of lore: +Still humanity grows dearer, + Being learned the more. + +Learn, but not the less bethink thee + How that all can mingle tears; +But his joy can none discover, + Save to them that are his peers; +And that they whose lips do utter + Language such as bards have sung-- +Lo! their speech shall be to many + As an unknown tongue. + +Learn, that if to thee the meaning + Of all other eyes be shown, +Fewer eyes can ever front thee, + That are skilled to read thine own; +And that if thy love's deep current + Many another's far outflows, +Then thy heart must take forever, + LESS THAN IT BESTOWS. + + + + +STRIFE AND PEACE. + +(Written for THE PORTFOLIO SOCIETY, October 1861.) + + +The yellow poplar-leaves came down + And like a carpet lay, +No waftings were in the sunny air + To flutter them away; +And he stepped on blithe and debonair + That warm October day. + +"The boy," saith he, "hath got his own, + But sore has been the fight, +For ere his life began the strife + That ceased but yesternight; +For the will," he said, "the kinsfolk read, + And read it not aright. + +"His cause was argued in the court + Before his christening day, +And counsel was heard, and judge demurred, + And bitter waxed the fray; +Brother with brother spake no word + When they met in the way. + +"Against each one did each contend, + And all against the heir. +I would not bend, for I knew the end-- + I have it for my share, +And nought repent, though my first friend + From henceforth I must spare. + +"Manor and moor and farm and wold + Their greed begrudged him sore, +And parchments old with passionate hold + They guarded heretofore; +And they carped at signature and seal, + But they may carp no more. + +"An old affront will stir the heart + Through years of rankling pain, +And I feel the fret that urged me yet + That warfare to maintain; +For an enemy's loss may well be set + Above an infant's gain. + +"An enemy's loss I go to prove, + Laugh out, thou little heir! +Laugh in his face who vowed to chase + Thee from thy birthright fair; +For I come to set thee in thy place: + Laugh out, and do not spare." + +A man of strife, in wrathful mood + He neared the nurse's door; +With poplar-leaves the roof and eaves + Were thickly scattered o'er, +And yellow as they a sunbeam lay + Along the cottage floor. + +"Sleep on, thou pretty, pretty lamb," + He hears the fond nurse say; +"And if angels stand at thy right hand, + As now belike they may, +And if angels meet at thy bed's feet, + I fear them not this day. + +"Come wealth, come want to thee, dear heart, + It was all one to me, +For thy pretty tongue far sweeter rung + Than coinèd gold and fee; +And ever the while thy waking smile + It was right fair to see. + +"Sleep, pretty bairn, and never know + Who grudged and who transgressed: +Thee to retain I was full fain, + But God, He knoweth best! +And His peace upon thy brow lies plain + As the sunshine on thy breast!" + +The man of strife, he enters in, + Looks, and his pride doth cease; +Anger and sorrow shall be to-morrow + Trouble, and no release; +But the babe whose life awoke the strife + Hath entered into peace. + + + + +THE + +DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE + +[Illustration.] + + + + +THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. + + +I saw in a vision once, our mother-sphere + The world, her fixed foredooméd oval tracing, +Rolling and rolling on and resting never, + While like a phantom fell, behind her pacing +The unfurled flag of night, her shadow drear + Fled as she fled and hung to her forever. + +Great Heaven! methought, how strange a doom to share. + Would I may never bear + Inevitable darkness after me +(Darkness endowed with drawings strong, + And shadowy hands that cling unendingly), + Nor feel that phantom-wings behind me sweep, +As she feels night pursuing through the long + Illimitable reaches of "the vasty deep." + + * * * * * + +God save you, gentlefolks. There was a man + Who lay awake at midnight on his bed, +Watching the spiral flame that feeding ran + Among the logs upon his hearth, and shed +A comfortable glow, both warm and dim, +On crimson curtains that encompassed him. + +Right stately was his chamber, soft and white + The pillow, and his quilt was eider-down. +What mattered it to him though all that night + The desolate driving cloud might lower and frown, +And winds were up the eddying sleet to chase, +That drave and drave and found no settling-place? + +What mattered it that leafless trees might rock, + Or snow might drift athwart his window-pane? +He bare a charméd life against their shock, + Secure from cold, hunger, and weather stain; +Fixed in his right, and born to good estate, +From common ills set by and separate. + +From work and want and fear of want apart, + This man (men called him Justice Wilvermore),-- +This man had comforted his cheerful heart + With all that it desired from every shore. +He had a right,--the right of gold is strong,-- +He stood upon his right his whole life long. + +Custom makes all things easy, and content + Is careless, therefore on the storm and cold, +As he lay waking, never a thought he spent, + Albeit across the vale beneath the wold, +Along a reedy mere that frozen lay, +A range of sordid hovels stretched away. + +What cause had he to think on them, forsooth? + What cause that night beyond another night? +He was familiar even from his youth + With their long ruin and their evil plight. +The wintry wind would search them like a scout, +The water froze within as freely as without. + +He think upon them? No! They were forlorn, + So were the cowering inmates whom they held; +A thriftless tribe, to shifts and leanness born, + Ever complaining: infancy or eld +Alike. But there was rent, or long ago +Those cottage roofs had met with overthrow. + +For this they stood; and what his thoughts might be + That winter night, I know not; but I know +That, while the creeping flame fed silently + And cast upon his bed a crimson glow, +The Justice slept, and shortly in his sleep +He fell to dreaming, and his dream was deep. + +He dreamed that over him a shadow came; + And when he looked to find the cause, behold +Some person knelt between him and the flame:-- + A cowering figure of one frail and old,-- +A woman; and she prayed as he descried, +And spread her feeble hands, and shook and sighed. + +"Good Heaven!" the Justice cried, and being distraught + He called not to her, but he looked again: +She wore a tattered cloak, but she had naught + Upon her head; and she did quake amain, +And spread her wasted hands and poor attire +To gather in the brightness of his fire. + +"I know you, woman!" then the Justice cried; + "I know that woman well," he cried aloud; +"The shepherd Aveland's widow: God me guide! + A pauper kneeling on my hearth": and bowed +The hag, like one at home, its warmth to share! +"How dares she to intrude? What does she there? + +"Ho, woman, ho!"--but yet she did not stir, + Though from her lips a fitful plaining broke; +"I'll ring my people up to deal with her; + I'll rouse the house," he cried; but while he spoke +He turned, and saw, but distant from his bed, +Another form,--a Darkness with a head. + +Then in a rage, he shouted, "Who are you?" + For little in the gloom he might discern. +"Speak out; speak now; or I will make you rue + The hour!" but there was silence, and a stern, +Dark face from out the dusk appeared to lean, +And then again drew back, and was not seen. + +"God!" cried the dreaming man, right impiously, + "What have I done, that these my sleep affray?" +"God!" said the Phantom, "I appeal to Thee, + Appoint Thou me this man to be my prey." +"God!" sighed the kneeling woman, frail and old, +"I pray Thee take me, for the world is cold." + +Then said the trembling Justice, in affright, + "Fiend, I adjure thee, speak thine errand here!" +And lo! it pointed in the failing light + Toward the woman, answering, cold and clear, +"Thou art ordained an answer to thy prayer; +But first to tell _her_ tale that kneeleth there." + +"_Her_ tale!" the Justice cried. "A pauper's tale!" + And he took heart at this so low behest, +And let the stoutness of his will prevail, + Demanding, "Is't for _her_ you break my rest? +She went to jail of late for stealing wood, +She will again for this night's hardihood. + +"I sent her; and to-morrow, as I live, + I will commit her for this trespass here." +"Thou wilt not!" quoth the Shadow, "thou wilt give + Her story words"; and then it stalked anear +And showed a lowering face, and, dread to see, +A countenance of angered majesty. + +Then said the Justice, all his thoughts astray, + With that material Darkness chiding him, +"If this must be, then speak to her, I pray, + And bid her move, for all the room is dim +By reason of the place she holds to-night: +She kneels between me and the warmth and light." + +"With adjurations deep and drawings strong, + And with the power," it said, "unto me given, +I call upon thee, man, to tell thy wrong, + Or look no more upon the face of Heaven. +Speak! though she kneel throughout the livelong night, +And yet shall kneel between thee and the light." + +This when the Justice heard, he raised his hands, + And held them as the dead in effigy +Hold theirs, when carved upon a tomb. The bands + Of fate had bound him fast: no remedy +Was left: his voice unto himself was strange, +And that unearthly vision did not change. + +He said, "That woman dwells anear my door, + Her life and mine began the selfsame day, +And I am hale and hearty: from my store + I never spared her aught: she takes her way +Of me unheeded; pining, pinching care +Is all the portion that she has to share. + +"She is a broken-down, poor, friendless wight, + Through labor and through sorrow early old; +And I have known of this her evil plight, + Her scanty earnings, and her lodgment cold; +A patienter poor soul shall ne'er be found: +She labored on my land the long year round. + +"What wouldst thou have me say, thou fiend abhorred? + Show me no more thine awful visage grim. +If thou obey'st a greater, tell thy lord + That I have paid her wages. Cry to him! +He has not _much_ against me. None can say +I have not paid her wages day by day. + +"The spell! It draws me. I must speak again; + And speak against myself; and speak aloud. +The woman once approached me to complain,-- + 'My wages are so low.' I may be proud; +It is a fault." "Ay," quoth the Phantom fell, +"Sinner! it is a fault: thou sayest well." + +"She made her moan, 'My wages are so low.'" + "Tell on!" "She said," he answered, "'My best days +Are ended, and the summer is but slow + To come; and my good strength for work decays +By reason that I live so hard, and lie +On winter nights so bare for poverty.'" + +"And you replied,"--began the lowering shade, + "And I replied," the Justice followed on, +"That wages like to mine my neighbor paid; + And if I raised the wages of the one +Straight should the others murmur; furthermore, +The winter was as winters gone before. + +"No colder and not longer." "Afterward?"-- + The Phantom questioned. "Afterward," he groaned, +"She said my neighbor was a right good lord, + Never a roof was broken that he owned; +He gave much coal and clothing. 'Doth he so? +Work for my neighbor, then,' I answered. 'Go! + +"'You are full welcome.' Then she mumbled out + She hoped I was not angry; hoped, forsooth, +I would forgive her: and I turned about, + And said I should be angry in good truth +If this should be again, or ever more +She dared to stop me thus at the church door." + +"Then?" quoth the Shade; and he, constrained, said on, + "Then she, reproved, curtseyed herself away." +"Hast met her since?" it made demand anon; + And after pause the Justice answered, "Ay; +Some wood was stolen; my people made a stir: +She was accused, and I did sentence her." + +But yet, and yet, the dreaded questions came: + "And didst thou weigh the matter,--taking thought +Upon her sober life and honest fame?" + "I gave it," he replied, with gaze distraught; +"I gave it, Fiend, the usual care; I took +The usual pains; I could not nearer look, + +"Because,--because their pilfering had got head. + What wouldst thou more? The neighbors pleaded hard, +'Tis true, and many tears the creature shed; + But I had vowed their prayers to disregard, +Heavily strike the first that robbed my land, +And put down thieving with a steady hand. + +"She said she was not guilty. Ay, 'tis true + She said so, but the poor are liars all. +O thou fell Fiend, what wilt thou? Must I view + Thy darkness yet, and must thy shadow fall +Upon me miserable? I have done +No worse, no more than many a scathless one." + +"Yet," quoth the Shade, "if ever to thine ears + The knowledge of her blamelessness was brought, +Or others have confessed with dying tears + The crime she suffered for, and thou hast wrought +All reparation in thy power, and told +Into her empty hand thy brightest gold:-- + +"If thou hast honored her, and hast proclaimed + Her innocence and thy deplored wrong, +Still thou art nought; for thou shalt yet be blamed + In that she, feeble, came before thee strong, +And thou, in cruel haste to deal a blow, +Because thou hadst been angered, worked her woe. + +"But didst thou right her? Speak!" The Justice sighed, + And beaded drops stood out upon his brow; +"How could I humble me," forlorn he cried, + "To a base beggar? Nay, I will avow +That I did ill. I will reveal the whole; +I kept that knowledge in my secret soul." + +"Hear him!" the Phantom muttered; "hear this man, + O changeless God upon the judgment throne." +With that, cold tremors through his pulses ran, + And lamentably he did make his moan; +While, with its arms upraised above his head, +The dim dread visitor approached his bed. + +"Into these doors," it said, "which thou hast closed, + Daily this woman shall from henceforth come; +Her kneeling form shall yet be interposed + Till all thy wretched hours have told their sum; +Shall yet be interposed by day, by night, +Between thee, sinner, and the warmth and light. + +"Remembrance of her want shall make thy meal + Like ashes, and thy wrong thou shalt not right. +But what! Nay, verily, nor wealth nor weal + From henceforth shall afford thy soul delight. +Till men shall lay thy head beneath the sod, +There shall be no deliverance, saith my God." + +"Tell me thy name," the dreaming Justice cried; + "By what appointment dost thou doom me thus?" +"'Tis well that thou shouldst know me," it replied, + "For mine thou art, and nought shall sever us; +From thine own lips and life I draw my force: +The name thy nation give me is REMORSE." + +This when he heard, the dreaming man cried out, + And woke affrighted; and a crimson glow +The dying ember shed. Within, without, + In eddying rings the silence seemed to flow; +The wind had lulled, and on his forehead shone +The last low gleam; he was indeed alone. + +"O, I have had a fearful dream," said he; + "I will take warning and for mercy trust; +The fiend Remorse shall never dwell with me: + I will repair that wrong, I will be just, +I will be kind, I will my ways amend." +_Now the first dream is told unto its end._ + +Anigh the frozen mere a cottage stood, + A piercing wind swept round and shook the door, +The shrunken door, and easy way made good, + And drave long drifts of snow along the floor. +It sparkled there like diamonds, for the moon +Was shining in, and night was at the noon. + +Before her dying embers, bent and pale, + A woman sat because her bed was cold; +She heard the wind, the driving sleet and hail, + And she was hunger-bitten, weak and old; +Yet while she cowered, and while the casement shook, +Upon her trembling knees she held a book,-- + +A comfortable book for them that mourn, + And good to raise the courage of the poor; +It lifts the veil and shows, beyond the bourne, + Their Elder Brother, from His home secure, +That for them desolate He died to win, +Repeating, "Come, ye blessed, enter in." + +What thought she on, this woman? on her days + Of toil, or on the supperless night forlorn? +I think not so; the heart but seldom weighs + With conscious care a burden always borne; +And she was used to these things, had grown old +In fellowship with toil, hunger, and cold. + +Then did she think how sad it was to live + Of all the good this world can yield bereft? +No, her untutored thoughts she did not give + To such a theme; but in their warp and weft +She wove a prayer: then in the midnight deep +Faintly and slow she fell away to sleep. + +A strange, a marvellous sleep, which brought a dream. + And it was this: that all at once she heard +The pleasant babbling of a little stream + That ran beside her door, and then a bird +Broke out in songs. She looked, and lo! the rime +And snow had melted; it was summer time! + +And all the cold was over, and the mere + Full sweetly swayed the flags and rushes green; +The mellow sunlight poured right warm and clear + Into her casement, and thereby were seen +Fair honeysuckle flowers, and wandering bees +Were hovering round the blossom-laden trees. + +She said, "I will betake me to my door, + And will look out and see this wondrous sight, +How summer is come back, and frost is o'er, + And all the air warm waxen in a night." +With that she opened, but for fear she cried, +For lo! two Angels,--one on either side. + +And while she looked, with marvelling measureless, + The Angels stood conversing face to face, +But neither spoke to her. "The wilderness," + One Angel said, "the solitary place, +Shall yet be glad for Him." And then full fain +The other Angel answered, "He shall reign." + +And when the woman heard, in wondering wise, + She whispered, "They are speaking of my Lord." +And straightway swept across the open skies + Multitudes like to these. They took the word, +That flock of Angels, "He shall come again, +My Lord, my Lord!" they sang, "and He shall reign!" + +Then they, drawn up into the blue o'er-head, + Right happy, shining ones, made haste to flee; +And those before her one to other said, + "Behold He stands aneath yon almond-tree." +This when the woman heard, she fain had gazed, +But paused for reverence, and bowed down amazed. + +After she looked, for this her dream was deep; + She looked, and there was nought beneath the tree; +Yet did her love and longing overleap + The fear of Angels, awful though they be, +And she passed out between the blessed things, +And brushed her mortal weeds against their wings. + +O, all the happy world was in its best, + The trees were covered thick with buds and flowers, +And these were dropping honey; for the rest, + Sweetly the birds were piping in their bowers; +Across the grass did groups of Angels go, +And Saints in pairs were walking to and fro. + +Then did she pass toward the almond-tree, + And none she saw beneath it: yet each Saint +Upon his coming meekly bent the knee, + And all their glory as they gazed waxed faint. +And then a 'lighting Angel neared the place, +And folded his fair wings before his face. + +She also knelt, and spread her aged hands + As feeling for the sacred human feet; +She said, "Mine eyes are held, but if He stands + Anear, I will not let Him hence retreat +Except He bless me." Then, O sweet! O fair! +Some words were spoken, but she knew not where. + +She knew not if beneath the boughs they woke, + Or dropt upon her from the realms above; +"What wilt thou, woman?" in the dream He spoke, + "Thy sorrow moveth Me, thyself I love; +Long have I counted up thy mournful years, +Once I did weep to wipe away thy tears." + +She said: "My one Redeemer, only blest, + I know Thy voice, and from my yearning heart +Draw out my deep desire, my great request, + My prayer, that I might enter where Thou art. +Call me, O call from this world troublesome, +And let me see Thy face." He answered, "Come." + +_Here is the ending of the second dream._ + It is a frosty morning, keen and cold, +Fast locked are silent mere and frozen stream, + And snow lies sparkling on the desert wold; +With savory morning meats they spread the board, +But Justice Wilvermore will walk abroad. + +"Bring me my cloak," quoth he, as one in haste. + "Before you breakfast, sir?" his man replies. +"Ay," quoth he quickly, and he will not taste + Of aught before him, but in urgent wise +As he would fain some carking care allay, +Across the frozen field he takes his way. + +"A dream! how strange that it should move me so, + 'Twas but a dream," quoth Justice Wilvermore: +"And yet I cannot peace nor pleasure know, + For wrongs I have not heeded heretofore; +Silver and gear the crone shall have of me, +And dwell for life in yonder cottage free. + +"For visions of the night are fearful things, + Remorse is dread, though merely in a dream; +I will not subject me to visitings + Of such a sort again. I will esteem +My peace above my pride. From natures rude +A little gold will buy me gratitude. + +"The woman shall have leave to gather wood, + As much as she may need, the long year round; +She shall, I say,--moreover, it were good + Yon other cottage roofs to render sound. +Thus to my soul the ancient peace restore, +And sleep at ease," quoth Justice Wilvermore. + +With that he nears the door: a frosty rime + Is branching over it, and drifts are deep +Against the wall. He knocks, and there is time,-- + (For none doth open),--time to list the sweep +And whistle of the wind along the mere +Through beds of stiffened reeds and rushes sere. + +"If she be out, I have my pains for nought," + He saith, and knocks again, and yet once more, +But to his ear nor step nor stir is brought; + And after pause, he doth unlatch the door +And enter. No: she is not out, for see +She sits asleep 'mid frost-work winterly. + +Asleep, asleep before her empty grate, + Asleep, asleep, albeit the landlord call. +"What, dame," he saith, and comes toward her straight, + "Asleep so early!" But whate'er befall, +She sleepeth; then he nears her, and behold +He lays a hand on hers, and it is cold. + +Then doth the Justice to his home return; + From that day forth he wears a sadder brow; +His hands are opened, and his heart doth learn + The patience of the poor. He made a vow +And keeps it, for the old and sick have shared +His gifts, their sordid homes he hath repaired. + +And some he hath made happy, but for him + Is happiness no more. He doth repent, +And now the light of joy is waxen dim, + Are all his steps toward the Highest sent; +He looks for mercy, and he waits release +Above, for this world doth not yield him peace. + +Night after night, night after desolate night, + Day after day, day after tedious day, +Stands by his fire, and dulls its gleamy light, + Paceth behind or meets him in the way; +Or shares the path by hedgerow, mere, or stream, +The visitor that doomed him in his dream. + + Thy kingdom come. +I heard a Seer cry,--"The wilderness, + The solitary place, +Shall yet be glad for Him, and He shall bless +(Thy kingdom come) with his revealéd face +The forests; they shall drop their precious gum, +And shed for Him their balm: and He shall yield +The grandeur of His speech to charm the field. + +"Then all the soothéd winds shall drop to listen, + (Thy kingdom come,) +Comforted waters waxen calm shall glisten +With bashful tremblement beneath His smile: + And Echo ever the while +Shall take, and in her awful joy repeat, +The laughter of His lips--(thy kingdom come): +And hills that sit apart shall be no longer dumb; + No, they shall shout and shout, +Raining their lovely loyalty along the dewy plain: + And valleys round about, + +"And all the well-contented land, made sweet + With flowers she opened at His feet, +Shall answer; shout and make the welkin ring +And tell it to the stars, shout, shout, and sing; + Her cup being full to the brim, + Her poverty made rich with Him, +Her yearning satisfied to its utmost sum,-- +Lift up thy voice, O earth, prepare thy song, + It shall not yet be long, +Lift up, O earth, for He shall come again, +Thy Lord; and He shall reign, and He SHALL reign,-- + Thy kingdom come." + + + + +SONGS + +ON + +THE VOICES OF BIRDS. + +[Illustration] + + + + + +SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. + + +INTRODUCTION. + +CHILD AND BOATMAN. + +"Martin, I wonder who makes all the songs." +"You do, sir?" + "Yes, I wonder how they come." +"Well, boy, I wonder what you'll wonder next!" +"But somebody must make them?" + "Sure enough." +"Does your wife know?" + "She never said she did." +"You told me that she knew so many things." +"I said she was a London woman, sir, +And a fine scholar, but I never said +She knew about the songs." + "I wish she did." +"And I wish no such thing; she knows enough, +She knows too much already. Look you now, +This vessel's off the stocks, a tidy craft." +"A schooner, Martin?" + "No, boy, no; a brig, +Only she's schooner rigged,--a lovely craft." +"Is she for me? O, thank you, Martin, dear. +What shall I call her?" + "Well, sir, what you please." +"Then write on her 'The Eagle.'" + "Bless the child! +Eagle! why, you know naught of eagles, you. +When we lay off the coast, up Canada way, +And chanced to be ashore when twilight fell, +That was the place for eagles; bald they were, +With eyes as yellow as gold." + "O, Martin, dear, +Tell me about them." + "Tell! there's nought to tell, +Only they snored o' nights and frighted us." +"Snored?" + "Ay, I tell you, snored; they slept upright +In the great oaks by scores; as true as time, +If I'd had aught upon my mind just then, +I wouldn't have walked that wood for unknown gold; +It was most awful. When the moon was full, +I've seen them fish at night, in the middle watch, +When she got low. I've seen them plunge like stones, +And come up fighting with a fish as long, +Ay, longer than my arm; and they would sail,-- +When they had struck its life out,--they would sail +Over the deck, and show their fell, fierce eyes, +And croon for pleasure, hug the prey, and speed +Grand as a frigate on a wind." + "My ship, +She must be called 'The Eagle' after these. +And, Martin, ask your wife about the songs +When you go in at dinner-time." + "Not I." + + +THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD BY THE UNSATISFIED HEART. + + When in a May-day hush + Chanteth the Missel-thrush +The harp o' the heart makes answer with murmurous stirs; + When Robin-redbreast sings, + We think on budding springs, +And Culvers when they coo are love's remembrancers. + + But thou in the trance of light + Stayest the feeding night, +And Echo makes sweet her lips with the utterance wise, + And casts at our glad feet, + In a wisp of fancies fleet, +Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned prophecies. + + Her central thought full well + Thou hast the wit to tell, +To take the sense o' the dark and to yield it so; + The moral of moonlight + To set in a cadence bright, +And sing our loftiest dream that we thought none did know. + + I have no nest as thou, + Bird on the blossoming bough, +Yet over thy tongue outfloweth the song o' my soul, + Chanting, "forego thy strife, + The spirit out-acts the life, +But MUCH is seldom theirs who can perceive THE WHOLE. + + "Thou drawest a perfect lot + All thine, but holden not, +Lie low, at the feet of beauty that ever shall bide; + There might be sorer smart + Than thine, far-seeing heart, +Whose fate is still to yearn, and not be satisfied." + + +SAND MARTINS. + +I passed an inland-cliff precipitate; + From tiny caves peeped many a soot-black poll; +In each a mother-martin sat elate, + And of the news delivered her small soul. + +Fantastic chatter! hasty, glad, and gay, + Whereof the meaning was not ill to tell: +"Gossip, how wags the world with you to-day?" + "Gossip, the world wags well, the world wags well." + +And heark'ning, I was sure their little ones + Were in the bird-talk, and discourse was made +Concerning hot sea-bights and tropic suns, + For a clear sultriness the tune conveyed;-- + +And visions of the sky as of a cup + Hailing down light on pagan Pharaoh's sand, +And quivering air-waves trembling up and up, + And blank stone faces marvellously bland. + +"When should the young be fledged and with them hie + Where costly day drops down in crimson light? +(Fortunate countries of the firefly + Swarm with blue diamonds all the sultry night, + +"And the immortal moon takes turn with them.) + When should they pass again by that red land, +Where lovely mirage works a broidered hem + To fringe with phantom-palms a robe of sand? + +"When should they dip their breasts again and play + In slumberous azure pools, clear as the air, +Where rosy-winged flamingoes fish all day, + Stalking amid the lotus blossom fair? + +"Then, over podded tamarinds bear their flight, + While cassias blossom in the zone of calms, +And so betake them to a south sea-bight, + To gossip in the crowns of cocoa-palms + +"Whose roots are in the spray. O, haply there + Some dawn, white-winged they might chance to find +A frigate standing in to make more fair + The loneliness unaltered of mankind. + +"A frigate come to water: nuts would fall, + And nimble feet would climb the flower-flushed strand, +While northern talk would ring, and there withal + The martins would desire the cool north land. + +"And all would be as it had been before; + Again at eve there would be news to tell; +Who passed should hear them chant it o'er and o'er, + Gossip, how wags the world?' 'Well, gossip, well.'" + + +A POET IN HIS YOUTH, AND THE CUCKOO-BIRD. + +Once upon a time, I lay +Fast asleep at dawn of day; +Windows open to the south, +Fancy pouting her sweet mouth +To my ear. + She turned a globe +In her slender hand, her robe +Was all spangled; and she said, +As she sat at my bed's head, +"Poet, poet, what, asleep! +Look! the ray runs up the steep +To your roof." Then in the golden +Essence of romances olden, +Bathed she my entrancéd heart. +And she gave a hand to me, +Drew me onward, "Come!" said she; +And she moved with me apart, +Down the lovely vale of Leisure. + +Such its name was, I heard say, +For some Fairies trooped that way; +Common people of the place, +Taking their accustomed pleasure, +(All the clocks being stopped) to race +Down the slope on palfreys fleet. +Bridle bells made tinkling sweet; +And they said, "What signified +Faring home till eventide: +There were pies on every shelf, +And the bread would bake itself." +But for that I cared not, fed, +As it were, with angels' bread, +Sweet as honey; yet next day +All foredoomed to melt away; +Gone before the sun waxed hot, +Melted manna that _was not_. + +Rock-doves' poetry of plaint, +Or the starling's courtship quaint, +Heart made much of; 'twas a boon +Won from silence, and too soon +Wasted in the ample air: +Building rooks far distant were. +Scarce at all would speak the rills, +And I saw the idle hills, +In their amber hazes deep, +Fold themselves and go to sleep, +Though it was not yet high noon. + +Silence? Rather music brought +From the spheres! As if a thought, +Having taken wings, did fly +Through the reaches of the sky. +Silence? No, a sumptuous sigh +That had found embodiment, +That had come across the deep +After months of wintry sleep, +And with tender heavings went +Floating up the firmament. + +"O," I mourned, half slumbering yet, +"'Tis the voice of _my_ regret,-- +_Mine!_" and I awoke. Full sweet +Saffron sunbeams did me greet; +And the voice it spake again, +Dropped from yon blue cup of light +Or some cloudlet swan's-down white +On my soul, that drank full fain +The sharp joy--the sweet pain-- +Of its clear, right innocent, +Unreprovéd discontent. + +How it came--where it went-- +Who can tell? The open blue +Quivered with it, and I, too, +Trembled. I remembered me +Of the springs that used to be, +When a dimpled white-haired child, +Shy and tender and half wild, +In the meadows I had heard +Some way off the talking bird, +And had felt it marvellous sweet, +For it laughed: it did me greet, +Calling me: yet, hid away +In the woods, it would not play. +No. + + And all the world about, +While a man will work or sing, +Or a child pluck flowers of spring, +Thou wilt scatter music out, +Rouse him with thy wandering note, +Changeful fancies set afloat, +Almost tell with thy clear throat, +But not quite,--the wonder-rife, +Most sweet riddle, dark and dim, +That he searcheth all his life, +Searcheth yet, and ne'er expoundeth; +And so winnowing of thy wings, +Touch and trouble his heart's strings. +That a certain music soundeth +In that wondrous instrument, +With a trembling upward sent, +That is reckoned sweet above +By the Greatness surnamed Love. + +"O, I hear thee in the blue; +Would that I might wing it too! +O to have what hope hath seen! +O to be what might have been! + +"O to set my life, sweet bird, +To a tune that oft I heard +When I used to stand alone +Listening to the lovely moan +Of the swaying pines o'erhead, +While, a-gathering of bee-bread +For their living, murmured round, +As the pollen dropped to ground, +All the nations from the hives; +And the little brooding wives +On each nest, brown dusky things, +Sat with gold-dust on their wings. +Then beyond (more sweet than all) +Talked the tumbling waterfall; +And there were, and there were not +(As might fall, and form anew +Bell-hung drops of honey-dew) +Echoes of--I know not what; +As if some right-joyous elf, +While about his own affairs, +Whistled softly otherwheres. +Nay, as if our mother dear, +Wrapped in sun-warm atmosphere, +Laughed a little to herself, +Laughed a little as she rolled, +Thinking on the days of old. + +"Ah! there be some hearts, I wis, +To which nothing comes amiss. +Mine was one. Much secret wealth +I was heir to: and by stealth, +When the moon was fully grown, +And she thought herself alone, +I have heard her, ay, right well, +Shoot a silver message down +To the unseen sentinel +Of a still, snow-thatchéd town. + +"Once, awhile ago, I peered +In the nest where Spring was reared. +There, she quivering her fair wings, +Flattered March with chirrupings; +And they fed her; nights and days, +Fed her mouth with much sweet food, +And her heart with love and praise, +Till the wild thing rose and flew +Over woods and water-springs, +Shaking off the morning dew +In a rainbow from her wings. + +"Once (I will to you confide +More), O once in forest wide, +I, benighted, overheard +Marvellous mild echoes stirred, +And a calling half defined, +And an answering from afar; +Somewhat talkéd with a star, +And the talk was of mankind. + +"'Cuckoo, cuckoo!' +Float anear in upper blue: +Art thou yet a prophet true? +Wilt thou say, 'And having seen +Things that be, and have not been, +Thou art free o' the world, for naught +Can despoil thee of thy thought'? +Nay, but make me music yet, +Bird, as deep as my regret, +For a certain hope hath set, +Like a star; and left me heir +To a crying for its light, +An aspiring infinite, +And a beautiful despair! + +"Ah! no more, no more, no more +I shall lie at thy shut door, +Mine ideal, my desired, +Dreaming thou wilt open it, +And step out, thou most admired, +By my side to fare, or sit, +Quenching hunger and all drouth +With the wit of thy fair mouth, +Showing me the wishéd prize +In the calm of thy dove's eyes, +Teaching me the wonder-rife +Majesties of human life, +All its fairest possible sum, +And the grace of its to come. + +"What a difference! Why of late +All sweet music used to say, +'She will come, and with thee stay +To-morrow, man, if not to-day.' +Now it murmurs, 'Wait, wait, wait!'" + + +A RAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE. + +I saw when I looked up, on either hand, + A pale high chalk-cliff, reared aloft in white; +A narrowing rent soon closed toward the land,-- + Toward the sea, an open yawning bight. + +The polished tide, with scarce a hint of blue, + Washed in the bight; above with angry moan +A raven, that was robbed, sat up in view, + Croaking and crying on a ledge alone. + +"Stand on thy nest, spread out thy fateful wings, + With sullen hungry love bemoan thy brood, +For boys have wrung their necks, those imp-like things, + Whose beaks dripped crimson daily at their food. + +"Cry, thou black prophetess! cry, and despair, + None love thee, none! Their father was thy foe, +Whose father in his youth did know thy lair, + And steal thy little demons long ago. + +"Thou madest many childless for their sake, + And picked out many eyes that loved the light. +Cry, thou black prophetess! sit up, awake, + Forebode; and ban them through the desolate night" + +Lo! while I spake it, with a crimson hue + The dipping sun endowed that silver flood, +And all the cliffs flushed red, and up she flew, + The bird, as mad to bathe in airy blood. + +"Nay, thou mayst cry, the omen is not thine, + Thou aged priestess of fell doom, and fate. +It is not blood: thy gods are making wine, + They spilt the must outside their city gate, + +"And stained their azure pavement with the lees: + They will not listen though thou cry aloud. +Old Chance, thy dame, sits mumbling at her ease, + Nor hears; the fair hag, Luck, is in her shroud. + +"They heed not, they withdraw the sky-hung sign, + Thou hast no charm against the favorite race; +Thy gods pour out for it, not blood, but wine: + There is no justice in their dwelling-place! + +"Safe in their father's house the boys shall rest, + Though thy fell brood doth stark and silent lie; +Their unborn sons may yet despoil thy nest: + Cry, thou black prophetess! lift up! cry, cry!" + + +THE WARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS. + + When I hear the waters fretting, + When I see the chestnut letting +All her lovely blossom falter down, I think, "Alas the day!" + Once with magical sweet singing, + Blackbirds set the woodland ringing, +That awakes no more while April hours wear themselves away. + + In our hearts fair hope lay smiling, + Sweet as air, and all beguiling; +And there hung a mist of bluebells on the slope and down the dell; + And we talked of joy and splendor + That the years unborn would render, +And the blackbirds helped us with the story, for they knew it well. + + Piping, fluting, "Bees are humming, + April's here, and summer's coming; +Don't forget us when you walk, a man with men, in pride and joy; + Think on us in alleys shady, + When you step a graceful lady; +For no fairer day have we to hope for, little girl and boy. + + "Laugh and play, O lisping waters, + Lull our downy sons and daughters; +Come, O wind, and rock their leafy cradle in thy wanderings coy; + When they wake we'll end the measure + With a wild sweet cry of pleasure, +And a 'Hey down derry, let's be merry! little girl and boy!'" + + +SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME. + +I walked beside a dark gray sea. + And said, "O world, how cold thou art! +Thou poor white world, I pity thee, + For joy and warmth from thee depart. + +"Yon rising wave licks off the snow, + Winds on the crag each other chase, +In little powdery whirls they blow + The misty fragments down its face. + +"The sea is cold, and dark its rim, + Winter sits cowering on the wold, +And I beside this watery brim, + Am also lonely, also cold." + +I spoke, and drew toward a rock, + Where many mews made twittering sweet; +Their wings upreared, the clustering flock + Did pat the sea-grass with their feet. + +A rock but half submerged, the sea + Ran up and washed it while they fed; +Their fond and foolish ecstasy + A wondering in my fancy bred. + +Joy companied with every cry, + Joy in their food, in that keen wind, +That heaving sea, that shaded sky, + And in themselves, and in their kind. + +The phantoms of the deep at play! + What idless graced the twittering things; +Luxurious paddlings in the spray, + And delicate lifting up of wings. + +Then all at once a flight, and fast + The lovely crowd flew out to sea; +If mine own life had been recast, + Earth had not looked more changed to me. + +"Where is the cold? Yon clouded skies + Have only dropt their curtains low +To shade the old mother where she lies + Sleeping a little, 'neath the snow. + +"The cold is not in crag, nor scar, + Not in the snows that lap the lea, +Not in yon wings that beat afar, + Delighting, on the crested sea; + +"No, nor in yon exultant wind + That shakes the oak and bends the pine. +Look near, look in, and thou shalt find + No sense of cold, fond fool, but thine!" + +With that I felt the gloom depart, + And thoughts within me did unfold, +Whose sunshine warmed me to the heart,-- + I walked in joy, and was not cold. + + + + +LAURANCE. + + +I. + +He knew she did not love him; but so long +As rivals were unknown to him, he dwelt +At ease, and did not find his love a pain. + +He had much deference in his nature, need +To honor--it became him; he was frank, +Fresh, hardy, of a joyous mind, and strong,-- +Looked all things straight in the face. So when she came +Before him first, he looked at her, and looked +No more, but colored to his healthful brow, +And wished himself a better man, and thought +On certain things, and wished they were undone, +Because her girlish innocence, the grace +Of her unblemished pureness, wrought in him +A longing and aspiring, and a shame +To think how wicked was the world,--that world +Which he must walk in,--while from her (and such +As she was) it was hidden; there was made +A clean path, and the girl moved on like one +In some enchanted ring. + + In his young heart +She reigned, with all the beauties that she had, +And all the virtues that he rightly took +For granted; there he set her with her crown, +And at her first enthronement he turned out +Much that was best away, for unaware +His thoughts grew noble. She was always there +And knew it not, and he grew like to her +And like to what he thought her. + Now he dwelt +With kin that loved him well,--two fine old folk, +A rich, right honest yeoman, and his dame,-- +Their only grandson he, their pride, their heir. + +To these, one daughter had been born, one child, +And as she grew to woman, "Look," they said, +"She must not leave us; let us build a wing, +With cheerful rooms and wide, to our old grange; +There may she dwell, with her good man, and all +God sends them." Then the girl in her first youth +Married a curate,--handsome, poor in purse, +Of gentle blood and manners, and he lived +Under her father's roof, as they had planned. + +Full soon, for happy years are short, they filled +The house with children; four were born to them. +Then came a sickly season; fever spread + Among the poor. The curate, never slack + In duty, praying by the sick, or worse, +Burying the dead, when all the air was clogged +With poisonous mist, was stricken; long he lay +Sick, almost to the death, and when his head +He lifted from the pillow, there was left +One only of that pretty flock: his girls, +His three, were cold beneath the sod; his boy, +Their eldest born, remained. + + The drooping wife +Bore her great sorrow in such quiet wise, +That first they marvelled at her, then they tried +To rouse her, showing her their bitter grief, +Lamenting, and not sparing; but she sighed, +"Let me alone, it will not be for long." +Then did her mother tremble, murmuring out, +"Dear child, the best of comfort will be soon. +O, when you see this other little face, +You will, please God, be comforted." + + She said, +"I shall not live to see it"; but she did,-- +little sickly face, a wan, thin face. +Then she grew eager, and her eyes were bright +When she would plead with them: "Take me away, +Let me go south; it is the bitter blast +That chills my tender babe; she cannot thrive +Under the desolate, dull, mournful cloud." +Then all they journeyed south together, mute +With past and coming sorrow, till the sun, +In gardens edging the blue tideless main, +Warmed them and calmed the aching at their hearts, +And all went better for a while; but not +For long. They sitting by the orange-trees +Once rested, and the wife was very still: +One woman with narcissus flowers heaped up +Let down her basket from her head, but paused +With pitying gesture, and drew near and stooped, +Taking a white wild face upon her breast,-- +The little babe on its poor mother's knees, +None marking it, none knowing else, had died. + +The fading mother could not stay behind, +Her heart was broken; but it awed them most +To feel they must not, dared not, pray for life, +Seeing she longed to go, and went so gladly. + +After, these three, who loved each other well, +Brought their one child away, and they were best +Together in the wide old grange. Full oft +The father with the mother talked of her, +Their daughter, but the husband nevermore; +He looked for solace in his work, and gave +His mind to teach his boy. And time went on, +Until the grandsire prayed those other two +"Now part with him; it must be; for his good: +He rules and knows it; choose for him a school, +Let him have all advantages, and all +Good training that should make a gentleman." + +With that they parted from their boy, and lived +Longing between his holidays, and time +Sped; he grew on till he had eighteen years. +His father loved him, wished to make of him +Another parson; but the farmer's wife +Murmured at that: "No, no, they learned bad ways, +They ran in debt at college; she had heard +That many rued the day they sent their boys +To college"; and between the two broke in +His grandsire: "Find a sober, honest man, +A scholar, for our lad should see the world +While he is young, that he may marry young. +He will not settle and be satisfied +Till he has run about the world awhile. +Good lack, I longed to travel in my youth, +And had no chance to do it. Send him off, +A sober man being found to trust him with, +One with the fear of God before his eyes." +And he prevailed; the careful father chose +A tutor, young,--the worthy matron thought,-- +In truth, not ten years older than her boy, +And glad as he to range, and keen for snows, +Desert, and ocean. And they made strange choice +Of where to go, left the sweet day behind, +And pushed up north in whaling ships, to feel +What cold was, see the blowing whale come up, +And Arctic creatures, while a scarlet sun +Went round and round, crowd on the clear blue berg. + +Then did the trappers have them; and they heard +Nightly the whistling calls of forest-men +That mocked the forest wonners; and they saw +Over the open, raging up like doom, +The dangerous dust-cloud, that was full of eyes,-- +The bisons. So were three years gone like one; +And the old cities drew them for a while, +Great mothers, by the Tiber and the Seine; +They have hid many sons hard by their seats, +But all the air is stirring with them still, +The waters murmur of them, skies at eve +Are stained with their rich blood, and every sound +Means men. + At last, the fourth year running out, +The youth came home. And all the cheerful house +Was decked in fresher colors, and the dame +Was full of joy. But in the father's heart +Abode a painful doubt. "It is not well; +He cannot spend his life with dog and gun. +I do not care that my one son should sleep +Merely for keeping him in breath, and wake +Only to ride to cover." + Not the less +The grandsire pondered. "Ay, the boy must WORK +Or SPEND; and I must let him spend; just stay +Awhile with us, and then from time to time +Have leave to be away with those fine folk +With whom, these many years, at school, and now, +During his sojourn in the foreign towns, +He has been made familiar." Thus a month +Went by. They liked the stirring ways of youth, +The quick elastic step, and joyous mind, +Ever expectant of it knew not what, +But something higher than has e'er been born +Of easy slumber and sweet competence. +And as for him,--the while they thought and thought +A comfortable instinct let him know +How they had waited for him, to complete +And give a meaning to their lives; and still +At home, but with a sense of newness there, +And frank and fresh as in the school-boy days, +He oft--invading of his father's haunts, +The study where he passed the silent morn-- +Would sit, devouring with a greedy joy +The piled-up books, uncut as yet; or wake +To guide with him by night the tube, and search, +Ay, think to find new stars; then risen betimes, +Would ride about the farm, and list the talk +Of his hale grandsire. + But a day came round, +When, after peering in his mother's room, +Shaded and shuttered from the light, he oped +A door, and found the rosy grandmother +Ensconced and happy in her special pride, +Her storeroom. She was corking syrups rare, +And fruits all sparkling in a crystal coat. +Here after choice of certain cates well known, +He, sitting on her bacon-chest at ease, +Sang as he watched her, till right suddenly, +As if a new thought came, "Goody," quoth he, +"What, think you, do they want to do with me? +What have they planned for me that I should do?" + +"Do, laddie!" quoth she faltering, half in tears; +"Are you not happy with us, not content? +Why would ye go away? There is no need +That ye should DO at all. O, bide at home. +Have we not plenty?" + "Even so," he said; +"I did not wish to go." + "Nay, then," quoth she, +"Be idle; let me see your blessed face. +What, is the horse your father chose for you +Not to your mind? He is? Well, well, remain; +Do as you will, so you but do it here. +You shall not want for money." + But, his arms +Folding, he sat and twisted up his mouth +With comical discomfiture. + "What, then," +She sighed, "what is it, child, that you would like?" +"Why," said he, "farming." + And she looked at him, +Fond, foolish woman that she was, to find +Some fitness in the worker for the work, +And she found none. A certain grace there was +Of movement, and a beauty in the face, +Sun-browned and healthful beauty that had come +From his grave father; and she thought, "Good lack, +A farmer! he is fitter for a duke. +He walks; why, how he walks! if I should meet +One like him, whom I knew not, I should ask, +'And who may that be?'" So the foolish thought +Found words. Quoth she, half laughing, half ashamed, +"We planned to make of you--a gentleman." +And with engaging sweet audacity +She thought it nothing less,--he, looking up, +With a smile in his blue eyes, replied to her, +"And hav'n't you done it?" Quoth she, lovingly, +"I think we have, laddie; I think we have." + +"Then," quoth he, "I may do what best I like; +It makes no matter. Goody, you were wise +To help me in it, and to let me farm; +I think of getting into mischief else!" +"No! do ye, laddie?" quoth the dame, and laughed. +"But ask my grandfather," the youth went on, +"To let me have the farm he bought last year, +The little one, to manage. I like land; +I want some." And she, womanlike, gave way +Convinced; and promised, and made good her word, +And that same night upon the matter spoke, +In presence of the father and the son. + +"Roger," quoth she, "our Laurance wants to farm; +I think he might do worse." The father sat +Mute but right glad. The grandson breaking in +Set all his wish and his ambition forth; +But cunningly the old man hid his joy, +And made conditions with a faint demur. +Then pausing, "Let your father speak," quoth he; +"I am content if he is": at his word +The parson took him, ay, and, parson like, +Put a religious meaning in the work, +Man's earliest work, and wished his son God speed. + + +II. + +Thus all were satisfied, and day by day, +For two sweet years a happy course was theirs; +Happy, but yet the fortunate, the young +Loved, and much cared-for, entered on his strife,-- +A stirring of the heart, a quickening keen +Of sight and hearing to the delicate +Beauty and music of an altered world; +Began to walk in that mysterious light +Which doth reveal and yet transform; which gives +Destiny, sorrow, youth, and death, and life, +Intenser meaning; in disquieting +Lifts up; a shining light: men call it Love. + +Fair, modest eyes had she, the girl he loved; +A silent creature, thoughtful, grave, sincere. +She never turned from him with sweet caprice, +Nor changing moved his soul to troublous hope, +Nor dropped for him her heavy lashes low, +But excellent in youthful grace came up; +And ere his words were ready, passing on, +Had left him all a-tremble; yet made sure +That by her own true will, and fixed intent, +She held him thus remote. Therefore, albeit +He knew she did not love him, yet so long +As of a rival unaware, he dwelt +All in the present, without fear, or hope, +Enthralled and whelmed in the deep sea of love, +And could not get his head above its wave +To reach the far horizon, or to mark +Whereto it drifted him. + So long, so long; +Then, on a sudden, came the ruthless fate, +Showed him a bitter truth, and brought him bale +All in the tolling out of noon. + 'Twas thus: +Snow-time was come; it had been snowing hard; +Across the churchyard path he walked; the clock +Began to strike, and, as he passed the porch, +Half turning, through a sense that came to him +As of some presence in it, he beheld +His love, and she had come for shelter there; +And all her face was fair with rosy bloom, +The blush of happiness; and one held up +Her ungloved hand in both his own, and stooped +Toward it, sitting by her. O her eyes +Were full of peace and tender light: they looked +One moment in the ungraced lover's face +While he was passing in the snow; and he +Received the story, while he raised his hat +Retiring. Then the clock left off to strike, +And that was all. It snowed, and he walked on; +And in a certain way he marked the snow, +And walked, and came upon the open heath; +And in a certain way he marked the cold, +And walked as one that had no starting-place +Might walk, but not to any certain goal. + +And he strode on toward a hollow part, +Where from the hillside gravel had been dug, +And he was conscious of a cry, and went +Dulled in his sense, as though he heard it not; +Till a small farmhouse drudge, a half-grown girl, +Rose from the shelter of a drift that lay +Against the bushes, crying, "God! O God, +O my good God, He sends us help at last." + +Then looking hard upon her, came to him +The power to feel and to perceive. Her teeth +Chattered, and all her limbs with shuddering failed, +And in her threadbare shawl was wrapped a child +That looked on him with wondering, wistful eyes. + +"I thought to freeze," the girl broke out with tears; +"Kind sir, kind sir," and she held out the child, +As praying him to take it; and he did; +And gave to her the shawl, and swathed his charge +In the foldings of his plaid; and when it thrust +Its small round face against his breast, and felt +With small red hands for warmth,--unbearable +Pains of great pity rent his straitened heart, +For the poor upland dwellers had been out +Since morning dawn, at early milking-time, +Wandering and stumbling in the drift. And now, +Lamed with a fall, half crippled by the cold, +Hardly prevailed his arm to drag her on, +That ill-clad child, who yet the younger child +Had motherly cared to shield. So toiling through +The great white storm coming, and coming yet. +And coming till the world confounded sat +With all her fair familiar features gone, +The mountains muffled in an eddying swirl, +He led or bore them, and the little one +Peered from her shelter, pleased; but oft would mourn +The elder, "They will beat me: O my can, +I left my can of milk upon the moor." +And he compared her trouble with his own, +And had no heart to speak. And yet 'twas keen; +It filled her to the putting down of pain +And hunger,--what could his do more? + He brought +The children to their home, and suddenly +Regained himself, and wondering at himself, +That he had borne, and yet been dumb so long, +The weary wailing of the girl: he paid +Money to buy her pardon; heard them say, +"Peace, we have feared for you; forget the milk, +It is no matter!" and went forth again +And waded in the snow, and quietly +Considered in his patience what to do +With all the dull remainder of his days. + +With dusk he was at home, and felt it good +To hear his kindred talking, for it broke +A mocking, endless echo in his soul, +"It is no matter!" and he could not choose +But mutter, though the weariness o'ercame +His spirit, "Peace, it is no matter; peace, +It is no matter!" For he felt that all +Was as it had been, and his father's heart +Was easy, knowing not how that same day +Hope with her tender colors and delight +(He should not care to have him know) were dead; +Yea, to all these, his nearest and most dear, +It was no matter. And he heard them talk +Of timber felled, of certain fruitful fields, +And profitable markets. + All for him +Their plans, and yet the echoes swarmed and swam +About his head, whenever there was pause; +"It is no matter!" And his greater self +Arose in him and fought. "It matters much, +It matters all to these, that not to-day +Nor ever they should know it. I will hide +The wound; ay, hide it with a sleepless care. +What! shall I make these three to drink of rue, +Because my cup is bitter?" And he thrust +Himself in thought away, and made his ears +Hearken, and caused his voice, that yet did seem +Another, to make answer, when they spoke, +As there had been no snowstorm, and no porch, +And no despair. + So this went on awhile +Until the snow had melted from the wold, +And he, one noonday, wandering up a lane, +Met on a turn the woman whom he loved. +Then, even to trembling he was moved: his speech +Faltered; but when the common kindly words +Of greeting were all said, and she passed on, +He could not bear her sweetness and his pain, +"Muriel!" he cried; and when she heard her name, +She turned. "You know I love you," he broke out: +She answered "Yes," and sighed. + "O pardon me. +Pardon me," quoth the lover; "let me rest +In certainty, and hear it from your mouth: +Is he with whom I saw you once of late +To call you wife?" "I hope so," she replied; +And over all her face the rose-bloom came, +As thinking on that other, unaware +Her eyes waxed tender. When he looked on her, +Standing to answer him, with lovely shame, +Submiss, and yet not his, a passionate, +A quickened sense of his great impotence +To drive away the doom got hold on him; +He set his teeth to force the unbearable +Misery back, his wide-awakened eyes +Flashed as with flame. + And she, all overawed +And mastered by his manhood, waited yet, +And trembled at the deep she could not sound; +A passionate nature in a storm; a heart +Wild with a mortal pain, and in the grasp +Of an immortal love. + "Farewell," he said, +Recovering words, and when she gave her hand, +"My thanks for your good candor; for I feel +That it has cost you something." Then, the blush +Yet on her face, she said: "It was your due: +But keep this matter from your friends and kin, +We would not have it known." Then cold and proud, +Because there leaped from under his straight lids, +And instantly was veiled, a keen surprise,-- +"He wills it, and I therefore think it well." +Thereon they parted; but from that time forth, +Whether they met on festal eve, in field, +Or at the church, she ever bore herself +Proudly, for she had felt a certain pain, +The disapproval hastily betrayed +And quickly hidden hurt her. "'T was a grace," +She thought, "to tell this man the thing he asked, +And he rewards me with surprise. I like +No one's surprise, and least of all bestowed +Where he bestowed it." + But the spring came on: +Looking to wed in April all her thoughts +Grew loving; she would fain the world had waxed +More happy with her happiness, and oft +Walking among the flowery woods she felt +Their loveliness reach down into her heart, +And knew with them the ecstasies of growth, +The rapture that was satisfied with light, +The pleasure of the leaf in exquisite +Expansion, through the lovely longed-for spring. + +And as for him,--(Some narrow hearts there are +That suffer blight when that they fed upon +As something to complete their being fails, +And they retire into their holds and pine, +And long restrained grow stern. But some there are, +That in a sacred want and hunger rise, +And draw the misery home and live with it, +And excellent in honor wait, and will +That somewhat good should yet be found in it, +Else wherefore were they born?),--and as for him, +He loved her, but his peace and welfare made +The sunshine of three lives. The cheerful grange +Threw open wide its hospitable doors +And drew in guests for him. The garden flowers, +Sweet budding wonders, all were set for him. +In him the eyes at home were satisfied, +And if he did but laugh the ear approved. +What then? He dwelt among them as of old, +And taught his mouth to smile. + And time went on, +Till on a morning, when the perfect spring +Rested among her leaves, he journeying home +After short sojourn in a neighboring town, +Stopped at the little station on the line +That ran between his woods; a lonely place +And quiet, and a woman and a child +Got out. He noted them, but walking on +Quickly, went back into the wood, impelled +By hope, for, passing, he had seen his love, +And she was sitting on a rustic seat +That overlooked the line, and he desired +With longing indescribable to look +Upon her face again. And he drew near. +She was right happy; she was waiting there. +He felt that she was waiting for her lord. +She cared no whit if Laurance went or stayed, +But answered when he spoke, and dropped her cheek +In her fair hand. + And he, not able yet +To force himself away, and never more +Behold her, gathered blossom, primrose flowers, +And wild anemone, for many a clump +Grew all about him, and the hazel rods +Were nodding with their catkins. But he heard +The stopping train, and felt that he must go; +His time was come. There was nought else to do +Or hope for. With the blossom he drew near +And would have had her take it from his hand; +But she, half lost in thought, held out her own, +And then remembering him and his long love, +She said, "I thank you; pray you now forget, +Forget me, Laurance," and her lovely eyes +Softened; but he was dumb, till through the trees +Suddenly broke upon their quietude +The woman and her child. And Muriel said, +"What will you?" She made answer quick and keen, +"Your name, my lady; 'tis your name I want, +Tell me your name." Not startled, not displeased, +But with a musing sweetness on her mouth, +As if considering in how short a while +It would be changed, she lifted up her face +And gave it, and the little child drew near +And pulled her gown, and prayed her for the flowers. +Then Laurance, not content to leave them so, +Nor yet to wait the coming lover, spoke,-- +"Your errand with this lady?"--"And your right +To ask it?" she broke out with sudden heat +And passion: "What is that to you! Poor child! +Madam!" And Muriel lifted up her face +And looked,--they looked into each other's eyes. + +"That man who comes," the clear-voiced woman cried, +"That man with whom you think to wed so soon, +You must not heed him. What! the world is full +Of men, and some are good, and most, God knows, +Better than he,--that I should say it!--far +Better." And down her face the large tears ran, +And Muriel's wild dilated eyes looked up, +Taking a terrible meaning from her words; +And Laurance stared about him half in doubt +If this were real, for all things were so blithe, +And soft air tossed the little flowers about; +The child was singing, and the blackbirds piped, +Glad in fair sunshine. And the women both +Were quiet, gazing in each other's eyes. + +He found his voice, and spoke: "This is not well, +Though whom you speak of should have done you wrong; +A man that could desert and plan to wed +Will not his purpose yield to God and right, +Only to law. You, whom I pity so much, +If you be come this day to urge a claim, +You will not tell me that your claim will hold; +'Tis only, if I read aright, the old, +Sorrowful, hateful story!" + Muriel sighed, +With a dull patience that he marvelled at, +"Be plain with me. I know not what to think, +Unless you are his wife. Are you his wife? +Be plain with me." And all too quietly, +With running down of tears, the answer came, +"Ay, madam, ay! the worse for him and me." +Then Muriel heard her lover's foot anear, +And cried upon him with a bitter cry, +Sharp and despairing. And those two stood back, +With such affright, and violent anger stirred +He broke from out the thicket to her side, +Not knowing. But, her hands before her face, +She sat; and, stepping close, that woman came +And faced him. Then said Muriel, "O my heart, +Herbert!"--and he was dumb, and ground his teeth, +And lifted up his hand and looked at it, +And at the woman; but a man was there +Who whirled her from her place, and thrust himself +Between them; he was strong,--a stalwart man: +And Herbert thinking on it, knew his name. +"What good," quoth he, "though you and I should strive +And wrestle all this April day? A word, +And not a blow, is what these women want: +Master yourself, and say it." But he, weak +With passion and great anguish, flung himself +Upon the seat and cried, "O lost, my love! +O Muriel, Muriel!" And the woman spoke, +"Sir, 'twas an evil day you wed with me; +And you were young; I know it, sir, right well. +Sir, I have worked; I have not troubled you, +Not for myself, nor for your child. I know +We are not equal." "Hold!" he cried; "have done; +Your still, tame words are worse than hate or scorn. +Get from me! Ay, my wife, my wife, indeed! +All's done. You hear it, Muriel; if you can, +O sweet, forgive me." + Then the woman moved +Slowly away: her little singing child +Went in her wake: and Muriel dropped her hands, +And sat before these two that loved her so, +Mute and unheeding. There were angry words, +She knew, but yet she could not hear the words; +And afterwards the man she loved stooped down +And kissed her forehead once, and then withdrew +To look at her, and with a gesture pray +Her pardon. And she tried to speak, but failed, +And presently, and soon, O,--he was gone. + +She heard him go, and Laurance, still as stone, +Remained beside her; and she put her hand +Before her face again, and afterward +She heard a voice, as if a long way off, +Some one entreated, but she could not heed. +Thereon he drew her hand away, and raised +Her passive from her seat. So then she knew +That he would have her go with him, go home,-- +It was not far to go,--a dreary home. +A crippled aunt, of birth and lineage high, +Had in her youth, and for a place and home, +Married the stern old rector; and the girl +Dwelt with them: she was orphaned,--had no kin +Nearer than they. And Laurance brought her in, +And spared to her the telling of this woe. +He sought her kindred where they sat apart, +And laid before them all the cruel thing, +As he had seen it. After, he retired: +And restless, and not master of himself, +He day and night haunted the rectory lanes; +And all things, even to the spreading out +Of leaves, their flickering shadows on the ground, +Or sailing of the slow, white cloud, or peace +And glory and great light on mountain heads,-- +All things were leagued against him,--ministered +By likeness or by contrast to his love. + +But what was that to Muriel, though her peace +He would have purchased for her with all prayers, +And costly, passionate, despairing tears? +O what to her that he should find it worse +To bear her life's undoing than his own? + +She let him see her, and she made no moan, +But talked full calmly of indifferent things, +Which when he heard, and marked the faded eyes +And lovely wasted cheek, he started up +With "This I cannot bear!" and shamed to feel +His manhood giving way, and utterly +Subdued by her sweet patience and his pain, +Made haste and from the window sprang, and paced, +Battling and chiding with himself, the maze. + +She suffered, and he could not make her well +For all his loving;--he was naught to her. +And now his passionate nature, set astir, +Fought with the pain that could not be endured; +And like a wild thing suddenly aware +That it is caged, which flings and bruises all +Its body at the bars, he rose, and raged +Against the misery: then he made all worse +With tears. But when he came to her again, +Willing to talk as they had talked before, +She sighed, and said, with that strange quietness, +"I know you have been crying": and she bent +Her own fair head and wept. + She felt the cold-- +The freezing cold that deadened all her life-- +Give way a little; for this passionate +Sorrow, and all for her, relieved her heart, +And brought some natural warmth, some natural tears. + + +III. + +And after that, though oft he sought her door, +He might not see her. First they said to him, +"She is not well"; and afterwards, "Her wish +Is ever to be quiet." Then in haste +They took her from the place, because so fast +She faded. As for him, though youth and strength +Can bear the weight as of a world, at last +The burden of it tells,--he heard it said, +When autumn came, "The poor sweet thing will die: +That shock was mortal." And he cared no more +To hide, if yet he could have hidden, the blight +That was laying waste his heart. He journeyed south +To Devon, where she dwelt with other kin, +Good, kindly women; and he wrote to them, +Praying that he might see her ere she died. + +So in her patience she permitted him +To be about her, for it eased his heart; +And as for her that was to die so soon, +What did it signify? She let him weep +Some passionate tears beside her couch, she spoke +Pitying words, and then they made him go, +It was enough they said, her time was short, +And he had seen her. He HAD seen, and felt +The bitterness of death; but he went home, +Being satisfied in that great longing now, +And able to endure what might befall. + + And Muriel lay, and faded with the year; +She lay at the door of death, that opened not +To take her in; for when the days once more +Began a little to increase, she felt,-- +And it was sweet to her, she was so young,-- +She felt a longing for the time of flowers, +And dreamed that she was walking in that wood +With her two feet among the primroses. + +Then when the violet opened, she rose up +And walked: the tender leaf and tender light +Did solace her; but she was white and wan, +The shadow of that Muriel, in the wood +Who listened to those deadly words. + And now +Empurpled seas began to blush and bloom, +Doves made sweet moaning, and the guelder rose +In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped, +Her wealth about her feet, and there it lay, +And drifted not at all. The lilac spread +Odorous essence round her; and full oft, +When Muriel felt the warmth her pulses cheer, +She, faded, sat among the Maytide bloom, +And with a reverent quiet in her soul, +Took back--it was His will--her time, and sat +Learning again to live. + Thus as she sat +Upon a day, she was aware of one +Who at a distance marked her. This again +Another day, and she was vexed, for yet +She longed for quiet; but she heard a foot +Pass once again, and beckoned through the trees. +"Laurance!" And all impatient of unrest +And strife, ay, even of the sight of them, +When he drew near, with tired, tired lips, +As if her soul upbraided him, she said, +"Why have you done this thing?" He answered her, +"I am not always master in the fight: +I could not help it." + "What!" she sighed, "not yet! +O, I am sorry"; and she talked to him +As one who looked to live, imploring him,-- +"Try to forget me. Let your fancy dwell +Elsewhere, nor me enrich with it so long; +It wearies me to think of this your love. +Forget me!" + + He made answer, "I will try: +The task will take me all my life to learn, +Or were it learned, I know not how to live; +This pain is part of life and being now,-- +It is myself; but yet--but I will try." +Then she spoke friendly to him,--of his home, +His father, and the old, brave, loving folk; +She bade him think of them. And not her words, +But having seen her, satisfied his heart. +He left her, and went home to live his life, +And all the summer heard it said of her, +"Yet, she grows stronger"; but when autumn came +Again she drooped. + + A bitter thing it is +To lose at once the lover and the love; +For who receiveth not may yet keep life +In the spirit with bestowal. But for her, +This Muriel, all was gone. The man she loved, +Not only from her present had withdrawn, +But from her past, and there was no such man, +There never had been. + + He was not as one +Who takes love in, like some sweet bird, and holds +The winged fluttering stranger to his breast, +Till, after transient stay, all unaware +It leaves him: it has flown. No; this may live +In memory,--loved till death. He was not vile; +For who by choice would part with that pure bird, +And lose the exaltation of its song? +He had not strength of will to keep it fast, +Nor warmth of heart to keep it warm, nor life +Of thought to make the echo sound for him +After the song was done. Pity that man: +His music is all flown, and he forgets +The sweetness of it, till at last he thinks +'Twas no great matter. But he was not vile, +Only a thing to pity most in man, +Weak,--only poor, and, if he knew it, undone. +But Herbert! When she mused on it, her soul +Would fain have hidden him forevermore, +Even from herself: so pure of speech, so frank, +So full of household kindness. Ah, so good +And true! A little, she had sometimes thought, +Despondent for himself, but strong of faith +In God, and faith in her, this man had seemed. + +Ay, he was gone! and she whom he had wed, +As Muriel learned, was sick, was poor, was sad. +And Muriel wrote to comfort her, and send, +From her small store, money to help her need, +With, "Pray you keep it secret." Then the whole +Of the cruel tale was told. + What more? She died. +Her kin, profuse of thanks, not bitterly, +Wrote of the end. "Our sister fain had seen +Her husband; prayed him sore to come. But no. +And then she prayed him that he would forgive, +Madam, her breaking of the truth to you. +Dear madam, he was angry, yet we think +He might have let her see, before she died, +The words she wanted, but he did not write +Till she was gone--'I neither can forgive, +Nor would I if I could.'" + "Patience, my heart! +And this, then, is the man I loved!" + But yet +He sought a lower level, for he wrote +Telling the story with a different hue, +Telling of freedom. He desired to come, +"For now," said he, "O love, may all be well." +And she rose up against it in her soul, +For she despised him. And with passionate tears +Of shame, she wrote, and only wrote these words,-- +"Herbert, I will not see you." + Then she drooped +Again; it is so bitter to despise; +And all her strength, when autumn leaves down dropped, +Fell from her. "Ah!" she thought, "I rose up once, +I cannot rise up now; here is the end." +And all her kinsfolk thought, "It is the end." + +But when that other heard, "It is the end," +His heart was sick, and he, as by a power +Far stronger than himself, was driven to her. +Reason rebelled against it, but his will +Required it of him with a craving strong +As life, and passionate though hopeless pain. + +She, when she saw his face, considered him +Full quietly, let all excuses pass +Not answered, and considered yet again. + +"He had heard that she was sick; what could he do +But come, and ask her pardon that he came?" +What could he do, indeed?--a weak white girl +Held all his heartstrings in her small white hand; +His youth, and power, and majesty were hers, +And not his own. + + She looked, and pitied him. +Then spoke: "He loves me with a love that lasts. +Ah, me! that I might get away from it, +Or, better, hear it said that love IS NOT, +And then I could have rest. My time is short, +I think, so short." And roused against himself +In stormy wrath, that it should be his doom +Her to disquiet whom he loved; ay, her +For whom he would have given all his rest, +If there were any left to give; he took +Her words up bravely, promising once more +Absence, and praying pardon; but some tears +Dropped quietly upon her cheek. + + "Remain," +She said, "for there is something to be told, +Some words that you must hear. + + "And first hear this: +God has been good to me; you must not think +That I despair. There is a quiet time +Like evening in my soul. I have no heart, +For cruel Herbert killed it long ago, +And death strides on. Sit, then, and give your mind +To listen, and your eyes to look at me. +Look at my face, Laurance, how white it is; +Look at my hand,--my beauty is all gone." +And Laurance lifted up his eyes; he looked, +But answered, from their deeps that held no doubt, +Far otherwise than she had willed,--they said, +"Lovelier than ever." + + Yet her words went on, +Cold and so quiet, "I have suffered much, +And I would fain that none who care for me +Should suffer a like pang that I can spare. +Therefore," said she, and not at all could blush, +"I have brought my mind of late to think of this: +That since your life is spoilt (not willingly, +My God, not willingly by me), 'twere well +To give you choice of griefs. + + "Were it not best +To weep for a dead love, and afterwards +Be comforted the sooner, that she died +Remote, and left not in your house and life +Aught to remind you? That indeed were best. +But were it best to weep for a dead wife, +And let the sorrow spend and satisfy +Itself with all expression, and so end? +I think not so; but if for you 'tis best, +Then,--do not answer with too sudden words: +It matters much to you; not much, not much +To me,--then truly I will die your wife; +I will marry you." + + What was he like to say, +But, overcome with love and tears, to choose +The keener sorrow,--take it to his heart, +Cherish it, make it part of him, and watch +Those eyes that were his light till they should close? + +He answered her with eager, faltering words, +"I choose,--my heart is yours,--die in my arms." + +But was it well? Truly, at first, for him +It was not well: he saw her fade, and cried, +"When may this be?" She answered, "When you will," +And cared not much, for very faint she grew, +Tired and cold. Oft in her soul she thought, +"If I could slip away before the ring +Is on my hand, it were a blessed lot +For both,--a blessed thing for him, and me." + +But it was not so; for the day had come,-- +Was over: days and months had come, and Death,-- +Within whose shadow she had lain, which made +Earth and its loves, and even its bitterness, +Indifferent,--Death withdrew himself, and life +Woke up, and found that it was folded fast, +Drawn to another life forevermore. +O, what a waking! After it there came +Great silence. She got up once more, in spring, +And walked, but not alone, among the flowers. +She thought within herself, "What have I done? +How shall I do the rest?" And he, who felt +Her inmost thought, was silent even as she. +"What have we done?" she thought. But as for him, +When she began to look him in the face, +Considering, "Thus and thus his features are," +For she had never thought on them before, +She read their grave repose aright. She knew +That in the stronghold of his heart, held back, +Hidden reserves of measureless content +Kept house with happy thought, for her sake mute. + +Most patient Muriel! when he brought her home, +She took the place they gave her,--strove to please +His kin, and did not fail; but yet thought on, +"What have I done? how shall I do the rest? +Ah! so contented, Laurance, with this wife +That loves you not, for all the stateliness +And grandeur of your manhood, and the deeps +In your blue eyes." And after that awhile +She rested from such thinking, put it by +And waited. She had thought on death before: +But no, this Muriel was not yet to die; +And when she saw her little tender babe, +She felt how much the happy days of life +Outweigh the sorrowful. A tiny thing, +Whom when it slept the lovely mother nursed +With reverent love, whom when it woke she fed +And wondered at, and lost herself in long +Rapture of watching, and contentment deep. + +Once while she sat, this babe upon her knee, +Her husband and his father standing nigh, +About to ride, the grandmother, all pride +And consequence, so deep in learned talk +Of infants, and their little ways and wiles, +Broke off to say, "I never saw a babe +So like its father." And the thought was new +To Muriel; she looked up, and when she looked, +Her husband smiled. And she, the lovely bloom +Flushing her face, would fain he had not known, +Nor noticed her surprise. But he did know; +Yet there was pleasure in his smile, and love +Tender and strong. He kissed her, kissed his babe, +With "Goody, you are left in charge, take care "-- +"As if I needed telling," quoth the dame; +And they were gone. + + Then Muriel, lost in thought, +Gazed; and the grandmother, with open pride, +Tended the lovely pair; till Muriel said, +"Is she so like? Dear granny, get me now +The picture that his father has"; and soon +The old woman put it in her hand. + + The wife, +Considering it with deep and strange delight, +Forgot for once her babe, and looked and learned. + + A mouth for mastery and manful work, +A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes, +A brow the harbor of grave thought, and hair +Saxon of hue. She conned; then blushed again, +Remembering now, when she had looked on him, +The sudden radiance of her husband's smile. + +But Muriel did not send the picture back; +She kept it; while her beauty and her babe +Flourished together, and in health and peace +She lived. + + Her husband never said to her, +"Love, are you happy?" never said to her, +"Sweet, do you love me?" and at first, whene'er +They rode together in the lanes, and paused, +Stopping their horses, when the day was hot, +In the shadow of a tree, to watch the clouds, +Ruffled in drifting on the jagged rocks +That topped the mountains,--when she sat by him, +Withdrawn at even while the summer stars +Came starting out of nothing, as new made, +She felt a little trouble, and a wish +That he would yet keep silence, and he did. +That one reserve he would not touch, but still +Respected. + + Muriel grew more brave in time, +And talked at ease, and felt disquietude +Fade. And another child was given to her. + +"Now we shall do," the old great-grandsire cried, +"For this is the right sort, a boy." "Fie, fie," +Quoth the good dame; "but never heed you, love, +He thinks them both as right as right can be." + +But Laurance went from home, ere yet the boy +Was three weeks old. It fretted him to go, +But still he said, "I must": and she was left +Much with the kindly dame, whose gentle care +Was like a mother's; and the two could talk +Sweetly, for all the difference in their years. + +But unaware, the wife betrayed a wish +That she had known why Laurance left her thus. +"Ay, love," the dame made answer; "for he said, +'Goody,' before he left, 'if Muriel ask +No question, tell her naught; but if she let +Any disquietude appear to you, +Say what you know.'" "What?" Muriel said, and laughed, +"I ask, then." + + "Child, it is that your old love, +Some two months past, was here. Nay, never start: +He's gone. He came, our Laurance met him near; +He said that he was going over seas, +'And might I see your wife this only once, +And get her pardon?'" + + "Mercy!" Muriel cried, +"But Laurance does not wish it?" + + "Nay, now, nay," +Quoth the good dame. + "I cannot," Muriel cried; +"He does not, surely, think I should." + + "Not he," +The kind old woman said, right soothingly. +"Does not he ever know, love, ever do +What you like best?" + + And Muriel, trembling yet, +Agreed. "I heard him say," the dame went on, +"For I was with him when they met that day, +'It would not be agreeable to my wife.'" + +Then Muriel, pondering,--"And he said no more? +You think he did not add, 'nor to myself?'" +And with her soft, calm, inward voice, the dame +Unruffled answered, "No, sweet heart, not he: +What need he care?" "And why not?" Muriel cried, +Longing to hear the answer. "O, he knows, +He knows, love, very well": with that she smiled. +"Bless your fair face, you have not really thought +He did not know you loved him?" + + Muriel said, +"He never told me, goody, that he knew." +"Well," quoth the dame, "but it may chance, my dear, +That he thinks best to let old troubles sleep: +Why need to rouse them? You are happy, sure? +But if one asks, 'Art happy?' why, it sets +The thoughts a-working. No, say I, let love, +Let peace and happy folk alone. + + "He said, +'It would not be agreeable to my wife.' +And he went on to add, in course of time +That he would ask you, when it suited you, +To write a few kind words." + + "Yes," Muriel said, +"I can do that." + + "So Laurance went, you see," +The soft voice added, "to take down that child. +Laurance had written oft about the child, +And now, at last, the father made it known +He could not take him. He has lost, they say, +His money, with much gambling; now he wants +To lead a good, true, working life. He wrote, +And let this so be seen, that Laurance went +And took the child, and took the money down +To pay." + + And Muriel found her talking sweet, +And asked once more, the rather that she longed +To speak again of Laurance, "And you think +He knows I love him?" + + "Ay, good sooth, he knows +No fear; but he is like his father, love. +His father never asked my pretty child +One prying question; took her as she was; +Trusted her; she has told me so: he knew +A woman's nature. Laurance is the same. +He knows you love him; but he will not speak; +No, never. Some men are such gentlemen!" + + + + +SONGS + +OF + +THE NIGHT WATCHES. + +[Illustration] + + + + +SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES, + +WITH AN INTRODUCTORY SONG OF EVENING, AND A +CONCLUDING SONG OF THE EARLY DAY. + + +INTRODUCTORY. + +(_Old English Manner._) + +APPRENTICED. + +Come out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet hoot, the owlet hoot; + Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim behind the tree, O! +The dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest lass, and sweetest + lass; + Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the croft with me, O!" + +"My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her reel, and drops her reel; + My father with his crony talks as gay as gay can be, O! +But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, ere light wax dim; + How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice lad, with +thee, O?" + +"And must ye bide, yet waiting's long, and love is strong, and love is + strong; + And O! had I but served the time, that takes so long to flee, O! +And thou, my lass, by morning's light wast all in white, wast all in + white, + And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me and thee, O." + + +THE FIRST WATCH. + +TIRED. + +I. + +O, I would tell you more, but I am tired; + For I have longed, and I have had my will; +I pleaded in my spirit, I desired: + "Ah! let me only see him, and be still +All my days after." + Rock, and rock, and rock, +Over the falling, rising watery world, + Sail, beautiful ship, along the leaping main; +The chirping land-birds follow flock on flock + To light on a warmer plain. +White as weaned lambs the little wavelets curled, + Fall over in harmless play, + As these do far away; +Sail, bird of doom, along the shimmering sea, +All under thy broad wings that overshadow thee. + +II. + + I am so tired, +If I would comfort me, I know not how, + For I have seen thee, lad, as I desired, +And I have nothing left to long for now. + + Nothing at all. And did I wait for thee, + Often and often, while the light grew dim, + And through the lilac branches I could see, + Under a saffron sky, the purple rim +O' the heaving moorland? Ay. And then would float +Up from behind as it were a golden boat, +Freighted with fancies, all o' the wonder of life, + Love--such a slender moon, going up and up, +Waxing so fast from night to night, +And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright, + Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup, +And hold to my two lips life's best of wine. + Most beautiful crescent moon, + Ship of the sky! + Across the unfurrowed reaches sailing high. + Methought that it would come my way full soon, +Laden with blessings that were all, all mine,-- + A golden ship, with balm and spiceries rife, + That ere its day was done should hear thee call me wife. + +III. + +All over! the celestial sign hath failed; +The orange flower-bud shuts; the ship hath sailed, + And sunk behind the long low-lying hills. +The love that fed on daily kisses dieth; +The love kept warm by nearness, lieth + Wounded and wan; + The love hope nourished bitter tears distils, + And faints with naught to feed upon. +Only there stirreth very deep below +The hidden beating slow, +And the blind yearning, and the long-drawn breath +Of the love that conquers death. + +IV. + +Had we not loved full long, and lost all fear, +My ever, my only dear? +Yes; and I saw thee start upon thy way, + So sure that we should meet + Upon our trysting-day. + And even absence then to me was sweet, + Because it brought me time to brood + Upon thy dearness in the solitude. + But ah! to stay, and stay, + And let that moon of April wane itself away, + And let the lovely May + Make ready all her buds for June; + And let the glossy finch forego her tune + That she brought with her in the spring, + And never more, I think, to me can sing; + And then to lead thee home another bride, + In the sultry summer tide, + And all forget me save for shame full sore, +That made thee pray me, absent, "See my face no more." + +V. + +O hard, most hard! But while my fretted heart + Shut out, shut down, and full of pain, + Sobbed to itself apart, + Ached to itself in vain, + One came who loveth me + As I love thee.... + And let my God remember him for this, + As I do hope He will forget thy kiss, + Nor visit on thy stately head +Aught that thy mouth hath sworn, or thy two eyes have said.... +He came, and it was dark. He came, and sighed +Because he knew the sorrow,--whispering low, +And fast, and thick, as one that speaks by rote: + "The vessel lieth in the river reach, + A mile above the beach, + And she will sail at the turning o' the tide." + He said, "I have a boat, + And were it good to go, + And unbeholden in the vessel's wake + Look on the man thou lovedst, and forgive, + As he embarks, a shamefaced fugitive. + Come, then, with me." + +VI. + + O, how he sighed! The little stars did wink, + And it was very dark. I gave my hand,-- + He led me out across the pasture land, + And through the narrow croft, + Down to the river's brink. +When thou wast full in spring, thou little sleepy thing, + The yellow flags that broidered thee would stand + Up to their chins in water, and full oft + WE pulled them and the other shining flowers, + That all are gone to-day: + WE two, that had so many things to say, + So many hopes to render clear: + And they are all gone after thee, my dear,-- + Gone after those sweet hours, + That tender light, that balmy rain; + Gone "as a wind that passeth away, + And cometh not again." + +VII. + + I only saw the stars,--I could not see + The river,--and they seemed to lie + As far below as the other stars were high. + I trembled like a thing about to die: + It was so awful 'neath the majesty + Of that great crystal height, that overhung + The blackness at our feet, + Unseen to fleet and fleet + The flocking stars among, + And only hear the dipping of the oar, +And the small wave's caressing of the darksome shore. + +VIII. + + Less real it was than any dream. +Ah me! to hear the bending willows shiver, +As we shot quickly from the silent river, + And felt the swaying and the flow +That bore us down the deeper, wider stream, + Whereto its nameless waters go: +O! I shall always, when I shut mine eyes, + See that weird sight again; + The lights from anchored vessels hung; + The phantom moon, that sprung +Suddenly up in dim and angry wise, + From the rim o' the moaning main, + And touched with elfin light + The two long oars whereby we made our flight, + Along the reaches of the night; + Then furrowed up a lowering cloud, + Went in, and left us darker than before, +To feel our way as the midnight watches wore, +And lie in HER lee, with mournful faces bowed, +That should receive and bear with her away +The brightest portion of my sunniest day,-- +The laughter of the land, the sweetness of the shore. + +IX. + +And I beheld thee: saw the lantern flash +Down on thy face, when thou didst climb the side. +And thou wert pale, pale as the patient bride + That followed; both a little sad, +Leaving of home and kin. Thy courage glad, + That once did bear thee on, +That brow of thine had lost; the fervor rash +Of unforeboding youth thou hadst foregone. +O, what a little moment, what a crumb +Of comfort for a heart to feed upon! + And that was all its sum; + A glimpse, and not a meeting,-- + A drawing near by night, +To sigh to thee an unacknowledged greeting, +And all between the flashing of a light + And its retreating. + +X. + +Then after, ere she spread her wafting wings, +The ship,--and weighed her anchor to depart, +We stole from her dark lee, like guilty things; + And there was silence in my heart, +And silence in the upper and the nether deep. + O sleep! O sleep! +Do not forget me. Sometimes come and sweep, +Now I have nothing left, thy healing hand +Over the lids that crave thy visits bland, + Thou kind, thou comforting one: + For I have seen his face, as I desired, + And all my story is done. + O, I am tired! + + +THE MIDDLE WATCH. + +I. + +I woke in the night, and the darkness was heavy and deep: + I had known it was dark in my sleep, + And I rose and looked out, +And the fathomless vault was all sparkling, set thick round about +With the ancient inhabiters silent, and wheeling too far +For man's heart, like a voyaging frigate, to sail, where remote + In the sheen of their glory they float, +Or man's soul, like a bird, to fly near, of their beams to partake, + And dazed in their wake, + Drink day that is born of a star. +I murmured, "Remoteness and greatness, how deep you are set, + How afar in the rim of the whole; +You know nothing of me, nor of man, nor of earth, O, nor yet + Of our light-bearer,--drawing the marvellous moons as they roll, + Of our regent, the sun." +I look on you trembling, and think, in the dark with my soul, +"How small is our place 'mid the kingdoms and nations of God: + These are greater than we, every one." +And there falls a great fear, and a dread cometh over, that cries, + "O my hope! Is there any mistake? +Did He speak? Did I hear? Did I listen aright, if He spake? +Did I answer Him duly? For surely I now am awake, + If never I woke until now." +And a light, baffling wind, that leads nowhither, plays on my brow. +As a sleep, I must think on my day, of my path as untrod, +Or trodden in dreams, in a dreamland whose coasts are a doubt; +Whose countries recede from my thoughts, as they grope round about, + And vanish, and tell me not how. +Be kind to our darkness, O Fashioner, dwelling in light, + And feeding the lamps of the sky; +Look down upon this one, and let it be sweet in Thy sight, + I pray Thee, to-night. +O watch whom Thou madest to dwell on its soil, Thou Most High! +For this is a world full of sorrow (there may be but one); +Keep watch o'er its dust, else Thy children for aye are undone, + For this is a world where we die. + +II. + +With that, a still voice in my spirit that moved and that yearned, + (There fell a great calm while it spake,) +I had heard it erewhile, but the noises of life are so loud, +That sometimes it dies in the cry of the street and the crowd: +To the simple it cometh,--the child, or asleep, or awake, +And they know not from whence; of its nature the wise never learned +By his wisdom; its secret the worker ne'er earned +By his toil; and the rich among men never bought with his gold; + Nor the times of its visiting monarchs controlled, + Nor the jester put down with his jeers + (For it moves where it will), nor its season the aged discerned + By thought, in the ripeness of years. + +O elder than reason, and stronger than will! + A voice, when the dark world is still: +Whence cometh it? Father Immortal, thou knowest! and we,-- +We are sure of that witness, that sense which is sent us of Thee; +For it moves, and it yearns in its fellowship mighty and dread, +And let down to our hearts it is touched by the tears that we shed; +It is more than all meanings, and over all strife; + On its tongue are the laws of our life, + And it counts up the times of the dead. + +III. + + I will fear you, O stars, never more. +I have felt it! Go on, while the world is asleep, + Golden islands, fast moored in God's infinite deep. +Hark, hark to the words of sweet fashion, the harpings of yore! +How they sang to Him, seer and saint, in the far away lands: + "The heavens are the work of Thy hands; + They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure; + Yea, they all shall wax old,-- +But Thy throne is established, O God, and Thy years are made sure; + They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure,-- + They shall pass like a tale that is told." + + Doth He answer, the Ancient of Days? + Will He speak in the tongue and the fashion of men? +(Hist! hist! while the heaven-hung multitudes shine in His praise, +His language of old.) Nay, He spoke with them first; it was then + They lifted their eyes to His throne; +"They shall call on Me, 'Thou art our Father, our God, Thou alone!' +For I made them, I led them in deserts and desolate ways; + I have found them a Ransom Divine; +I have loved them with love everlasting, the children of men; + I swear by Myself, they are Mine." + + +THE MORNING WATCH. + +THE COMING IN OF THE "MERMAIDEN." + +The moon is bleached as white as wool, + And just dropping under; +Every star is gone but three, + And they hang far asunder,-- +There's a sea-ghost all in gray, + A tall shape of wonder! + +I am not satisfied with sleep,-- + The night is not ended. +But look how the sea-ghost comes, + With wan skirts extended, +Stealing up in this weird hour, + When light and dark are blended. + +A vessel! To the old pier end + Her happy course she's keeping; +I heard them name her yesterday: + Some were pale with weeping; +Some with their heart-hunger sighed, + She's in,--and they are sleeping. + +O! now with fancied greetings blest, + They comfort their long aching: +The sea of sleep hath borne to them + What would not come with waking, +And the dreams shall most be true + In their blissful breaking. + +The stars are gone, the rose-bloom comes,-- + No blush of maid is sweeter; +The red sun, half way out of bed, + Shall be the first to greet her. +None tell the news, yet sleepers wake, + And rise, and run to meet her. + +Their lost they have, they hold; from pain + A keener bliss they borrow. +How natural is joy, my heart! + How easy after sorrow! +For once, the best is come that hope + Promised them "to-morrow." + + +CONCLUDING SONG OF DAWN. + +(_Old English Manner._) + +A MORN OF MAY. + +All the clouds about the sun lay up in golden creases, +(Merry rings the maiden's voice that sings at dawn of day;) +Lambkins woke and skipped around to dry their dewy fleeces, +So sweetly as she carolled, all on a morn of May. + +Quoth the Sergeant, "Here I'll halt; here's wine of joy for drinking; +To my heart she sets her hand, and in the strings doth play; +All among the daffodils, and fairer to my thinking, +And fresh as milk and roses, she sits this morn of May." + +Quoth the Sergeant, "Work is work, but any ye might make me, +If I worked for you, dear lass, I'd count my holiday. +I'm your slave for good and all, an' if ye will but take me, +So sweetly as ye carol upon this morn of May." + +"Medals count for worth," quoth she, "and scars are worn for honor; +But a slave an' if ye be, kind wooer, go your way." +All the nodding daffodils woke up and laughed upon her. +O! sweetly did she carol, all on that morn of May. + +Gladsome leaves upon the bough, they fluttered fast and faster, +Fretting brook, till he would speak, did chide the dull delay: +"Beauty! when I said a slave, I think I meant a master; +So sweetly as ye carol all on this morn of May. + +"Lass, I love you! Love is strong, and some men's hearts are tender." +Far she sought o'er wood and wold, but found not aught to say; +Mounting lark nor mantling cloud would any counsel render, +Though sweetly she had carolled upon that morn of May. + +Shy, she sought the wooer's face, and deemed the wooing mended; +Proper man he was, good sooth, and one would have his way: +So the lass was made a wife, and so the song was ended. +O! sweetly she did carol all on that morn of May. + + + + +CONTRASTED SONGS. + +[Illustration] + + + + +CONTRASTED SONGS. + + +SAILING BEYOND SEAS. + +(_Old Style._) + +Methought the stars were blinking bright, + And the old brig's sails unfurled; +I said, "I will sail to my love this night + At the other side of the world." +I stepped aboard,--we sailed so fast,-- + The sun shot up from the bourne; +But a dove that perched upon the mast + Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. + O fair dove! O fond dove! + And dove with the white breast, + Let me alone, the dream is my own, + And my heart is full of rest. + +My true love fares on this great hill, + Feeding his sheep for aye; +I looked in his hut, but all was still, + My love was gone away. +I went to gaze in the forest creek, + And the dove mourned on apace; +No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek + Rose up to show me his place. + O last love! O first love! + My love with the true heart, + To think I have come to this your home, + And yet--we are apart! + +My love! He stood at my right hand, + His eyes were grave and sweet. +Methought he said, "In this far land, + O, is it thus we meet! +Ah, maid most dear, I am not here; + I have no place,--no part,-- +No dwelling more by sea or shore, + But only in thy heart." + O fair dove! O fond dove! + Till night rose over the bourne, + The dove on the mast, as we sailed fast, + Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. + + +REMONSTRANCE. + +Daughters of Eve! your mother did not well: + She laid the apple in your father's hand, +And we have read, O wonder! what befell,-- + The man was not deceived, nor yet could stand: +He chose to lose, for love of her, his throne,-- + With her could die, but could not live alone. + +Daughters of Eve! he did not fall so low, + Nor fall so far, as that sweet woman fell; +For something better, than as gods to know, + That husband in that home left off to dwell: +For this, till love be reckoned less than lore, +Shall man be first and best for evermore. + +Daughters of Eve! it was for your dear sake + The world's first hero died an uncrowned king; +But God's great pity touched the grand mistake, + And made his married love a sacred thing: +For yet his nobler sons, if aught be true, +Find the lost Eden in their love to you. + + +SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF CHRIST'S RESURRECTION. + +(_A Humble Imitation._) + +"And birds of calm sit brooding on the charméd wave." + + It is the noon of night, + And the world's Great Light + Gone out, she widow-like doth carry her: + The moon hath veiled her face, + Nor looks on that dread place + Where He lieth dead in sealéd sepulchre; + And heaven and hades, emptied, lend +Their flocking multitudes to watch and wait the end. + + Tier above tier they rise, + Their wings new line the skies, + And shed out comforting light among the stars; + But they of the other place + The heavenly signs deface, + The gloomy brand of hell their brightness mars; + Yet high they sit in thronéd state,-- +It is the hour of darkness to them dedicate. + + And first and highest set, + Where the black shades are met, + The lord of night and hades leans him down; + His gleaming eyeballs show + More awful than the glow, + Which hangeth by the points of his dread crown; + And at his feet, where lightnings play, +The fatal sisters sit and weep, and curse their day. + + Lo! one, with eyes all wide, + As she were sight denied, + Sits blindly feeling at her distaff old; + One, as distraught with woe, + Letting the spindle go, + Her star y-sprinkled gown doth shivering fold; + And one right mournful hangs her head, +Complaining, "Woe is me! I may not cut the thread. + + "All men of every birth, + Yea, great ones of the earth, + Kings and their councillors, have I drawn down; + But I am held of Thee,-- + Why dost Thou trouble me, + To bring me up, dead King, that keep'st Thy crown? + Yet for all courtiers hast but ten +Lowly, unlettered, Galilean fishermen. + + "Olympian heights are bare + Of whom men worshipped there, + Immortal feet their snows may print no more; + Their stately powers below + Lie desolate, nor know + This thirty years Thessalian grove or shore; + But I am elder far than they;-- +Where is the sentence writ that I must pass away? + + "Art thou come up for this, + Dark regent, awful Dis? + And hast thou moved the deep to mark our ending? + And stirred the dens beneath, + To see us eat of death, + With all the scoffing heavens toward us bending? + Help! powers of ill, see not us die!" +But neither demon dares, nor angel deigns, reply. + + Her sisters, fallen on sleep, + Fade in the upper deep, + And their grim lord sits on, in doleful trance; + Till her black veil she rends, + And with her death-shriek bends + Downward the terrors of her countenance; + Then, whelmed in night and no more seen, +They leave the world a doubt if ever such have been. + + And the winged armies twain + Their awful watch maintain; + They mark the earth at rest with her Great Dead. + Behold, from antres wide, + Green Atlas heave his side; + His moving woods their scarlet clusters shed, + The swathing coif his front that cools, +And tawny lions lapping at his palm-edged pools. + + Then like a heap of snow, + Lying where grasses grow, + See glimmering, while the moony lustres creep, + Mild mannered Athens, dight + In dewy marbles white, + Among her goddesses and gods asleep; + And swaying on a purple sea, +The many moored galleys clustering at her quay. + + Also, 'neath palm-trees' shade, + Amid their camels laid, + The pastoral tribes with all their flocks at rest; + Like to those old-world folk, + With whom two angels broke + The bread of men at Abram's courteous 'quest, + When, listening as they prophesied, +His desert princess, being reproved, her laugh denied. + + Or from the Morians' land + See worshipped Nilus bland, + Taking the silver road he gave the world, + To wet his ancient shrine + With waters held divine, + And touch his temple steps with wavelets curled, + And list, ere darkness change to gray, +Old minstrel-throated Memnon chanting in the day. + + Moreover, Indian glades, + Where kneel the sun-swart maids, + On Gunga's flood their votive flowers to throw, + And launch i' the sultry night + Their burning cressets bright, + Most like a fleet of stars that southing go, + Till on her bosom prosperously +She floats them shining forth to sail the lulléd sea. + + Nor bend they not their eyne + Where the watch-fires shine, + By shepherds fed, on hills of Bethlehem: + They mark, in goodly wise, + The city of David rise, + The gates and towers of rare Jerusalem; + And hear the 'scapéd Kedron fret, +And night dews dropping from the leaves of Olivet. + + But now the setting moon + To curtained lands must soon, + In her obedient fashion, minister; + She first, as loath to go, + Lets her last silver flow + Upon her Master's sealéd sepulchre; + And trees that in the gardens spread, +She kisseth all for sake of His low-lying head, + + Then 'neath the rim goes down; + And night with darker frown + Sinks on the fateful garden watched long; + When some despairing eyes, + Far in the murky skies, + The unwishéd waking by their gloom foretell; + And blackness up the welkin swings, +And drinks the mild effulgence from celestial wings. + + Last, with amazéd cry, + The hosts asunder fly, + Leaving an empty gulf of blackest hue; + Whence straightway shooteth down, + By the Great Father thrown, + A mighty angel, strong and dread to view; + And at his fall the rocks are rent, +The waiting world doth quake with mortal tremblement; + + The regions far and near + Quail with a pause of fear, + More terrible than aught since time began; + The winds, that dare not fleet, + Drop at his awful feet, + And in its bed wails the wide oceán; + The flower of dawn forbears to blow, +And the oldest running river cannot skill to flow. + + At stand, by that dread place, + He lifts his radiant face, + And looks to heaven with reverent love and fear; + Then, while the welkin quakes, + The muttering thunder breaks, + And lightnings shoot and ominous meteors drear, + And all the daunted earth doth moan, +He from the doors of death rolls back the sealéd stone.-- + + --In regal quiet deep, + Lo, One new waked from sleep! + Behold, He standeth in the rock-hewn door! + Thy children shall not die,-- + Peace, peace, thy Lord is by! + He liveth!--they shall live for evermore. + Peace! lo, He lifts a priestly hand, +And blesseth all the sons of men in every land. + + Then, with great dread and wail, + Fall down, like storms of hail, + The legions of the lost in fearful wise; + And they whose blissful race + Peoples the better place, + Lift up their wings to cover their fair eyes, + And through the waxing saffron brede, +Till they are lost in light, recede, and yet recede. + + So while the fields are dim, + And the red sun his rim + First heaves, in token of his reign benign, + All stars the most admired, + Into their blue retired, + Lie hid,--the faded moon forgets to shine,-- + And, hurrying down the sphery way, +Night flies, and sweeps her shadows from the paths of day. + + But look! the Saviour blest, + Calm after solemn rest, + Stands in the garden 'neath His olive boughs; + The earliest smile of day + Doth on His vesture play, + And light the majesty of His still brows; + While angels hang with wings outspread, +Holding the new-won crown above His saintly head. + + +SONG OF MARGARET. + +Ay, I saw her, we have met,-- + Married eyes how sweet they be,-- +Are you happier, Margaret, + Than you might have been with me? +Silence! make no more ado! + Did she think I should forget? +Matters nothing, though I knew, + Margaret, Margaret. + +Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy, + Told a certain thing to mine; +What they told me I put by, + O, so careless of the sign. +Such an easy thing to take, + And I did not want it then; +Fool! I wish my heart would break, + Scorn is hard on hearts of men. + +Scorn of self is bitter work,-- + Each of us has felt it now: +Bluest skies she counted mirk, + Self-betrayed of eyes and brow; +As for me, I went my way, + And a better man drew nigh, +Fain to earn, with long essay, + What the winner's hand threw by. + +Matters not in deserts old, + What was born, and waxed, and yearned, +Year to year its meaning told, + I am come,--its deeps are learned,-- +Come, but there is naught to say,-- + Married eyes with mine have met. +Silence! O, I had my day, + Margaret, Margaret. + + +SONG OF THE GOING AWAY. + +"Old man, upon the green hillside, + With yellow flowers besprinkled o'er, +How long in silence wilt thou bide + At this low stone door? + +"I stoop: within 'tis dark and still; + But shadowy paths methinks there be, +And lead they far into the hill?" + "Traveller, come and see." + +"'Tis dark, 'tis cold, and hung with gloom; + I care not now within to stay; +For thee and me is scarcely room, + I will hence away." + +"Not so, not so, thou youthful guest, + Thy foot shall issue forth no more: +Behold the chamber of thy rest, + And the closing door!" + +"O, have I 'scaped the whistling ball, + And striven on smoky fields of fight, +And scaled the 'leaguered city's wall + In the dangerous night; + +"And borne my life unharméd still + Through foaming gulfs of yeasty spray, +To yield it on a grassy hill + At the noon of day?" + +"Peace! Say thy prayers, and go to sleep, + Till _some time_, ONE my seal shall break, +And deep shall answer unto deep, + When He crieth, 'AWAKE!'" + + +A LILY AND A LUTE. + +(_Song of the uncommunicated Ideal._) + +I. + +I opened the eyes of my soul. + And behold, +A white river-lily: a lily awake, and aware,-- +For she set her face upward,--aware how in scarlet and gold +A long wrinkled cloud, left behind of the wandering air, + Lay over with fold upon fold, + With fold upon fold. + +And the blushing sweet shame of the cloud made her also ashamed, +The white river-lily, that suddenly knew she was fair; +And over the far-away mountains that no man hath named, + And that no foot hath trod, +Flung down out of heavenly places, there fell, as it were, +A rose-bloom, a token of love, that should make them endure, +Withdrawn in snow silence forever, who keep themselves pure, + And look up to God. +Then I said, "In rosy air, +Cradled on thy reaches fair, +While the blushing early ray +Whitens into perfect day, +River-lily, sweetest known, +Art thou set for me alone? +Nay, but I will bear thee far, +Where yon clustering steeples are, +And the bells ring out o'erhead, +And the stated prayers are said; +And the busy farmers pace, +Trading in the market-place; +And the country lasses sit, +By their butter, praising it; +And the latest news is told, +While the fruit and cream are sold; +And the friendly gossips greet, +Up and down the sunny street. +For," I said, "I have not met, +White one, any folk as yet +Who would send no blessing up, +Looking on a face like thine; +For thou art as Joseph's cup, +And by thee might they divine. + +"Nay! but thou a spirit art; +Men shall take thee in the mart +For the ghost of their best thought, +Raised at noon, and near them brought; +Or the prayer they made last night, +Set before them all in white." + +And I put out my rash hand, +For I thought to draw to land +The white lily. Was it fit +Such a blossom should expand, +Fair enough for a world's wonder, +And no mortal gather it? +No. I strove, and it went under, +And I drew, but it went down; +And the waterweeds' long tresses, +And the overlapping cresses, +Sullied its admired crown. +Then along the river strand, +Trailing, wrecked, it came to land, +Of its beauty half despoiled, +And its snowy pureness soiled: +O! I took it in my hand,-- +You will never see it now, +White and golden as it grew: +No, I cannot show it you, +Nor the cheerful town endow +With the freshness of its brow. + +If a royal painter, great +With the colors dedicate +To a dove's neck, a sea-bight, +And the flickering over white +Mountain summits far away,-- +One content to give his mind +To the enrichment of mankind, +And the laying up of light +In men's houses,--on that day, +Could have passed in kingly mood, +Would he ever have endued +Canvas with the peerless thing, +In the grace that it did bring, +And the light that o'er it flowed, +With the pureness that it showed, +And the pureness that it meant? +Could he skill to make it seen +As he saw? For this, I ween, +He were likewise impotent. + +II. + +I opened the doors of my heart. + And behold, +There was music within and a song, +And echoes did feed on the sweetness, repeating it long. +I opened the doors of my heart: and behold, +There was music that played itself out in aeolian notes; +Then was heard, as a far-away bell at long intervals tolled, + That murmurs and floats, +And presently dieth, forgotten of forest and wold, +And comes in all passion again, and a tremblement soft, + That maketh the listener full oft +To whisper, "Ah! would I might hear it for ever and aye, + When I toil in the heat of the day, + When I walk in the cold." + + I opened the door of my heart. And behold, + There was music within, and a song. +But while I was hearkening, lo, blackness without, thick and strong, +Came up and came over, and all that sweet fluting was drowned, + I could hear it no more; +For the welkin was moaning, the waters were stirred on the shore, + And trees in the dark all around +Were shaken. It thundered. "Hark, hark! there is thunder to-night! +The sullen long wave rears her head, and comes down with a will; +The awful white tongues are let loose, and the stars are all dead;-- +There is thunder! it thunders! and ladders of light + Run up. There is thunder!" I said, +"Loud thunder! it thunders! and up in the dark overhead, +A down-pouring cloud, (there is thunder!) a down-pouring cloud +Hails out her fierce message, and quivers the deep in its bed, +And cowers the earth held at bay; and they mutter aloud, +And pause with an ominous tremble, till, great in their rage, +The heavens and earth come together, and meet with a crash; +And the fight is so fell as if Time had come down with the flash, + And the story of life was all read, + And the Giver had turned the last page. + + "Now their bar the pent water-floods lash, +And the forest trees give out their language austere with great age; + And there flieth o'er moor and o'er hill, + And there heaveth at intervals wide, +The long sob of nature's great passion as loath to subside, + Until quiet drop down on the tide, + And mad Echo had moaned herself still." + + Lo! or ever I was 'ware, + In the silence of the air, + Through my heart's wide-open door, + Music floated forth once more, + Floated to the world's dark rim, + And looked over with a hymn; + Then came home with flutings fine, + And discoursed in tones divine + Of a certain grief of mine; + And went downward and went in, +Glimpses of my soul to win, +And discovered such a deep +That I could not choose but weep, +For it lay, a land-locked sea, +Fathomless and dim to me. + +O, the song! it came and went, + Went and came. + I have not learned +Half the lore whereto it yearned, +Half the magic that it meant. +Water booming in a cave; +Or the swell of some long wave, +Setting in from unrevealed +Countries; or a foreign tongue, +Sweetly talked and deftly sung, +While the meaning is half sealed; +May be like it. You have heard +Also;--can you find a word +For the naming of such song? +No; a name would do it wrong. +You have heard it in the night, +In the dropping rain's despite, +In the midnight darkness deep, +When the children were asleep, +And the wife,--no, let that be; +SHE asleep! She knows right well +What the song to you and me, +While we breathe, can never tell; +She hath heard its faultless flow, +Where the roots of music grow. + +While I listened, like young birds, +Hints were fluttering; almost words,-- +Leaned and leaned, and nearer came;-- +Everything had changed its name. + +Sorrow was a ship, I found, +Wrecked with them that in her are, +On an island richer far +Than the port where they were bound. +Fear was but the awful boom +Of the old great bell of doom, +Tolling, far from earthly air, +For all worlds to go to prayer. +Pain, that to us mortal clings, +But the pushing of our wings, +That we have no use for yet, +And the uprooting of our feet +From the soil where they are set, +And the land we reckon sweet. +Love in growth, the grand deceit +Whereby men the perfect greet; +Love in wane, the blessing sent +To be (howsoe'er it went) +Never more with earth content. +O, full sweet, and O, full high, +Ran that music up the sky; +But I cannot sing it you, +More than I can make you view, +With my paintings labial, +Sitting up in awful row, +White old men majestical, +Mountains, in their gowns of snow, +Ghosts of kings; as my two eyes, +Looking over speckled skies, +See them now. About their knees, +Half in haze, there stands at ease +A great army of green hills, +Some bareheaded; and, behold, +Small green mosses creep on some. +Those be mighty forests old; +And white avalanches come +Through yon rents, where now distils +Sheeny silver, pouring down +To a tune of old renown, +Cutting narrow pathways through +Gentian belts of airy blue, +To a zone where starwort blows, +And long reaches of the rose. + +So, that haze all left behind, +Down the chestnut forests wind, +Past yon jagged spires, where yet +Foot of man was never set; +Past a castle yawning wide, +With a great breach in its side, +To a nest-like valley, where, +Like a sparrow's egg in hue, +Lie two lakes, and teach the true +Color of the sea-maid's hair. + +What beside? The world beside! +Drawing down and down, to greet +Cottage clusters at our feet,-- +Every scent of summer tide,-- +Flowery pastures all aglow +(Men and women mowing go +Up and down them); also soft +Floating of the film aloft, +Fluttering of the leaves alow. +Is this told? It is not told. +Where's the danger? where's the cold +Slippery danger up the steep? +Where yon shadow fallen asleep? +Chirping bird and tumbling spray, +Light, work, laughter, scent of hay, +Peace, and echo, where are they? + +Ah, they sleep, sleep all untold; +Memory must their grace enfold +Silently; and that high song +Of the heart, it doth belong +To the hearers. Not a whit, +Though a chief musician heard, +Could he make a tune for it. + +Though a bird of sweetest throat, +And some lute full clear of note, +Could have tried it,--O, the lute +For that wondrous song were mute, +And the bird would do her part, +Falter, fail, and break her heart,-- +Break her heart, and furl her wings, +On those unexpressive strings. + + + + +GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. + +(_On the Advantages of the Poetical Temperament_.) + +AN IMPERFECT FABLE WITH A DOUBTFUL MORAL. + + +O happy Gladys! I rejoice with her, +For Gladys saw the island. + It was thus: +They gave a day for pleasure in the school +Where Gladys taught; and all the other girls +Were taken out, to picnic in a wood. +But it was said, "We think it were not well +That little Gladys should acquire a taste +For pleasure, going about, and needless change. +It would not suit her station: discontent +Might come of it; and all her duties now +She does so pleasantly, that we were best +To keep her humble." So they said to her, +"Gladys, we shall not want you, all to-day. +Look, you are free; you need not sit at work: +No, you may take a long and pleasant walk +Over the sea-cliff, or upon the beach +Among the visitors." + Then Gladys blushed +For joy, and thanked them. What! a holiday, +A whole one, for herself! How good, how kind! +With that, the marshalled carriages drove off; +And Gladys, sobered with her weight of joy, +Stole out beyond the groups upon the beach-- +The children with their wooden spades, the band +That played for lovers, and the sunny stir +Of cheerful life and leisure--to the rocks, +For these she wanted most, and there was time +To mark them; how like ruined organs prone +They lay, or leaned their giant fluted pipes, +And let the great white-crested reckless wave +Beat out their booming melody. + The sea +Was filled with light; in clear blue caverns curled +The breakers, and they ran, and seemed to romp, +As playing at some rough and dangerous game, +While all the nearer waves rushed in to help, +And all the farther heaved their heads to peep, +And tossed the fishing boats. Then Gladys laughed, +And said, "O, happy tide, to be so lost +In sunshine, that one dare not look at it; +And lucky cliffs, to be so brown and warm; +And yet how lucky are the shadows, too, +That lurk beneath their ledges. It is strange, +That in remembrance though I lay them up, +They are forever, when I come to them, +Better than I had thought. O, something yet +I had forgotten. Oft I say, 'At least +This picture is imprinted; thus and thus, +The sharpened serried jags run up, run out, +Layer on layer.' And I look--up--up-- +High, higher up again, till far aloft +They cut into their ether,--brown, and clear, +And perfect. And I, saying, 'This is mine, +To keep,' retire; but shortly come again, +And they confound me with a glorious change. +The low sun out of rain-clouds stares at them; +They redden, and their edges drip with--what? +I know not, but 't is red. It leaves no stain, +For the next morning they stand up like ghosts +In a sea-shroud and fifty thousand mews +Sit there, in long white files, and chatter on, +Like silly school-girls in their silliest mood. + +"There is the boulder where we always turn. +O! I have longed to pass it; now I will. +What would THEY say? for one must slip and spring; +'Young ladies! Gladys! I am shocked. My dears, +Decorum, if you please: turn back at once. +Gladys, we blame you most; you should have looked +Before you.' Then they sigh,--how kind they are!-- +'What will become of you, if all your life +You look a long way off?--look anywhere, +And everywhere, instead of at your feet, +And where they carry you!' Ah, well, I know +It is a pity," Gladys said; "but then +We cannot all be wise: happy for me, +That other people are. + + "And yet I wish,-- +For sometimes very right and serious thoughts +Come to me,--I do wish that they would come +When they are wanted!--when I teach the sums +On rainy days, and when the practising +I count to, and the din goes on and on, +Still the same tune and still the same mistake, +Then I am wise enough: sometimes I feel +Quite old. I think that it will last, and say, +'Now my reflections do me credit! now +I am a woman!' and I wish they knew +How serious all my duties look to me. +And how, my heart hushed down and shaded lies, +Just like the sea when low, convenient clouds, +Come over, and drink all its sparkles up. +But does it last? Perhaps, that very day, +The front door opens: out we walk in pairs; +And I am so delighted with this world, +That suddenly has grown, being new washed, +To such a smiling, clean, and thankful world, +And with a tender face shining through tears, +Looks up into the sometime lowering sky, +That has been angry, but is reconciled, +And just forgiving her, that I,--that I,-- +O, I forget myself: what matters how! +And then I hear (but always kindly said) +Some words that pain me so,--but just, but true; +'For if your place in this establishment +Be but subordinate, and if your birth +Be lowly, it the more behooves,--well, well, +No more. We see that you are sorry.' Yes! +I am always sorry THEN; but now,--O, now, +Here is a bight more beautiful than all." + +"And did they scold her, then, my pretty one? +And did she want to be as wise as they, +To bear a bucklered heart and priggish mind? +Ay, you may crow; she did! but no, no, no, +The night-time will not let her, all the stars +Say nay to that,--the old sea laughs at her. +Why, Gladys is a child; she has not skill +To shut herself within her own small cell, +And build the door up, and to say, 'Poor me! +I am a prisoner'; then to take hewn stones, +And, having built the windows up, to say, +'O, it is dark! there is no sunshine here; +There never has been.'" + + Strange! how very strange! +A woman passing Gladys with a babe, +To whom she spoke these words, and only looked +Upon the babe, who crowed and pulled her curls, +And never looked at Gladys, never once. +"A simple child," she added, and went by, +"To want to change her greater for their less; +But Gladys shall not do it, no, not she; +We love her--don't we?--far too well for that." + +Then Gladys, flushed with shame and keen surprise, +"How could she be so near, and I not know? +And have I spoken out my thought aloud? +I must have done, forgetting. It is well +She walks so fast, for I am hungry now, +And here is water cantering down the cliff, +And here a shell to catch it with, and here +The round plump buns they gave me, and the fruit. +Now she is gone behind the rock. O, rare +To be alone!" So Gladys sat her down, +Unpacked her little basket, ate and drank, +Then pushed her hands into the warm dry sand, +And thought the earth was happy, and she too +Was going round with it in happiness, +That holiday. "What was it that she said?" +Quoth Gladys, cogitating; "they were kind, +The words that woman spoke. She does not know! +'Her greater for their less,'--it makes me laugh,-- +But yet," sighed Gladys, "though it must be good +To look and to admire, one should not wish +To steal THEIR virtues, and to put them on, +Like feathers from another wing; beside, +That calm, and that grave consciousness of worth, +When all is said, would little suit with me, +Who am not worthy. When our thoughts are born, +Though they be good and humble, one should mind +How they are reared, or some will go astray +And shame their mother. Cain and Abel both +Were only once removed from innocence. +Why did I envy them? That was not good; +Yet it began with my humility." + +But as she spake, lo, Gladys raised her eyes, +And right before her, on the horizon's edge, +Behold, an island! First, she looked away +Along the solid rocks and steadfast shore, +For she was all amazed, believing not, +And then she looked again, and there again +Behold, an island! And the tide had turned, +The milky sea had got a purple rim, +And from the rim that mountain island rose, +Purple, with two high peaks, the northern peak +The higher, and with fell and precipice, +It ran down steeply to the water's brink; +But all the southern line was long and soft, +Broken with tender curves, and, as she thought, +Covered with forest or with sward. But, look! +The sun was on the island; and he showed +On either peak a dazzling cap of snow. +Then Gladys held her breath; she said, "Indeed, +Indeed it is an island: how is this, +I never saw it till this fortunate +Rare holiday?" And while she strained her eyes, +She thought that it began to fade; but not +To change as clouds do, only to withdraw +And melt into its azure; and at last, +Little by little, from her hungry heart, +That longed to draw things marvellous to itself, +And yearned towards the riches and the great +Abundance of the beauty God hath made, +It passed away. Tears started in her eyes, +And when they dropt, the mountain isle was gone; +The careless sea had quite forgotten it, +And all was even as it had been before. + +And Gladys wept, but there was luxury +In her self-pity, while she softly sobbed, +"O, what a little while! I am afraid +I shall forget that purple mountain isle, +The lovely hollows atween her snow-clad peaks, +The grace of her upheaval where she lay +Well up against the open. O, my heart, +Now I remember how this holiday +Will soon be done, and now my life goes on +Not fed; and only in the noonday walk +Let to look silently at what it wants, +Without the power to wait or pause awhile, +And understand and draw within itself +The richness of the earth. A holiday! +How few I have! I spend the silent time +At work, while all THEIR pupils are gone home, +And feel myself remote. They shine apart; +They are great planets, I a little orb; +My little orbit far within their own +Turns, and approaches not. But yet, the more +I am alone when those I teach return; +For they, as planets of some other sun, +Not mine, have paths that can but meet my ring +Once in a cycle. O, how poor I am! +I have not got laid up in this blank heart +Any indulgent kisses given me +Because I had been good, or yet more sweet, +Because my childhood was itself a good +Attractive thing for kisses, tender praise, +And comforting. An orphan-school at best +Is a cold mother in the winter time +('Twas mostly winter when new orphans came), +An unregarded mother in the spring. + +"Yet once a year (I did mine wrong) we went +To gather cowslips. How we thought on it +Beforehand, pacing, pacing the dull street, +To that one tree, the only one we saw +From April,--if the cowslips were in bloom +So early; or if not, from opening May +Even to September. Then there came the feast +At Epping. If it rained that day, it rained +For a whole year to us; we could not think +Of fields and hawthorn hedges, and the leaves +Fluttering, but still it rained, and ever rained. + +"Ah, well, but I am here; but I have seen +The gay gorse bushes in their flowering time; +I know the scent of bean-fields; I have heard +The satisfying murmur of the main." + +The woman! She came round the rock again +With her fair baby, and she sat her down +By Gladys, murmuring, "Who forbade the grass +To grow by visitations of the dew? +Who said in ancient time to the desert pool, +'Thou shalt not wait for angel visitors +To trouble thy still water?' Must we bide +At home? The lore, beloved, shall fly to us +On a pair of sumptuous wings. Or may we breathe +Without? O, we shall draw to us the air +That times and mystery feed on. This shall lay +Unchidden hands upon the heart o' the world, +And feel it beating. Rivers shall run on, +Full of sweet language as a lover's mouth, +Delivering of a tune to make her youth +More beautiful than wheat when it is green. + +"What else?--(O, none shall envy her!) The rain +And the wild weather will be most her own, +And talk with her o' nights; and if the winds +Have seen aught wondrous, they will tell it her +In a mouthful of strange moans,--will bring from far, +Her ears being keen, the lowing and the mad +Masterful tramping of the bison herds, +Tearing down headlong with their bloodshot eyes, +In savage rifts of hair; the crack and creak +Of ice-floes in the frozen sea, the cry +Of the white bears, all in a dim blue world +Mumbling their meals by twilight; or the rock +And majesty of motion, when their heads +Primeval trees toss in a sunny storm, +And hail their nuts down on unweeded fields. +No holidays," quoth she; "drop, drop, O, drop, +Thou tirèd skylark, and go up no more; +You lime-trees, cover not your head with bees, +Nor give out your good smell. She will not look; +No, Gladys cannot draw your sweetness in, +For lack of holidays." So Gladys thought, +"A most strange woman, and she talks of me." +With that a girl ran up; "Mother," she said, +"Come out of this brown bight, I pray you now, +It smells of fairies." Gladys thereon thought, +"The mother will not speak to me, perhaps +The daughter may," and asked her courteously, +"What do the fairies smell of?" But the girl +With peevish pout replied, "You know, you know." +"Not I," said Gladys; then she answered her, +"Something like buttercups. But, mother, come, +And whisper up a porpoise from the foam, +Because I want to ride." + + Full slowly, then, +The mother rose, and ever kept her eyes +Upon her little child. "You freakish maid," +Said she, "now mark me, if I call you one, +You shall not scold nor make him take you far." + +"I only want,--you know I only want," +The girl replied, "to go and play awhile +Upon the sand by Lagos." Then she turned +And muttered low, "Mother, is this the girl +Who saw the island?" But the mother frowned. +"When may she go to it?" the daughter asked. +And Gladys, following them, gave all her mind +To hear the answer. "When she wills to go; +For yonder comes to shore the ferry boat." +Then Gladys turned to look, and even so +It was; a ferry boat, and far away +Reared in the offing, lo, the purple peaks +Of her loved island. + + Then she raised her arms, +And ran toward the boat, crying out, "O rare, +The island! fair befall the island; let +Me reach the island." And she sprang on board, +And after her stepped in the freakish maid +And the fair mother, brooding o'er her child; +And this one took the helm, and that let go +The sail, and off they flew, and furrowed up +A flaky hill before, and left behind +A sobbing snake-like tail of creamy foam; +And dancing hither, thither, sometimes shot +Toward the island; then, when Gladys looked, +Were leaving it to leeward. And the maid +Whistled a wind to come and rock the craft, +And would be leaning down her head to mew +At cat-fish, then lift out into her lap +And dandle baby-seals, which, having kissed, +She flung to their sleek mothers, till her own +Rebuked her in good English, after cried, +"Luff, luff, we shall be swamped." "I will not luff," +Sobbed the fair mischief; "you are cross to me." +"For shame!" the mother shrieked; "luff, luff, my dear; +Kiss and be friends, and thou shalt have the fish +With the curly tail to ride on." So she did, +And presently a dolphin bouncing up, +She sprang upon his slippery back,--"Farewell," +She laughed, was off, and all the sea grew calm. + +Then Gladys was much happier, and was 'ware +In the smooth weather that this woman talked +Like one in sleep, and murmured certain thoughts +Which seemed to be like echoes of her own. +She nodded, "Yes, the girl is going now +To her own island. Gladys poor? Not she! +Who thinks so? Once I met a man in white, +Who said to me, 'The thing that might have been +Is called, and questioned why it hath not been; +And can it give good reason, it is set +Beside the actual, and reckoned in +To fill the empty gaps of life.' Ah, so +The possible stands by us ever fresh, +Fairer than aught which any life hath owned, +And makes divine amends. Now this was set +Apart from kin, and not ordained a home; +An equal;--and not suffered to fence in +A little plot of earthly good, and say, +'Tis mine'; but in bereavement of the part, +O, yet to taste the whole,--to understand +The grandeur of the story, not to feel +Satiate with good possessed, but evermore +A healthful hunger for the great idea, +The beauty and the blessedness of life. + +"Lo, now, the shadow!" quoth she, breaking off, +"We are in the shadow." Then did Gladys turn, +And, O, the mountain with the purple peaks +Was close at hand. It cast a shadow out, +And they were in it: and she saw the snow, +And under that the rocks, and under that +The pines, and then the pasturage; and saw +Numerous dips, and undulations rare, +Running down seaward, all astir with lithe +Long canes, and lofty feathers; for the palms +And spice trees of the south, nay, every growth, +Meets in that island. + + So that woman ran +The boat ashore, and Gladys set her foot +Thereon. Then all at once much laughter rose; +Invisible folk set up exultant shouts, +"It all belongs to Gladys"; and she ran +And hid herself among the nearest trees +And panted, shedding tears. + + So she looked round, +And saw that she was in a banyan grove, +Full of wild peacocks,--pecking on the grass, +A flickering mass of eyes, blue, green, and gold, +Or reaching out their jewelled necks, where high +They sat in rows along the boughs. No tree +Cumbered with creepers let the sunshine through, +But it was caught in scarlet cups, and poured +From these on amber tufts of bloom, and dropped +Lower on azure stars. The air was still, +As if awaiting somewhat, or asleep, +And Gladys was the only thing that moved, +Excepting,--no, they were not birds,--what then? +Glorified rainbows with a living soul? +While they passed through a sunbeam they were seen, +Not otherwhere, but they were present yet +In shade. They were at work, pomegranate fruit +That lay about removing,--purple grapes, +That clustered in the path, clearing aside. +Through a small spot of light would pass and go, +The glorious happy mouth and two fair eyes +Of somewhat that made rustlings where it went; +But when a beam would strike the ground sheer down, +Behold them! they had wings, and they would pass +One after other with the sheeny fans, +Bearing them slowly, that their hues were seen, +Tender as russet crimson dropt on snows, +Or where they turned flashing with gold and dashed +With purple glooms. And they had feet, but these +Did barely touch the ground. And they took heed +Not to disturb the waiting quietness; +Nor rouse up fawns, that slept beside their dams; +Nor the fair leopard, with her sleek paws laid +Across her little drowsy cubs; nor swans, +That, floating, slept upon a glassy pool; +Nor rosy cranes, all slumbering in the reeds, +With heads beneath their wings. For this, you know, +Was Eden. She was passing through the trees +That made a ring about it, and she caught +A glimpse of glades beyond. All she had seen +Was nothing to them; but words are not made +To tell that tale. No wind was let to blow, +And all the doves were bidden to hold their peace. +Why? One was working in a valley near, +And none might look that way. It was understood +That He had nearly ended that His work; +For two shapes met, and one to other spake, +Accosting him with, "Prince, what worketh He?" +Who whispered, "Lo! He fashioneth red clay." +And all at once a little trembling stir +Was felt in the earth, and every creature woke, +And laid its head down, listening. It was known +Then that the work was done; the new-made king +Had risen, and set his feet upon his realm, +And it acknowledged him. + + But in her path +Came some one that withstood her, and he said, +"What doest thou here?" Then she did turn and flee, +Among those colored spirits, through the grove, +Trembling for haste; it was not well with her +Till she came forth of those thick banyan-trees, +And set her feet upon the common grass, +And felt the common wind. + + Yet once beyond, +She could not choose but cast a backward glance. +The lovely matted growth stood like a wall, +And means of entering were not evident,-- +The gap had closed. But Gladys laughed for joy: +She said, "Remoteness and a multitude +Of years are counted nothing here. Behold, +To-day I have been in Eden. O, it blooms +In my own island." + + And she wandered on, +Thinking, until she reached a place of palms, +And all the earth was sandy where she walked,-- +Sandy and dry,--strewed with papyrus leaves, +Old idols, rings and pottery, painted lids +Of mummies (for perhaps it was the way +That leads to dead old Egypt), and withal +Excellent sunshine cut out sharp and clear +The hot prone pillars, and the carven plinths,-- +Stone lotus cups, with petals dipped in sand, +And wicked gods, and sphinxes bland, who sat +And smiled upon the ruin. O how still! +Hot, blank, illuminated with the clear +Stare of an unveiled sky. The dry stiff leaves +Of palm-trees never rustled, and the soul +Of that dead ancientry was itself dead. +She was above her ankles in the sand, +When she beheld a rocky road, and, lo! +It bare in it the ruts of chariot wheels, +Which erst had carried to their pagan prayers +The brown old Pharaohs; for the ruts led on +To a great cliff, that either was a cliff +Or some dread shrine in ruins,--partly reared +In front of that same cliff, and partly hewn +Or excavate within its heart. Great heaps +Of sand and stones on either side there lay; +And, as the girl drew on, rose out from each, +As from a ghostly kennel, gods unblest, +Dog-headed, and behind them winged things +Like angels; and this carven multitude +Hedged in, to right and left, the rocky road. + +At last, the cliff,--and in the cliff a door +Yawning: and she looked in, as down the throat +Of some stupendous giant, and beheld +No floor, but wide, worn, flights of steps, that led +Into a dimness. When the eyes could bear +That change to gloom, she saw flight after flight, +Flight after flight, the worn long stair go down, +Smooth with the feet of nations dead and gone. +So she did enter; also she went down +Till it was dark, and yet again went down, +Till, gazing upward at that yawning door, +It seemed no larger, in its height remote, +Than a pin's head. But while, irresolute, +She doubted of the end, yet farther down +A slender ray of lamplight fell away +Along the stair, as from a door ajar: +To this again she felt her way, and stepped +Adown the hollow stair, and reached the light; +But fear fell on her, fear; and she forbore +Entrance, and listened. Ay! 'twas even so,-- +A sigh; the breathing as of one who slept +And was disturbed. So she drew back awhile, +And trembled; then her doubting hand she laid +Against the door, and pushed it; but the light +Waned, faded, sank; and as she came within-- +Hark, hark! A spirit was it, and asleep? +A spirit doth not breathe like clay. There hung +A cresset from the roof, and thence appeared +A flickering speck of light, and disappeared; +Then dropped along the floor its elfish flakes, +That fell on some one resting, in the gloom,-- +Somewhat, a spectral shadow, then a shape +That loomed. It was a heifer, ay, and white, +Breathing and languid through prolonged repose. + + Was it a heifer? all the marble floor +Was milk-white also, and the cresset paled, +And straight their whiteness grew confused and mixed. + + But when the cresset, taking heart, bloomed out,-- +The whiteness,--and asleep again! but now +It was a woman, robed, and with a face +Lovely and dim. And Gladys while she gazed +Murmured, "O terrible! I am afraid +To breathe among these intermittent lives, +That fluctuate in mystic solitude, +And change and fade. Lo! where the goddess sits +Dreaming on her dim throne; a crescent moon +She wears upon her forehead. Ah! her frown +Is mournful, and her slumber is not sweet. +What dost thou hold, Isis, to thy cold breast? +A baby god with finger on his lips, +Asleep, and dreaming of departed sway? +Thy son. Hush, hush; he knoweth all the lore +And sorcery of old Egypt; but his mouth +He shuts; the secret shall be lost with him, +He will not tell." + + The woman coming down! +"Child, what art doing here?" the woman said; +"What wilt thou of Dame Isis and her bairn?" +(_Ay, ay, we see thee breathing in thy shroud,-- +pretty shroud, all frilled and furbelowed._) +The air is dim with dust of spiced bones. +I mark a crypt down there. Tier upon tier +Of painted coffers fills it. What if we, +Passing, should slip, and crash into their midst,-- +Break the frail ancientry, and smothered lie, +Tumbled among the ribs of queens and kings, +And all the gear they took to bed with them! +Horrible! Let us hence. + + And Gladys said, +"O, they are rough to mount, those stairs"; but she +Took her and laughed, and up the mighty flight +Shot like a meteor with her. "There," said she; +"The light is sweet when one has smelled of graves, +Down in unholy heathen gloom; farewell." +She pointed to a gateway, strong and high, +Reared of hewn stones; but, look! in lieu of gate, +There was a glittering cobweb drawn across, +And on the lintel there were writ these words: +"Ho, every one that cometh, I divide +What hath been from what might be, and the line +Hangeth before thee as a spider's web; +Yet, wouldst thou enter thou must break the line, +Or else forbear the hill." + + The maiden said, +"So, cobweb, I will break thee." And she passed +Among some oak-trees on the farther side, +And waded through the bracken round their bolls, +Until she saw the open, and drew on +Toward the edge o' the wood, where it was mixed +With pines and heathery places wild and fresh. +Here she put up a creature, that ran on +Before her, crying, "Tint, tint, tint," and turned, +Sat up, and stared at her with elfish eyes, +Jabbering of gramarye, one Michael Scott, +The wizard that wonned somewhere underground, +With other talk enough to make one fear +To walk in lonely places. After passed +A man-at-arms, William of Deloraine; +He shook his head, "An' if I list to tell," +Quoth he, "I know, but how it matters not"; +Then crossed himself, and muttered of a clap +Of thunder, and a shape in amice gray, +But still it mouthed at him, and whimpered, "Tint, +Tint, tint." "There shall be wild work some day soon," +Quoth he, "thou limb of darkness: he will come, +Thy master, push a hand up, catch thee, imp, +And so good Christians shall have peace, perdie." + +Then Gladys was so frightened, that she ran, +And got away, towards a grassy down, +Where sheep and lambs were feeding, with a boy +To tend them. 'Twas the boy who wears that herb +Called heart's-ease in his bosom, and he sang +So sweetly to his flock, that she stole on +Nearer to listen. "O Content, Content, +Give me," sang he, "thy tender company. +I feed my flock among the myrtles; all +My lambs are twins, and they have laid them down +Along the slopes of Beulah. Come, fair love, +From the other side the river, where their harps +Thou hast been helping them to tune. O come, +And pitch thy tent by mine; let me behold +Thy mouth,--that even in slumber talks of peace,-- +Thy well-set locks, and dove-like countenance." + +And Gladys hearkened, couched upon the grass, +Till she had rested; then did ask the boy, +For it was afternoon, and she was fain +To reach the shore, "Which is the path, I pray, +That leads one to the water?" But he said, +"Dear lass, I only know the narrow way, +The path that leads one to the golden gate +Across the river." So she wandered on; +And presently her feet grew cool, the grass +Standing so high, and thyme being thick and soft. +The air was full of voices, and the scent +Of mountain blossom loaded all its wafts; +For she was on the slopes of a goodly mount, +And reared in such a sort that it looked down +Into the deepest valleys, darkest glades, +And richest plains o' the island. It was set +Midway between the snows majestical +And a wide level, such as men would choose +For growing wheat; and some one said to her, +"It is the hill Parnassus." So she walked +Yet on its lower slope, and she could hear +The calling of an unseen multitude +To some upon the mountain, "Give us more"; +And others said, "We are tired of this old world: +Make it look new again." Then there were some +Who answered lovingly--(the dead yet speak +From that high mountain, as the living do); +But others sang desponding, "We have kept +The vision for a chosen few: we love +Fit audience better than a rough huzza +From the unreasoning crowd." + + Then words came up: +"There was a time, you poets, was a time +When all the poetry was ours, and made +By some who climbed the mountain from our midst. +We loved it then, we sang it in our streets. +O, it grows obsolete! Be you as they: +Our heroes die and drop away from us; +Oblivion folds them 'neath her dusky wing, +Fair copies wasted to the hungering world. +Save them. We fall so low for lack of them, +That many of us think scorn of honest trade, +And take no pride in our own shops; who care +Only to quit a calling, will not make +The calling what it might be; who despise +Their work, Fate laughs at, and doth let the work +Dull, and degrade them." + + Then did Gladys smile: +"Heroes!" quoth she; "yet, now I think on it, +There was the jolly goldsmith, brave Sir Hugh, +Certes, a hero ready-made. Methinks +I see him burnishing of golden gear, +Tankard and charger, and a-muttering low, +'London is thirsty'--(then he weighs a chain): +''Tis an ill thing, my masters. I would give +The worth of this, and many such as this, +To bring it water.' + + "Ay, and after him +There came up Guy of London, lettered son +O' the honest lighterman. I'll think on him, +Leaning upon the bridge on summer eves, +After his shop was closed: a still, grave man, +With melancholy eyes. 'While these are hale,' +He saith, when he looks down and marks the crowd +Cheerily working; where the river marge +Is blocked with ships and boats; and all the wharves +Swarm, and the cranes swing in with merchandise,-- +'While these are hale, 'tis well, 'tis very well. +But, O good Lord,' saith he, 'when these are sick,-- +I fear me, Lord, this excellent workmanship +Of Thine is counted for a cumbrance then. +Ay, ay, my hearties! many a man of you, +Struck down, or maimed, or fevered, shrinks away, +And, mastered in that fight for lack of aid, +Creeps shivering to a corner, and there dies.' +Well, we have heard the rest. + + "Ah, next I think +Upon the merchant captain, stout of heart +To dare and to endure. 'Robert,' saith he, +(The navigator Knox to his manful son,) +'I sit a captive from the ship detained; +This heathenry doth let thee visit her. +Remember, son, if thou, alas! shouldst fail +To ransom thy poor father, they are free +As yet, the mariners; have wives at home, +As I have; ay, and liberty is sweet +To all men. For the ship, she is not ours, +Therefore, 'beseech thee, son, lay on the mate +This my command, to leave me, and set sail. +As for thyself--' 'Good father,' saith the son; +'I will not, father, ask your blessing now, +Because, for fair, or else for evil, fate +We two shall meet again.' And so they did. +The dusky men, peeling off cinnamon, +And beating nutmeg clusters from the tree, +Ransom and bribe contemned. The good ship sailed,-- +The son returned to share his father's cell. + +"O, there are many such. Would I had wit +Their worth to sing!" With that, she turned her feet, +"I am tired now," said Gladys, "of their talk +Around this hill Parnassus." And, behold, +A piteous sight--an old, blind, graybeard king +Led by a fool with bells. Now this was loved +Of the crowd below the hill; and when he called +For his lost kingdom, and bewailed his age, +And plained on his unkind daughters, they were known +To say, that if the best of gold and gear +Could have bought him back his kingdom, and made kind +The hard hearts which had broken his erewhile, +They would have gladly paid it from their store +Many times over. What is done is done, +No help. The ruined majesty passed on. +And look you! one who met her as she walked +Showed her a mountain nymph lovely as light +Her name Oenone; and she mourned and mourned, +"O Mother Ida," and she could not cease, +No, nor be comforted. + + And after this, +Soon there came by, arrayed in Norman cap +And kirtle, an Arcadian villager, +Who said, "I pray you, have you chanced to meet +One Gabriel?" and she sighed; but Gladys took +And kissed her hand: she could not answer her, +Because she guessed the end. + + With that it drew +To evening; and as Gladys wandered on +In the calm weather, she beheld the wave, +And she ran down to set her feet again +On the sea margin, which was covered thick +With white shell-skeletons. The sky was red +As wine. The water played among bare ribs +Of many wrecks, that lay half buried there +In the sand. She saw a cave, and moved thereto +To ask her way, and one so innocent +Came out to meet her, that, with marvelling mute, +She gazed and gazed into her sea-blue eyes, +For in them beamed the untaught ecstasy +Of childhood, that lives on though youth be come, +And love just born. + +She could not choose but name her shipwrecked prince, +All blushing. She told Gladys many things +That are not in the story,--things, in sooth, +That Prospero her father knew. But now +'Twas evening, and the sun drooped; purple stripes +In the sea were copied from some clouds that lay +Out in the west. And lo! the boat, and more, +The freakish thing to take fair Gladys home +She mowed at her, but Gladys took the helm: +"Peace, peace!" she said; "be good: you shall not steer, +For I am your liege lady." Then she sang +The sweetest songs she knew all the way home. + +So Gladys set her feet upon the sand; +While in the sunset glory died away +The peaks of that blest island. + + "Fare you well. +My country, my own kingdom," then she said, +"Till I go visit you again, farewell." + +She looked toward their house with whom she dwelt,-- +The carriages were coming. Hastening up, +She was in time to meet them at the door, +And lead the sleepy little ones within; +And some were cross and shivered, and her dames +Were weary and right hard to please; but she +Felt like a beggar suddenly endowed +With a warm cloak to 'fend her from the cold. +"For, come what will," she said, "I had _to-day_. +There is an island." + + _The Moral._ + +What is the moral? Let us think awhile, +Taking the editorial WE to help, +It sounds respectable. + + The moral; yes. +We always read, when any fable ends, +"Hence we may learn." A moral must be found. +What do you think of this? "Hence we may learn +That dolphins swim about the coast of Wales, +And Admiralty maps should now be drawn +By teacher-girls, because their sight is keen, +And they can spy out islands." Will that do? +No, that is far too plain,--too evident. + +Perhaps a general moralizing vein-- +(We know we have a happy knack that way. +We have observed, moreover, that young men +Are fond of good advice, and so are girls; +Especially of that meandering kind, +Which winding on so sweetly, treats of all +They ought to be and do and think and wear, +As one may say, from creeds to comforters. +Indeed, we much prefer that sort ourselves, +So soothing). Good, a moralizing vein; +That is the thing; but how to manage it? +"_Hence we may learn_," if we be so inclined, +That life goes best with those who take it best; +That wit can spin from work a golden robe +To queen it in; that who can paint at will +A private picture gallery, should not cry +For shillings that will let him in to look +At some by others painted. Furthermore, +Hence we may learn, you poets,--(_and we count +For poets all who ever felt that such +They were, and all who secretly have known +That such they could be; ay, moreover, all +Who wind the robes of ideality +About the bareness of their lives, and hang +Comforting curtains, knit of fancy's yarn, +Nightly betwixt them and the frosty world_),-- +Hence we may learn, you poets, that of all +We should be most content. The earth is given +To us: we reign by virtue of a sense +Which lets us hear the rhythm of that old verse, +The ring of that old tune whereto she spins. +Humanity is given to us: we reign +By virtue of a sense, which lets us in +To know its troubles ere they have been told, +And take them home and lull them into rest +With mournfullest music. Time is given to us,-- +Time past, time future. Who, good sooth, beside +Have seen it well, have walked this empty world +When she went steaming, and from pulpy hills +Have marked the spurting of their flamy crowns? + + Have we not seen the tabernacle pitched, +And peered between the linen curtains, blue, +Purple, and scarlet, at the dimness there, +And, frighted, have not dared to look again? +But, quaint antiquity! beheld, we thought, +A chest that might have held the manna pot +And Aaron's rod that budded. Ay, we leaned +Over the edge of Britain, while the fleet +Of Caesar loomed and neared; then, afterwards, +We saw fair Venice looking at herself +In the glass below her, while her Doge went forth +In all his bravery to the wedding. + + This, +However, counts for nothing to the grace +We wot of in time future:--therefore add, +And afterwards have done: "_Hence we may learn_," +That though it be a grand and comely thing +To be unhappy,--(and we think it is, +Because so many grand and clever folk +Have found out reasons for unhappiness, +And talked about uncomfortable things,-- +Low motives, bores, and shams, and hollowness, +The hollowness o' the world, till we at last +Have scarcely dared to jump or stamp, for fear, +Being so hollow, it should break some day, +And let us in),--yet, since we are not grand, +O, not at all, and as for cleverness, +That may be or may not be,--it is well +For us to be as happy as we can! + +Agreed: and with a word to the noble sex, +As thus: we pray you carry not your guns +On the full-cock; we pray you set your pride +In its proper place, and never be ashamed +Of any honest calling,--let us add, +And end; for all the rest, hold up your heads +And mind your English. + + +Note to "GLADYS AND HER ISLAND." + + +The woman is Imagination; she is brooding over what she brought forth. + +The two purple peaks represent the domains of Poetry and of History. + +The girl is Fancy. + + + + +SONGS WITH PRELUDES. + +[Illustration] + + + + +SONGS WITH PRELUDES. + + +WEDLOCK. + +The sun was streaming in: I woke, and said, +"Where is my wife,--that has been made my wife +Only this year?" The casement stood ajar: +I did but lift my head: The pear-tree dropped, +The great white pear-tree dropped with dew from leaves +And blossom, under heavens of happy blue. + +My wife had wakened first, and had gone down +Into the orchard. All the air was calm; +Audible humming filled it. At the roots +Of peony bushes lay in rose-red heaps, +Or snowy, fallen bloom. The crag-like hills +Were tossing down their silver messengers, +And two brown foreigners, called cuckoo-birds, +Gave them good answer; all things else were mute; +An idle world lay listening to their talk, +They had it to themselves. + What ails my wife? +I know not if aught ails her; though her step +Tell of a conscious quiet, lest I wake. +She moves atween the almond boughs, and bends +One thick with bloom to look on it. "O love! +A little while thou hast withdrawn thyself, +At unaware to think thy thoughts alone: +How sweet, and yet pathetic to my heart +The reason. Ah! thou art no more thine own. +Mine, mine, O love! Tears gather 'neath my lids,-- +Sorrowful tears for thy lost liberty, +Because it was so sweet. Thy liberty, +That yet, O love, thou wouldst not have again. +No; all is right. But who can give, or bless, +Or take a blessing, but there comes withal +Some pain?" + She walks beside the lily bed, +And holds apart her gown; she would not hurt +The leaf-enfolded buds, that have not looked +Yet on the daylight. O, thy locks are brown,-- +Fairest of colors!--and a darker brown +The beautiful, dear, veiled, modest eyes. +A bloom as of blush roses covers her +Forehead, and throat, and cheek. Health breathes with her, +And graceful vigor. Fair and wondrous soul! +To think that thou art mine! + My wife came in, +And moved into the chamber. As for me, +I heard, but lay as one that nothing hears, +And feigned to be asleep. + +I. + +The racing river leaped, and sang + Full blithely in the perfect weather, +All round the mountain echoes rang, + For blue and green were glad together. + +II. + +This rained out light from every part, + And that with songs of joy was thrilling; +But, in the hollow of my heart, + There ached a place that wanted filling. + +III. + +Before the road and river meet, + And stepping-stones are wet and glisten, +I heard a sound of laughter sweet, + And paused to like it, and to listen. + +IV. + +I heard the chanting waters flow, + The cushat's note, the bee's low humming,-- +Then turned the hedge, and did not know,-- + How could I?--that my time was coming. + +V. + +A girl upon the nighest stone, + Half doubtful of the deed, was standing, +So far the shallow flood had flown + Beyond the 'customed leap of landing. + +VI. + +She knew not any need of me, + Yet me she waited all unweeting; +We thought not I had crossed the sea, + And half the sphere to give her meeting. + +VII. + +I waded out, her eyes I met, + I wished the moment had been hours; +I took her in my arms, and set + Her dainty feet among the flowers. + +VIII. + +Her fellow maids in copse and lane, + Ah! still, methinks, I hear them calling; +The wind's soft whisper in the plain, + The cushat's coo, the water's falling. + +IX. + +But now it is a year ago, + But now possession crowns endeavor; +I took her in my heart, to grow + And fill the hollow place forever. + + +REGRET. + +O that word REGRET! +There have been nights and morns when we have sighed, +"Let us alone, Regret! We are content +To throw thee all our past, so thou wilt sleep +For aye." But it is patient, and it wakes; +It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep, +But plaineth on the bed that it is hard. + +We did amiss when we did wish it gone +And over: sorrows humanize our race; +Tears are the showers that fertilize this world; +And memory of things precious keepeth warm +The heart that once did hold them. + They are poor +That have lost nothing; they are poorer far +Who, losing, have forgotten; they most poor +Of all, who lose and wish they MIGHT forget. + +For life is one, and in its warp and woof +There runs a thread of gold that glitters fair, +And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet +Where there are sombre colors. It is true +That we have wept. But O! this thread of gold, +We would not have it tarnish; let us turn +Oft and look back upon the wondrous web, +And when it shineth sometimes we shall know +That memory is possession. + +I. + +When I remember something which I had, + But which is gone, and I must do without, +I sometimes wonder how I can be glad, + Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout; +It makes me sigh to think on it,--but yet +My days will not be better days, should I forget. + +II. + +When I remember something promised me, + But which I never had, nor can have now, +Because the promiser we no more see + In countries that accord with mortal vow; +When I remember this, I mourn,--but yet +My happier days are not the days when I forget. + + +LAMENTATION. + +I read upon that book, +Which down the golden gulf doth let us look +On the sweet days of pastoral majesty; + I read upon that book + How, when the Shepherd Prince did flee + (Red Esau's twin), he desolate took +The stone for a pillow: then he fell on sleep. +And lo! there was a ladder. Lo! there hung +A ladder from the star-place, and it clung +To the earth: it tied her so to heaven; and O! + There fluttered wings; +Then were ascending and descending things + That stepped to him where he lay low; +Then up the ladder would a-drifting go +(This feathered brood of heaven), and show +Small as white flakes in winter that are blown +Together, underneath the great white throne. + + When I had shut the book, I said, +"Now, as for me, my dreams upon my bed + Are not like Jacob's dream; +Yet I have got it in my life; yes, I, +And many more: it doth not us beseem, + Therefore, to sigh. +Is there not hung a ladder in our sky? +Yea; and, moreover, all the way up on high +Is thickly peopled with the prayers of men. + We have no dream! What then? +Like wingéd wayfarers the height they scale +(By Him that offers them they shall prevail),-- + The prayers of men. + But where is found a prayer for me; + How should I pray? + My heart is sick, and full of strife. +I heard one whisper with departing breath, +'Suffer us not, for any pains of death, + To fall from Thee.' +But O, the pains of life! the pains of life! + There is no comfort now, and naught to win, + But yet,--I will begin." + +I. + +"Preserve to me my wealth," I do not say, + For that is wasted away; +And much of it was cankered ere it went. +"Preserve to me my health." I cannot say, + For that, upon a day, +Went after other delights to banishment. + +II. + +What can I pray? "Give me forgetfulness"? + No, I would still possess +Past away smiles, though present fronts be stern. +"Give me again my kindred?" Nay; not so, + Not idle prayers. We know +They that have crossed the river cannot return. + +III. + +I do not pray, "Comfort me! comfort me!" + For how should comfort be? +O,--O that cooing mouth,--that little white head! +No; but I pray, "If it be not too late, + Open to me the gate, +That I may find my babe when I am dead. + +IV. + +"Show me the path. I had forgotten Thee + When I was happy and free, +Walking down here in the gladsome light o' the sun; +But now I come and mourn; O set my feet + In the road to Thy blest seat, +And for the rest, O God, Thy will be done." + + +DOMINION. + +When found the rose delight in her fair hue? +Color is nothing to this world; 'tis I +That see it. Farther, I have found, my soul, +That trees are nothing to their fellow trees; +It is but I that love their stateliness, +And I that, comforting my heart, do sit +At noon beneath their shadow. I will step +On the ledges of this world, for it is mine; +But the other world ye wot of, shall go too; +I will carry it in my bosom. O my world, +That was not built with clay! + Consider it +(This outer world we tread on) as a harp,-- +A gracious instrument on whose fair strings +We learn those airs we shall be set to play +When mortal hours are ended. Let the wings, +Man, of thy spirit move on it as wind, +And draw forth melody. Why shouldst thou yet +Lie grovelling? More is won than e'er was lost: +Inherit. Let thy day be to thy night +A teller of good tidings. Let thy praise +Go up as birds go up that, when they wake, +Shake off the dew and soar. + So take Joy home, +And make a place in thy great heart for her, +And give her time to grow, and cherish her; +Then will she come, and oft will sing to thee, +When thou art working in the furrows; ay, +Or weeding in the sacred hour of dawn. +It is a comely fashion to be glad,-- +Joy is the grace we say to God. + Art tired? +There is a rest remaining. Hast thou sinned? +There is a Sacrifice. Lift up thy head, +The lovely world, and the over-world alike, +Ring with a song eterne, a happy rede, +"THY FATHER LOVES THEE." + +I. + +Yon mooréd mackerel fleet + Hangs thick as a swarm of bees, +Or a clustering village street + Foundationless built on the seas. + +II. + +The mariners ply their craft, + Each set in his castle frail; +His care is all for the draught, + And he dries the rain-beaten sail. + +III. + +For rain came down in the night, + And thunder muttered full oft, +But now the azure is bright. + And hawks are wheeling aloft. + +IV. + +I take the land to my breast, + In her coat with daisies fine; +For me are the hills in their best, + And all that's made is mine. + +V. + +Sing high! "Though the red sun dip, + There yet is a day for me; +Nor youth I count for a ship + That long ago foundered at sea. + +VI. + +"Did the lost love die and depart? + Many times since we have met; +For I hold the years in my heart, + And all that was--is yet. + +VII. + +"I grant to the king his reign; + Let us yield him homage due; +But over the lands there are twain, + O king, I must rule as you. + +VIII. + +"I grant to the wise his meed, + But his yoke I will not brook, +For God taught ME to read,-- + He lent me the world for a book." + + +FRIENDSHIP. + +ON A SUN-PORTRAIT OF HER HUSBAND, SENT BY HIS +WIFE TO THEIR FRIEND. + +Beautiful eyes,--and shall I see no more +The living thought when it would leap from them, +And play in all its sweetness 'neath their lids? + +Here was a man familiar with fair heights +That poets climb. Upon his peace the tears +And troubles of our race deep inroads made, +Yet life was sweet to him; he kept his heart +At home. Who saw his wife might well have thought,-- +"God loves this man. He chose a wife for him,-- +The true one!" O sweet eyes, that seem to live, +I know so much of you, tell me the rest! +Eyes full of fatherhood and tender care +For small, young children. Is a message here +That you would fain have sent, but had not time? +If such there be, I promise, by long love +And perfect friendship, by all trust that comes +Of understanding, that I will not fail, +No, nor delay to find it. + O, my heart +Will often pain me as for some strange fault,-- +Some grave defect in nature,--when I think +How I, delighted, 'neath those olive-trees, +Moved to the music of the tideless main, +While, with sore weeping, in an island home +They laid that much-loved head beneath the sod, +And I did not know. + +I. + +I stand on the bridge where last we stood + When young leaves played at their best. +The children called us from yonder wood, + And rock-doves crooned on the nest. + +II. + +Ah, yet you call,--in your gladness call,-- + And I hear your pattering feet; +It does not matter, matter at all, + You fatherless children sweet,-- + +III. + +It does not matter at all to you, + Young hearts that pleasure besets; +The father sleeps, but the world is new, + The child of his love forgets. + +IV. + +I too, it may be, before they drop, + The leaves that flicker to-day, +Ere bountiful gleams make ripe the crop, + Shall pass from my place away: + +V. + +Ere yon gray cygnet puts on her white, + Or snow lies soft on the wold, +Shall shut these eyes on the lovely light, + And leave the story untold. + +VI. + +Shall I tell it there? Ah, let that be, + For the warm pulse beats so high; +To love to-day, and to breathe and see,-- + To-morrow perhaps to die,-- + +VII. + +Leave it with God. But this I have known, + That sorrow is over soon; +Some in dark nights, sore weeping alone, + Forget by full of the moon. + +VIII. + +But if all loved, as the few can love, + This world would seldom be well; +And who need wish, if he dwells above, + For a deep, a long death knell. + +IX. + +There are four or five, who, passing this place, + While they live will name me yet; +And when I am gone will think on my face, + And feel a kind of regret. + + + + +WINSTANLEY. + + +_THE APOLOGY._ + +_Quoth the cedar to the reeds and rushes, + "Water-grass, you know not what I do; +Know not of my storms, nor of my hushes. + And--I know not you." + +Quoth the reeds and rushes, "Wind! O waken! + Breathe, O wind, and set our answer free, +For we have no voice, of you forsaken, + For the cedar-tree." + +Quoth the earth at midnight to the ocean, + "Wilderness of water, lost to view, +Naught you are to me but sounds of motion; + I am naught to you." + +Quoth the ocean, "Dawn! O fairest, clearest, + Touch me with thy golden fingers bland; +For I have no smile till thou appearest + For the lovely land."_ + +_Quoth the hero dying, whelmed in glory + "Many blame me, few have understood; +Ah, my folk, to you I leave a story,-- + Make its meaning good." + +Quoth the folk, "Sing, poet! teach us, prove us + Surely we shall learn the meaning then; +Wound us with a pain divine, O move us, + For this man of men."_ + + * * * * * + +Winstanley's deed, you kindly folk, + With it I fill my lay, +And a nobler man ne'er walked the world, + Let his name be what it may. + +The good ship "Snowdrop" tarried long, + Up at the vane looked he; +"Belike," he said, for the wind had dropped, + "She lieth becalmed at sea." + +The lovely ladies flocked within, + And still would each one say, +"Good mercer, be the ships come up?" + But still he answered "Nay." + +Then stepped two mariners down the street, + With looks of grief and fear: +"Now, if Winstanley be your name, + We bring you evil cheer! + +"For the good ship 'Snowdrop' struck,--she struck + On the rock,--the Eddystone, +And down she went with threescore men, + We two being left alone. + +"Down in the deep, with freight and crew, + Past any help she lies, +And never a bale has come to shore + Of all thy merchandise." + +"For cloth o' gold and comely frieze," + Winstanley said, and sighed, +"For velvet coif, or costly coat, + They fathoms deep may bide. + +"O thou brave skipper, blithe and kind, + O mariners, bold and true, +Sorry at heart, right sorry am I, + A-thinking of yours and you. + +"Many long days Winstanley's breast + Shall feel a weight within, +For a waft of wind he shall be 'feared + And trading count but sin. + +"To him no more it shall be joy + To pace the cheerful town, +And see the lovely ladies gay + Step on in velvet gown." + +The "Snowdrop" sank at Lammas tide, + All under the yeasty spray; +On Christmas Eve the brig "Content" + Was also cast away. + +He little thought o' New Year's night, + So jolly as he sat then, +While drank the toast and praised the roast + The round-faced Aldermen,-- + +While serving lads ran to and fro, + Pouring the ruby wine, +And jellies trembled on the board, + And towering pasties fine,-- + +While loud huzzas ran up the roof + Till the lamps did rock o'erhead, +And holly-boughs from rafters hung + Dropped down their berries red,-- + +He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, + With every rising tide, +How the wave washed in his sailor lads, + And laid them side by side. + +There stepped a stranger to the board: + "Now, stranger, who be ye?" +He looked to right, he looked to left, + And "Rest you merry," quoth he; + +"For you did not see the brig go down, + Or ever a storm had blown; +For you did not see the white wave rear + At the rock,--the Eddystone. + +"She drave at the rock with sternsails set; + Crash went the masts in twain; +She staggered back with her mortal blow, + Then leaped at it again. + +"There rose a great cry, bitter and strong, + The misty moon looked out! +And the water swarmed with seamen's heads, + And the wreck was strewed about. + +"I saw her mainsail lash the sea + As I clung to the rock alone; +Then she heeled over, and down she went, + And sank like any stone. + +"She was a fair ship, but all's one! + For naught could bide the shock." +"I will take horse," Winstanley said, + "And see this deadly rock." + +"For never again shall bark o' mine + Sail over the windy sea, +Unless, by the blessing of God, for this + Be found a remedy." + +Winstanley rode to Plymouth town + All in the sleet and the snow, +And he looked around on shore and sound + As he stood on Plymouth Hoe. + +Till a pillar of spray rose far away, + And shot up its stately head, +Reared and fell over, and reared again: + "'Tis the rock! the rock!" he said. + +Straight to the Mayor he took his way, + "Good Master Mayor," quoth he, +"I am a mercer of London town, + And owner of vessels three,-- + +"But for your rock of dark renown, + I had five to track the main." +"You are one of many," the old Mayor said, + "That on the rock complain. + +"An ill rock, mercer! your words ring right, + Well with my thoughts they chime, +For my two sons to the world to come + It sent before their time." + +"Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor, + And a score of shipwrights free, +For I think to raise a lantern tower + On this rock o' destiny." + +The old Mayor laughed, but sighed alsó; + "Ah, youth," quoth he, "is rash; +Sooner, young man, thou'lt root it out + From the sea that doth it lash. + +"Who sails too near its jagged teeth, + He shall have evil lot; +For the calmest seas that tumble there + Froth like a boiling pot. + +"And the heavier seas few look on nigh, + But straight they lay him in dead; +A seventy-gun-ship, sir!--they'll shoot + Higher than her mast-head. + +"O, beacons sighted in the dark, + They are right welcome things, +And pitchpots flaming on the shore + Show fair as angel wings. + +"Hast gold in hand? then light the land, + It 'longs to thee and me; +But let alone the deadly rock + In God Almighty's sea." + +Yet said he, "Nay,--I must away, + On the rock to set my feet; +My debts are paid, my will I made, + Or ever I did thee greet. + +"If I must die, then let me die + By the rock and not elsewhere; +If I may live, O let me live + To mount my lighthouse stair." + +The old Mayor looked him in the face, + And answered, "Have thy way; +Thy heart is stout, as if round about + It was braced with an iron stay: + +"Have thy will, mercer! choose thy men, + Put off from the storm-rid shore; +God with thee be, or I shall see + Thy face and theirs no more." + +Heavily plunged the breaking wave, + And foam flew up the lea, +Morning and even the drifted snow + Fell into the dark gray sea. + +Winstanley chose him men and gear; + He said, "My time I waste," +For the seas ran seething up the shore, + And the wrack drave on in haste. + +But twenty days he waited and more, + Pacing the strand alone, +Or ever he sat his manly foot + On the rock,--the Eddystone. + +Then he and the sea began their strife, + And worked with power and might: +Whatever the man reared up by day + The sea broke down by night. + +He wrought at ebb with bar and beam, + He sailed to shore at flow; +And at his side, by that same tide, + Came bar and beam alsó. + +"Give in, give in," the old Mayor cried, + "Or thou wilt rue the day." +"Yonder he goes," the townsfolk sighed, + "But the rock will have its way. + +"For all his looks that are so stout, + And his speeches brave and fair, +He may wait on the wind, wait on the wave, + But he'll build no lighthouse there." + +In fine weather and foul weather + The rock his arts did flout, +Through the long days and the short days, + Till all that year ran out. + +With fine weather and foul weather + Another year came in; +"To take his wage," the workmen said, + "We almost count a sin." + +Now March was gone, came April in, + And a sea-fog settled down, +And forth sailed he on a glassy sea, + He sailed from Plymouth town. + +With men and stores he put to sea, + As he was wont to do; +They showed in the fog like ghosts full faint,-- + A ghostly craft and crew. + +And the sea-fog lay and waxed alway, + For a long eight days and more; +"God help our men," quoth the women then; + "For they bide long from shore." + +They paced the Hoe in doubt and dread: + "Where may our mariners be?" +But the brooding fog lay soft as down + Over the quiet sea. + +A Scottish schooner made the port, + The thirteenth day at e'en; +"As I am a man," the captain cried, + "A strange sight I have seen: + +"And a strange sound heard, my masters all, + At sea, in the fog and the rain, +Like shipwrights' hammers tapping low, + Then loud, then low again. + +"And a stately house one instant showed, + Through a rift, on the vessel's lee; +What manner of creatures may be those + That build upon the sea?" + +Then sighed the folk, "The Lord be praised!" + And they flocked to the shore amain; +All over the Hoe that livelong night, + Many stood out in the rain. + +It ceased, and the red sun reared his head, + And the rolling fog did flee; +And, lo! in the offing faint and far + Winstanley's house at sea! + +In fair weather with mirth and cheer + The stately tower uprose; +In foul weather, with hunger and cold, + They were content to close; + +Till up the stair Winstanley went, + To fire the wick afar; +And Plymouth in the silent night + Looked out, and saw her star. + +Winstanley set his foot ashore; + Said he, "My work is done; +I hold it strong to last as long + As aught beneath the sun. + +"But if it fail, as fail it may, + Borne down with ruin and rout, +Another than I shall rear it high, + And brace the girders stout. + +"A better than I shall rear it high, + For now the way is plain, +And tho' I were dead," Winstanley said, + "The light would shine again. + +"Yet, were I fain still to remain, + Watch in my tower to keep, +And tend my light in the stormiest night + That ever did move the deep; + +"And if it stood, why then 'twere good, + Amid their tremulous stirs, +To count each stroke when the mad waves broke, + For cheers of mariners. + +"But if it fell, then this were well, + That I should with it fall; +Since, for my part, I have built my heart + In the courses of its wall. + +"Ay! I were fain, long to remain, + Watch in my tower to keep, +And tend my light in the stormiest night + That ever did move the deep." + +With that Winstanley went his way, + And left the rock renowned, +And summer and winter his pilot star + Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound. + +But it fell out, fell out at last, + That he would put to sea, +To scan once more his lighthouse tower + On the rock o' destiny. + +And the winds woke, and the storm broke, + And wrecks came plunging in; +None in the town that night lay down + Or sleep or rest to win. + +The great mad waves were rolling graves, + And each flung up its dead; +The seething flow was white below, + And black the sky o'erhead. + +And when the dawn, the dull, gray dawn,-- + Broke on the trembling town, +And men looked south to the harbor mouth, + The lighthouse tower was down. + +Down in the deep where he doth sleep, + Who made it shine afar, +And then in the night that drowned its light, + Set, with his pilot star. + +_Many fair tombs in the glorious glooms + At Westminster they show; +The brave and the great lie there in state: + Winstanley lieth low._ + +[Illustration] + + + + +END OF VOL. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume I. + +Author: Jean Ingelow + +Release Date: August 19, 2004 [EBook #13223] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS BY JEAN INGELOW, I. *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland and PG Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + +POEMS + +BY + +JEAN INGELOW + +_IN TWO VOLUMES_ + + + + +VOL. I. + + + + +BOSTON + +ROBERTS BROTHERS + +1896 + + +AUTHOR'S COMPLETE EDITION + + + + +_DEDICATION_ + + +TO + +GEORGE KILGOUR INGELOW + + +YOUR LOVING SISTER + +OFFERS YOU THESE POEMS, PARTLY AS + +AN EXPRESSION OF HER AFFECTION, PARTLY FOR THE + +PLEASURE OF CONNECTING HER EFFORTS + +WITH YOUR NAME + + + +KENSINGTON: _June_, 1863 + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. I. + + +DIVIDED +HONORS.--PART I. +HONORS.--PART II. +REQUIESCAT IN PACE +SUPPER AT THE MILL +SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER +THE STAR'S MONUMENT +A DEAD YEAR +REFLECTIONS +THE LETTER L +THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE (1571) +AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE +SONGS OF SEVEN +A COTTAGE IN A CHINE +PERSEPHONE +A SEA SONG +BROTHERS, AND A SERMON +A WEDDING SONG +THE FOUR BRIDGES +A MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD +STRIFE AND PEACE + +THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE + +SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. + INTRODUCTION.--CHILD AND BOATMAN + THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD BY THE UNSATISFIED HEART + SAND MARTINS + A POET IN HIS YOUTH AND THE CUCKOO-BIRD + A RAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE + THE WARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS + SEA-MEWS IN WINTER-TIME + +LAURANCE + +SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. + INTRODUCTORY.--EVENING + THE FIRST WATCH.--TIRED + THE MIDDLE WATCH + THE MORNING WATCH + CONCLUDING.--EARLY DAWN + +CONTRASTED SONGS. + SAILING BEYOND SEAS + REMONSTRANCE + SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF CHRIST'S RESURRECTION + SONG OF MARGARET + SONG OF THE GOING AWAY + A LILY AND A LUTE + +GLADYS AND HER ISLAND + +SONGS WITH PRELUDES. + WEDLOCK + REGRET + LAMENTATION + DOMINION + FRIENDSHIP + +WINSTANLEY + + + + +DIVIDED. + + +I. + +An empty sky, a world of heather, + Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom; +We two among them wading together, + Shaking out honey, treading perfume. + +Crowds of bees are giddy with clover, + Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet, +Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, + Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. + +Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, + Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, +'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver, + Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. + +We two walk till the purple dieth + And short dry grass under foot is brown. +But one little streak at a distance lieth + Green like a ribbon to prank the down. + + +II. + +Over the grass we stepped unto it, + And God He knoweth how blithe we were! +Never a voice to bid us eschew it: + Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair! + +Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it, + We parted the grasses dewy and sheen; +Drop over drop there filtered and slided + A tiny bright beck that trickled between. + +Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sang to us, + Light was our talk as of faëry bells-- +Faëry wedding-bells faintly rung to us + Down in their fortunate parallels. + +Hand in hand, while the sun peered over, + We lapped the grass on that youngling spring; +Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover, + And said, "Let us follow it westering." + + +III. + +A dappled sky, a world of meadows, + Circling above us the black rooks fly +Forward, backward; lo, their dark shadows + Flit on the blossoming tapestry-- + +Flit on the beck, for her long grass parteth + As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back; +And, lo, the sun like a lover darteth + His flattering smile on her wayward track. + +Sing on! we sing in the glorious weather + Till one steps over the tiny strand, +So narrow, in sooth, that still together + On either brink we go hand in hand. + +The beck grows wider, the hands must sever. + On either margin, our songs all done, +We move apart, while she singeth ever, + Taking the course of the stooping sun. + +He prays, "Come over"--I may not follow; + I cry, "Return"--but he cannot come: +We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow; + Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb. + + +IV. + +A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, + A little talking of outward things +The careless beck is a merry dancer, + Keeping sweet time to the air she sings. + +A little pain when the beck grows wider; + "Cross to me now--for her wavelets swell." +"I may not cross,"--and the voice beside her + Faintly reacheth, though heeded well. + +No backward path; ah! no returning; + No second crossing that ripple's flow: +"Come to me now, for the west is burning; + Come ere it darkens;"--"Ah, no! ah, no!" + +Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching-- + The beck grows wider and swift and deep: +Passionate words as of one beseeching-- + The loud beck drowns them; we walk, and weep. + + +V. + +A yellow moon in splendor drooping, + A tired queen with her state oppressed, +Low by rushes and swordgrass stooping, + Lies she soft on the waves at rest. + +The desert heavens have felt her sadness; + Her earth will weep her some dewy tears; +The wild beck ends her tune of gladness, + And goeth stilly as soul that fears. + +We two walk on in our grassy places + On either marge of the moonlit flood, +With the moon's own sadness in our faces, + Where joy is withered, blossom and bud. + + +VI. + +A shady freshness, chafers whirring, + A little piping of leaf-hid birds; +A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring, + A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds. + +Bare grassy slopes, where kids are tethered + Round valleys like nests all ferny-lined; +Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, + Swell high in their freckled robes behind. + +A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver, + When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide; +A flashing edge for the milk-white river, + The beck, a river--with still sleek tide. + +Broad and white, and polished as silver, + On she goes under fruit-laden trees; +Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver, + And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties. + +Glitters the dew and shines the river, + Up comes the lily and dries her bell; +But two are walking apart forever, + And wave their hands for a mute farewell. + + +VII. + +A braver swell, a swifter sliding; + The river hasteth, her banks recede: +Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding + Bear down the lily and drown the reed. + +Stately prows are rising and bowing + (Shouts of mariners winnow the air), +And level sands for banks endowing + The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. + +While, O my heart! as white sails shiver, + And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide +How hard to follow, with lips that quiver, + That moving speck on the far-off side! + +Farther, farther--I see it--know it-- + My eyes brim over, it melts away: +Only my heart to my heart shall show it + As I walk desolate day by day. + + +VII. + +And yet I know past all doubting, truly-- + A knowledge greater than grief can dim-- +I know, as he loved, he will love me duly-- + Yea better--e'en better than I love him. + +And as I walk by the vast calm river, + The awful river so dread to see, +I say, "Thy breadth and thy depth forever + Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me." + + + + +HONORS.--PART I. + +(_A Scholar is musing on his want of success._) + + +To strive--and fail. Yes, I did strive and fail; + I set mine eyes upon a certain night +To find a certain star--and could not hail + With them its deep-set light. + +Fool that I was! I will rehearse my fault: + I, wingless, thought myself on high to lift +Among the winged--I set these feet that halt + To run against the swift. + +And yet this man, that loved me so, can write-- + That loves me, I would say, can let me see; +Or fain would have me think he counts but light + These Honors lost to me. + + (_The letter of his friend._) +"What are they? that old house of yours which gave + Such welcome oft to me, the sunbeams fall +Yet, down the squares of blue and white which pave + Its hospitable hall. + +"A brave old house! a garden full of bees, + Large dropping poppies, and Queen hollyhocks, +With butterflies for crowns--tree peonies + And pinks and goldilocks. + +"Go, when the shadow of your house is long + Upon the garden--when some new-waked bird. +Pecking and fluttering, chirps a sudden song, + And not a leaf is stirred; + +"But every one drops dew from either edge + Upon its fellow, while an amber ray +Slants up among the tree-tops like a wedge + Of liquid gold--to play + +"Over and under them, and so to fall + Upon that lane of water lying below-- +That piece of sky let in, that you do call + A pond, but which I know + +"To be a deep and wondrous world; for I + Have seen the trees within it--marvellous things +So thick no bird betwixt their leaves could fly + But she would smite her wings;-- + +"Go there, I say; stand at the water's brink, + And shoals of spotted barbel you shall see +Basking between the shadows--look, and think + 'This beauty is for me; + +"'For me this freshness in the morning hours, + For me the water's clear tranquillity; +For me the soft descent of chestnut flowers; + The cushat's cry for me. + +"'The lovely laughter of the wind-swayed wheat + The easy slope of yonder pastoral hill; +The sedgy brook whereby the red kine meet + And wade and drink their fill.' + +"Then saunter down that terrace whence the sea + All fair with wing-like sails you may discern; +Be glad, and say 'This beauty is for me-- + A thing to love and learn. + +"'For me the bounding in of tides; for me + The laying bare of sands when they retreat; +The purple flush of calms, the sparkling glee + When waves and sunshine meet.' + +"So, after gazing, homeward turn, and mount + To that long chamber in the roof; there tell +Your heart the laid-up lore it holds to count + And prize and ponder well. + +"The lookings onward of the race before + It had a past to make it look behind; +Its reverent wonder, and its doubting sore, + Its adoration blind. + +"The thunder of its war-songs, and the glow + Of chants to freedom by the old world sung; +The sweet love cadences that long ago + Dropped from the old-world tongue. + +"And then this new-world lore that takes account + Of tangled star-dust; maps the triple whirl +Of blue and red and argent worlds that mount + And greet the IRISH EARL; + +"Or float across the tube that HERSCHEL sways, + Like pale-rose chaplets, or like sapphire mist; +Or hang or droop along the heavenly ways, + Like scarves of amethyst. + +"O strange it is and wide the new-world lore, + For next it treateth of our native dust! +Must dig out buried monsters, and explore + The green earth's fruitful crust; + +"Must write the story of her seething youth-- + How lizards paddled in her lukewarm seas; +Must show the cones she ripened, and forsooth + Count seasons on her trees; + +"Must know her weight, and pry into her age, + Count her old beach lines by their tidal swell; +Her sunken mountains name, her craters gauge, + Her cold volcanoes tell; + +"And treat her as a ball, that one might pass + From this hand to the other--such a ball +As he could measure with a blade of grass, + And say it was but small! + +"Honors! O friend, I pray you bear with me: + The grass hath time to grow in meadow lands, +And leisurely the opal murmuring sea + Breaks on her yellow sands; + +"And leisurely the ring-dove on her nest + Broods till her tender chick will peck the shell +And leisurely down fall from ferny crest + The dew-drops on the well; + +"And leisurely your life and spirit grew, + With yet the time to grow and ripen free: +No judgment past withdraws that boon from you, + Nor granteth it to me. + +"Still must I plod, and still in cities moil; + From precious leisure, learned leisure far, +Dull my best self with handling common soil; + Yet mine those honors are. + +"Mine they are called; they are a name which means, + 'This man had steady pulses, tranquil nerves: +Here, as in other fields, the most he gleans + Who works and never swerves. + +"We measure not his mind; we cannot tell + What lieth under, over, or beside +The test we put him to; he doth excel, + We know, where he is tried; + +"But, if he boast some farther excellence-- + Mind to create as well as to attain; +To sway his peers by golden eloquence, + As wind doth shift a fane; + +"'To sing among the poets--we are nought: + We cannot drop a line into that sea +And read its fathoms off, nor gauge a thought, + Nor map a simile. + +"'It may be of all voices sublunar + The only one he echoes we did try; +We may have come upon the only star + That twinkles in his sky,' + +"And so it was with me." + O false my friend! + False, false, a random charge, a blame undue; +Wrest not fair reasoning to a crooked end: + False, false, as you are true! + +But I read on: "And so it was with me; + Your golden constellations lying apart +They neither hailed nor greeted heartily, + Nor noted on their chart. + +"And yet to you and not to me belong + Those finer instincts that, like second sight +And hearing, catch creation's undersong, + And see by inner light. + +"You are a well, whereon I, gazing, see + Reflections of the upper heavens--a well +From whence come deep, deep echoes up to me-- + Some underwave's low swell. + +"I cannot soar into the heights you show, + Nor dive among the deeps that you reveal; +But it is much that high things ARE to know, + That deep things ARE to feel. + +"'Tis yours, not mine, to pluck out of your breast + Some human truth, whose workings recondite +Were unattired in words, and manifest + And hold it forth to light + +"And cry, 'Behold this thing that I have found,' + And though they knew not of it till that day, +Nor should have done with no man to expound + Its meaning, yet they say, + +"'We do accept it: lower than the shoals + We skim, this diver went, nor did create, +But find it for us deeper in our souls + Than we can penetrate.' + +"You were to me the world's interpreter, + The man that taught me Nature's unknown tongue, +And to the notes of her wild dulcimer + First set sweet words, and sung. + +"And what am I to you? A steady hand + To hold, a steadfast heart to trust withal; +Merely a man that loves you, and will stand + By you, whatever befall. + +"But need we praise his tendance tutelar + Who feeds a flame that warms him? Yet 'tis true +I love you for the sake of what you are, + And not of what you do:-- + +"As heaven's high twins, whereof in Tyrian blue + The one revolveth: through his course immense +Might love his fellow of the damask hue, + For like, and difference. + +"For different pathways evermore decreed + To intersect, but not to interfere; +For common goal, two aspects, and one speed, + One centre and one year; + +"For deep affinities, for drawings strong, + That by their nature each must needs exert; +For loved alliance, and for union long, + That stands before desert. + +"And yet desert makes brighter not the less, + For nearest his own star he shall not fail +To think those rays unmatched for nobleness, + That distance counts but pale. + +"Be pale afar, since still to me you shine, + And must while Nature's eldest law shall hold;"-- +Ah, there's the thought which makes his random line + Dear as refinèd gold! + +Then shall I drink this draft of oxymel, + Part sweet, part sharp? Myself o'erprized to know +Is sharp; the cause is sweet, and truth to tell + Few would that cause forego, + +Which is, that this of all the men on earth + Doth love me well enough to count me great-- +To think my soul and his of equal girth-- + O liberal estimate! + +And yet it is so; he is bound to me, + For human love makes aliens near of kin; +By it I rise, there is equality: + I rise to thee, my twin. + +"Take courage"--courage! ay, my purple peer + I will take courage; for thy Tyrian rays +Refresh me to the heart, and strangely dear + And healing is thy praise. + +"Take courage," quoth he, "and respect the mind + Your Maker gave, for good your fate fulfil; +The fate round many hearts your own to wind." + Twin soul, I will! I will! + +[Illustration] + + + + +HONORS.--PART II. + +(_The Answer._) + + +As one who, journeying, checks the rein in haste + Because a chasm doth yawn across his way +Too wide for leaping, and too steeply faced + For climber to essay-- + +As such an one, being brought to sudden stand, + Doubts all his foregone path if 'twere the true, +And turns to this and then to the other hand + As knowing not what to do,-- + +So I, being checked, am with my path at strife + Which led to such a chasm, and there doth end. +False path! it cost me priceless years of life, + My well-beloved friend. + +There fell a flute when Ganymede went up-- + The flute that he was wont to play upon: +It dropped beside the jonquil's milk-white cup, + And freckled cowslips wan-- + +Dropped from his heedless hand when, dazed and mute, + He sailed upon the eagle's quivering wing, +Aspiring, panting--aye, it dropped--the flute + Erewhile a cherished thing. + +Among the delicate grasses and the bells + Of crocuses that spotted a rill side, +I picked up such a flute, and its clear swells + To my young lips replied. + +I played thereon, and its response was sweet; + But lo, they took from me that solacing reed. +"O shame!" they said; "such music is not meet; + Go up like Ganymede. + +"Go up, despise these humble grassy things, + Sit on the golden edge of yonder cloud." +Alas! though ne'er for me those eagle wings + Stooped from their eyry proud. + +My flute! and flung away its echoes sleep; + But as for me, my life-pulse beateth low; +And like a last-year's leaf enshrouded deep + Under the drifting snow, + +Or like some vessel wrecked upon the sand + Of torrid swamps, with all her merchandise, +And left to rot betwixt the sea and land, + My helpless spirit lies. + +Rueing, I think for what then was I made; + What end appointed for--what use designed? +Now let me right this heart that was bewrayed-- + Unveil these eyes gone blind. + +My well-beloved friend, at noon to-day + Over our cliffs a white mist lay unfurled, +So thick, one standing on their brink might say, + Lo, here doth end the world. + +A white abyss beneath, and nought beside; + Yet, hark! a cropping sound not ten feet down: +Soon I could trace some browsing lambs that hied + Through rock-paths cleft and brown. + +And here and there green tufts of grass peered through, + Salt lavender, and sea thrift; then behold +The mist, subsiding ever, bared to view + A beast of giant mould. + +She seemed a great sea-monster lying content + With all her cubs about her: but deep--deep-- +The subtle mist went floating; its descent + Showed the world's end was steep. + +It shook, it melted, shaking more, till, lo, + The sprawling monster was a rock; her brood +Were boulders, whereon sea-mews white as snow + Sat watching for their food. + +Then once again it sank, its day was done: + Part rolled away, part vanished utterly, +And glimmering softly under the white sun, + Behold! a great white sea. + +O that the mist which veileth my To-come + Would so dissolve and yield unto mine eyes +A worthy path! I'd count not wearisome + Long toil, nor enterprise, + +But strain to reach it; ay, with wrestlings stout + And hopes that even in the dark will grow +(Like plants in dungeons, reaching feelers out), + And ploddings wary and slow. + +Is there such path already made to fit + The measure of my foot? It shall atone +For much, if I at length may light on it + And know it for mine own. + +But is there none? why, then, 'tis more than well: + And glad at heart myself will hew one out, +Let me he only sure; for, sooth to tell, + The sorest dole is doubt-- + +Doubt, a blank twilight of the heart, which mars + All sweetest colors in its dimness same; +A soul-mist, through whose rifts familiar stare + Beholding, we misname. + +A ripple on the inner sea, which shakes + Those images that on its breast reposed; +A fold upon a wind-swayed flag, that breaks + The motto it disclosed. + +O doubt! O doubt! I know my destiny; + I feel thee fluttering bird-like in my breast; +I cannot loose, but I will sing to thee, + And flatter thee to rest. + +There is no certainty, "my bosom's guest," + No proving for the things whereof ye wot; +For, like the dead to sight unmanifest, + They are, and they are not. + +But surely as they are, for God is truth, + And as they are not, for we saw them die, +So surely from the heaven drops light for youth, + If youth will walk thereby. + +And can I see this light? It may be so; + "But see it thus and thus," my fathers said. +The living do not rule this world; ah no! + It is the dead, the dead. + +Shall I be slave to every noble soul, + Study the dead, and to their spirits bend; +Or learn to read my own heart's folded scroll, + And make self-rule my end? + +Thought from _without_--O shall I take on trust, + And life from others modelled steal or win; +Or shall I heave to light, and clear of rust + My true life from _within_? + +O, let me be myself! But where, O where, + Under this heap of precedent, this mound +Of customs, modes, and maxims, cumbrance rare, + Shall the Myself be found? + +O thou _Myself_, thy fathers thee debarred + None of their wisdom, but their folly came +Therewith; they smoothed thy path, but made it hard + For thee to quit the same. + +With glosses they obscured God's natural truth, + And with tradition tarnished His revealed; +With vain protections they endangered youth, + With layings bare they sealed. + +What aileth thee, myself? Alas! thy hands + Are tied with old opinions--heir and son, +Thou hast inherited thy father's lands + And all his debts thereon. + +O that some power would give me Adam's eyes! + O for the straight simplicity of Eve! +For I see nought, or grow, poor fool, too wise + With seeing to believe. + +Exemplars may be heaped until they hide + The rules that they were made to render plain; +Love may be watched, her nature to decide, + Until love's self doth wane. + +Ah me! and when forgotten and foregone + We leave the learning of departed days, +And cease the generations past to con, + Their wisdom and their ways,-- + +When fain to learn we lean into the dark, + And grope to feel the floor of the abyss, +Or find the secret boundary lines which mark + Where soul and matter kiss-- + +Fair world! these puzzled souls of ours grow weak + With beating their bruised wings against the rim +That bounds their utmost flying, when they seek + The distant and the dim. + +We pant, we strain like birds against their wires; + Are sick to reach the vast and the beyond;-- +And what avails, if still to our desires + Those far-off gulfs respond? + +Contentment comes not therefore; still there lies + An outer distance when the first is hailed, +And still forever yawns before our eyes + An UTMOST--that is veiled. + +Searching those edges of the universe, + We leave the central fields a fallow part; +To feed the eye more precious things amerce, + And starve the darkened heart. + +Then all goes wrong: the old foundations rock; + One scorns at him of old who gazed unshod; +One striking with a pickaxe thinks the shock + Shall move the seat of God. + +A little way, a very little way + (Life is so short), they dig into the rind, +And they are very sorry, so they say,-- + Sorry for what they find. + +But truth is sacred--ay, and must be told: + There is a story long beloved of man; +We must forego it, for it will not hold-- + Nature had no such plan. + +And then, if "God hath said it," some should cry, + We have the story from the fountain-head: +Why, then, what better than the old reply, + The first "Yea, HATH God said?" + +The garden, O the garden, must it go, + Source of our hope and our most dear regret? +The ancient story, must it no more show + How man may win it yet? + +And all upon the Titan child's decree, + The baby science, born but yesterday, +That in its rash unlearned infancy + With shells and stones at play, + +And delving in the outworks of this world, + And little crevices that it could reach, +Discovered certain bones laid up, and furled + Under an ancient beach, + +And other waifs that lay to its young mind + Some fathoms lower than they ought to lie, +By gain whereof it could not fail to find + Much proof of ancientry, + +Hints at a Pedigree withdrawn and vast, + Terrible deeps, and old obscurities, +Or soulless origin, and twilight passed + In the primeval seas, + +Whereof it tells, as thinking it hath been + Of truth not meant for man inheritor; +As if this knowledge Heaven had ne'er foreseen + And not provided for! + +Knowledge ordained to live! although the fate + Of much that went before it was--to die, +And be called ignorance by such as wait + Till the next drift comes by. + +O marvellous credulity of man! + If God indeed kept secret, couldst thou know +Or follow up the mighty Artisan + Unless He willed it so? + +And canst thou of the Maker think in sooth + That of the Made He shall be found at fault, +And dream of wresting from Him hidden truth + By force or by assault? + +But if He keeps not secret--if thine eyes + He openeth to His wondrous work of late-- +Think how in soberness thy wisdom lies, + And have the grace to wait. + +Wait, nor against the half-learned lesson fret, + Nor chide at old belief as if it erred, +Because thou canst not reconcile as yet + The Worker and the word. + +Either the Worker did in ancient days + Give us the word, His tale of love and might; +(And if in truth He gave it us, who says + He did not give it right?) + +Or else He gave it not, and then indeed + We know not if HE is--by whom our years +Are portioned, who the orphan moons doth lead, + And the unfathered spheres. + +We sit unowned upon our burial sod + And know not whence we come or whose we be, +Comfortless mourners for the mount of God, + The rocks of Calvary: + +Bereft of heaven, and of the long-loved page + Wrought us by some who thought with death to cope. +Despairing comforters, from age to age + Sowing the seeds of hope: + +Gracious deceivers, who have lifted us + Out of the slough where passed our unknown youth. +Beneficent liars, who have gifted us + With sacred love of truth! + +Farewell to them: yet pause ere thou unmoor + And set thine ark adrift on unknown seas; +How wert thou bettered so, or more secure + Thou, and thy destinies? + +And if thou searchest, and art made to fear + Facing of unread riddles dark and hard, +And mastering not their majesty austere, + Their meaning locked and barred: + +How would it make the weight and wonder less, + If, lifted from immortal shoulders down, +The worlds were cast on seas of emptiness + In realms without a crown. + +And (if there were no God) were left to rue + Dominion of the air and of the fire? +Then if there be a God, "Let God be true, + And every man a liar." + +But as for me, I do not speak as one + That is exempt: I am with life at feud: +My heart reproacheth me, as there were none + Of so small gratitude. + +Wherewith shall I console thee, heart o' mine. + And still thy yearning and resolve thy doubt? +That which I know, and that which I divine, + Alas! have left thee out. + +I have aspired to know the might of God, + As if the story of His love was furled, +Nor sacred foot the grasses e'er had trod + Of this redeemèd world:-- + +Have sunk my thoughts as lead into the deep, + To grope for that abyss whence evil grew, +And spirits of ill, with eyes that cannot weep, + Hungry and desolate flew; + +As if their legions did not one day crowd + The death-pangs of the Conquering Good to see! +As if a sacred head had never bowed + In death for man--for me; + +Nor ransomed back the souls beloved, the sons + Of men, from thraldom with the nether kings +In that dark country where those evil ones + Trail their unhallowed wings. + +And didst Thou love the race that loved not Thee, + And didst Thou take to heaven a human brow? +Dost plead with man's voice by the marvellous sea? + Art Thou his kinsman now? + +O God, O kinsman loved, but not enough! + O man, with eyes majestic after death, +Whose feet have toiled along our pathways rough, + Whose lips drawn human breath! + +By that one likeness which is ours and Thine, + By that one nature which doth hold us kin, +By that high heaven where, sinless, Thou dost shine + To draw us sinners in, + +By Thy last silence in the judgment-hall, + By long foreknowledge of the deadly tree, +By darkness, by the wormwood and the gall, + I pray Thee visit me. + +Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away, + Die ere the guest adored she entertain-- +Lest eyes which never saw Thine earthly day + Should miss Thy heavenly reign. + +Come, weary-eyed from seeking in the night + Thy wanderers strayed upon the pathless wold, +Who wounded, dying, cry to Thee for light, + And cannot find their fold. + +And deign, O Watcher, with the sleepless brow, + Pathetic in its yearning--deign reply: +Is there, O is there aught that such as Thou + Wouldst take from such as I? + +Are there no briers across Thy pathway thrust? + Are there no thorns that compass it about? +Nor any stones that Thou wilt deign to trust + My hands to gather out? + +O if Thou wilt, and if such bliss might be, + It were a cure for doubt, regret, delay-- +Let my lost pathway go--what aileth me?-- + There is a better way. + +What though unmarked the happy workman toil, + And break unthanked of man the stubborn clod? +It is enough, for sacred is the soil, + Dear are the hills of God. + +Far better in its place the lowliest bird + Should sing aright to Him the lowliest song, +Than that a seraph strayed should take the word + And sing His glory wrong. + +Friend, it is time to work. I say to thee, + Thou dost all earthly good by much excel; +Thou and God's blessing are enough for me: + My work, my work--farewell! + + + + +REQUIESCAT IN PACE! + + +My heart is sick awishing and awaiting: + The lad took up his knapsack, he went, he went his way; +And I looked on for his coming, as a prisoner through the grating + Looks and longs and longs and wishes for its opening day. + +On the wild purple mountains, all alone with no other, + The strong terrible mountains he longed, he longed to be; +And he stooped to kiss his father, and he stooped to kiss his mother, + And till I said, "Adieu, sweet Sir," he quite forgot me. + +He wrote of their white raiment, the ghostly capes that screen them, + Of the storm winds that beat them, their thunder-rents and scars, +And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes atween them, + And fields, where grow God's gentian bells, and His crocus stars. + +He wrote of frail gauzy clouds, that drop on them like fleeces, + And make green their fir forests, and feed their mosses hoar; +Or come sailing up the valleys, and get wrecked and go to pieces, + Like sloops against their cruel strength: then he wrote no more. + +O the silence that came next, the patience and long aching! + They never said so much as "He was a dear loved son;" +Not the father to the mother moaned, that dreary stillness breaking: + "Ah! wherefore did he leave us so--this, our only one." + +They sat within, as waiting, until the neighbors prayed them, + At Cromer, by the sea-coast, 'twere peace and change to be; +And to Cromer, in their patience, or that urgency affrayed them, + Or because the tidings tarried, they came, and took me. + +It was three months and over since the dear lad had started: + On the green downs at Cromer I sat to see the view; +On an open space of herbage, where the ling and fern had parted, + Betwixt the tall white lighthouse towers, the old and the new. + +Below me lay the wide sea, the scarlet sun was stooping, + And he dyed the waste water, as with a scarlet dye; +And he dyed the lighthouse towers; every bird with white wing swooping + Took his colors, and the cliffs did, and the yawning sky. + +Over grass came that strange flush, and over ling and heather, + Over flocks of sheep and lambs, and over Cromer town; +And each filmy cloudlet crossing drifted like a scarlet feather + Torn from the folded wings of clouds, while he settled down. + +When I looked, I dared not sigh:--In the light of God's splendor, + With His daily blue and gold, who am I? what am I? +But that passion and outpouring seemed an awful sign and tender, + Like the blood of the Redeemer, shown on earth and sky. + +O for comfort, O the waste of a long doubt and trouble! + On that sultry August eve trouble had made me meek; +I was tired of my sorrow--O so faint, for it was double + In the weight of its oppression, that I could not speak! + +And a little comfort grew, while the dimmed eyes were feeding, + And the dull ears with murmur of water satisfied; +But a dream came slowly nigh me, all my thoughts and fancy leading + Across the bounds of waking life to the other side. + +And I dreamt that I looked out, to the waste waters turning, + And saw the flakes of scarlet from wave to wave tossed on; +And the scarlet mix with azure, where a heap of gold lay burning + On the clear remote sea reaches; for the sun was gone. + +Then I thought a far-off shout dropped across the still water-- + A question as I took it, for soon an answer came +From the tall white ruined lighthouse: "If it be the old man's daughter + That we wot of," ran the answer, "what then--who's to blame?" + +I looked up at the lighthouse all roofless and storm-broken: + A great white bird sat on it, with neck stretched out to sea; +Unto somewhat which was sailing in a skiff the bird had spoken, + And a trembling seized my spirit, for they talked of me. + +I was the old man's daughter, the bird went on to name him; + "He loved to count the starlings as he sat in the sun; +Long ago he served with Nelson, and his story did not shame him: + Ay, the old man was a good man--and his work was done." + +The skiff was like a crescent, ghost of some moon departed, + Frail, white, she rocked and curtseyed as the red wave she crossed, +And the thing within sat paddling, and the crescent dipped and darted, + Flying on, again was shouting, but the words were lost. + +I said, "That thing is hooded; I could hear but that floweth + The great hood below its mouth:" then the bird made reply. +"If they know not, more's the pity, for the little shrew-mouse knoweth, + And the kite knows, and the eagle, and the glead and pye." + +And he stooped to whet his beak on the stones of the coping; + And when once more the shout came, in querulous tones he spake, +"What I said was 'more's the pity;' if the heart be long past hoping, + Let it say of death, 'I know it,' or doubt on and break. + +"Men must die--one dies by day, and near him moans his mother, + They dig his grave, tread it down, and go from it full loth: +And one dies about the midnight, and the wind moans, and no other, + And the snows give him a burial--and God loves them both. + +"The first hath no advantage--it shall not soothe his slumber + That a lock of his brown hair his father aye shall keep; +For the last, he nothing grudgeth, it shall nought his quiet cumber, + That in a golden mesh of HIS callow eaglets sleep. + +"Men must die when all is said, e'en the kite and glead know it, + And the lad's father knew it, and the lad, the lad too; +It was never kept a secret, waters bring it and winds blow it, + And he met it on the mountain--why then make ado?" + +With that he spread his white wings, and swept across the water, + Lit upon the hooded head, and it and all went down; +And they laughed as they went under, and I woke, "the old man's daughter." + And looked across the slope of grass, and at Cromer town. + +And I said, "Is that the sky, all gray and silver-suited?" + And I thought, "Is that the sea that lies so white and wan? +I have dreamed as I remember: give me time--I was reputed + Once to have a steady courage--O, I fear 'tis gone!" + +And I said, "Is this my heart? if it be, low 'tis beating + So he lies on the mountain, hard by the eagles' brood; +I have had a dream this evening, while the white and gold were fleeting, + But I need not, need not tell it--where would be the good? + +"Where would be the good to them, his father and his mother? + For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth to them still. +While a lonely watch-fire smoulders, who its dying red would smother, + That gives what little light there is to a darksome hill?" + +I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor falter, + But slowly in the twilight I came to Cromer town. +What can wringing of the hands do that which is ordained to alter? + He had climbed, had climbed the mountain, he would ne'er come down. + +But, O my first, O my best, I could not choose but love thee: + O, to be a wild white bird, and seek thy rocky bed! +From my breast I'd give thee burial, pluck the down and spread above thee; + I would sit and sing thy requiem on the mountain head. + +Fare thee well, my love of loves! would I had died before thee! + O, to be at least a cloud, that near thee I might flow, +Solemnly approach the mountain, weep away my being o'er thee, + And veil thy breast with icicles, and thy brow with snow! + + + + +SUPPER AT THE MILL. + + +_Mother._ +Well, Frances. + +_Frances._ +Well, good mother, how are you? + + _M._ I'm hearty, lass, but warm; the weather's warm: +I think 'tis mostly warm on market days. +I met with George behind the mill: said he, +"Mother, go in and rest awhile." + + _F._ Ay, do, +And stay to supper; put your basket down. + + _M._ Why, now, it is not heavy? + + _F._ Willie, man, +Get up and kiss your Granny. Heavy, no! +Some call good churning luck; but, luck or skill, +Your butter mostly comes as firm and sweet +As if 'twas Christmas. So you sold it all? + + _M._ All but this pat that I put by for George; +He always loved my butter. + + _F._ That he did. + + _M._ And has your speckled hen brought off her brood? + + _F._ Not yet; but that old duck I told you of, +She hatched eleven out of twelve to-day. + + _Child._ And, Granny, they're so yellow. + + _M._ Ay, my lad, +Yellow as gold--yellow as Willie's hair. + + _C._ They're all mine, Granny, father says they're mine. + + _M._ To think of that! + + _F._ Yes, Granny, only think! +Why, father means to sell them when they're fat. +And put the money in the savings-bank, +And all against our Willie goes to school: +But Willie would not touch them--no, not he; +He knows that father would be angry else. + + _C._ But I want one to play with--O, I want +A little yellow duck to take to bed! + + _M._ What! would ye rob the poor old mother, then? + + _F._ Now, Granny, if you'll hold the babe awhile; +'Tis time I took up Willie to his crib. + _[Exit FRANCES._ + +[_Mother sings to the infant_.] + + Playing on the virginals, + Who but I? Sae glad, sae free, + Smelling for all cordials, + The green mint and marjorie; + Set among the budding broom, + Kingcup and daffodilly; + By my side I made him room: + O love my Willie! + + "Like me, love me, girl o' gowd," + Sang he to my nimble strain; + Sweet his ruddy lips o'erflowed + Till my heartstrings rang again: + By the broom, the bonny broom, + Kingcup and daffodilly, + In my heart I made him room: + O love my Willie! + + "Pipe and play, dear heart," sang he, + "I must go, yet pipe and play; + Soon I'll come and ask of thee + For an answer yea or nay;" + And I waited till the flocks + Panted in yon waters stilly, + And the corn stood in the shocks: + O love my Willie! + + I thought first when thou didst come + I would wear the ring for thee, + But the year told out its sum, + Ere again thou sat'st by me; + Thou hadst nought to ask that day + By kingcup and daffodilly; + I said neither yea nor nay: + O love my Willie! + +_Enter_ GEORGE. + + _George_. Well, mother, 'tis a fortnight now, or more, +Since I set eyes on you. + + _M._ Ay, George, my dear, +I reckon you've been busy: so have we. + + _G._ And how does father? + + _M._ He gets through his work. +But he grows stiff, a little stiff, my dear; +He's not so young, you know, by twenty years +As I am--not so young by twenty years, +And I'm past sixty. + + _G._ Yet he's hale and stout, +And seems to take a pleasure in his pipe; +And seems to take a pleasure in his cows, +And a pride, too. + + _M._ And well he may, my dear. + + _G._ Give me the little one, he tires your arm, +He's such a kicking, crowing, wakeful rogue, +He almost wears our lives out with his noise +Just at day-dawning, when we wish to sleep. +What! you young villain, would you clench your fist +In father's curls? a dusty father, sure, +And you're as clean as wax. + Ay, you may laugh; +But if you live a seven years more or so, +These hands of yours will all be brown and scratched +With climbing after nest-eggs. They'll go down +As many rat-holes as are round the mere; +And you'll love mud, all manner of mud and dirt, +As your father did afore you, and you'll wade +After young water-birds; and you'll get bogged +Setting of eel-traps, and you'll spoil your clothes, +And come home torn and dripping: then, you know, +You'll feel the stick--you'll feel the stick, my lad! + +_Enter FRANCES._ + + _F._ You should not talk so to the blessed babe-- +How can you, George? why, he may be in heaven +Before the time you tell of. + + _M._ Look at him: +So earnest, such an eager pair of eyes! +He thrives, my dear. + + _F._ Yes, that he does, thank God +My children are all strong. + + _M._ 'Tis much to say; +Sick children fret their mother's hearts to shreds, +And do no credit to their keep nor care. +Where is your little lass? + + _F._ Your daughter came +And begged her of us for a week or so. + + _M._ Well, well, she might be wiser, that she might, +For she can sit at ease and pay her way; +A sober husband, too--a cheerful man-- +Honest as ever stepped, and fond of her; +Yet she is never easy, never glad, +Because she has not children. Well-a-day! +If she could know how hard her mother worked, +And what ado I had, and what a moil +With my half-dozen! Children, ay, forsooth, +They bring their own love with them when they come, +But if they come not there is peace and rest; +The pretty lambs! and yet she cries for more: +Why the world's full of them, and so is heaven-- +They are not rare. + +_G._ No, mother, not at all; +But Hannah must not keep our Fanny long-- +She spoils her. + + _M._ Ah! folks spoil their children now; +When I was a young woman 'twas not so; +We made our children fear us, made them work, +Kept them in order. + + _G._ Were not proud of them-- +Eh, mother? + + _M._ I set store by mine, 'tis true, +But then I had good cause. + + _G._ My lad, d'ye hear? +Your Granny was not proud, by no means proud! +She never spoilt your father--no, not she, +Nor ever made him sing at harvest-home, +Nor at the forge, nor at the baker's shop, +Nor to the doctor while she lay abed +Sick, and he crept upstairs to share her broth. + + _M._ Well, well, you were my youngest, and, what's more +Your father loved to hear you sing--he did, +Although, good man, he could not tell one tune +From the other. + + _F._ No, he got his voice from you: +Do use it, George, and send the child to sleep. + + _G._ What must I sing? + + _F._ The ballad of the man +That is so shy he cannot speak his mind. + + _G._ Ay, of the purple grapes and crimson leaves; +But, mother, put your shawl and bonnet off. +And, Frances, lass, I brought some cresses in: +Just wash them, toast the bacon, break some eggs, +And let's to supper shortly. + +[_Sings._] + + My neighbor White--we met to-day-- + He always had a cheerful way, + As if he breathed at ease; + My neighbor White lives down the glade, + And I live higher, in the shade + Of my old walnut-trees. + + So many lads and lasses small, + To feed them all, to clothe them all, + Must surely tax his wit; + I see his thatch when I look out, + His branching roses creep about, + And vines half smother it. + + There white-haired urchins climb his eaves, + And little watch-fires heap with leaves, + And milky filberts hoard; + And there his oldest daughter stands + With downcast eyes and skilful hands + Before her ironing-board. + + She comforts all her mother's days, + And with her sweet obedient ways + She makes her labor light; + So sweet to hear, so fair to see! + O, she is much too good for me, + That lovely Lettice White! + + 'Tis hard to feel one's self a fool! + With that same lass I went to school-- + I then was great and wise; + She read upon an easier book, + And I--I never cared to look + Into her shy blue eyes. + + And now I know they must be there + Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair + That will not raise their rim: + If maids be shy, he cures who can; + But if a man be shy--a man-- + Why then the worse for him! + + My mother cries, "For such a lad + A wife is easy to be had + And always to be found; + A finer scholar scarce can be, + And for a foot and leg," says she, + "He beats the country round! + + "My handsome boy must stoop his head + To clear her door whom he would wed." + Weak praise, but fondly sung! + "O mother! scholars sometimes fail-- + And what can foot and leg avail + To him that wants a tongue?" + + When by her ironing-board I sit, + Her little sisters round me flit, + And bring me forth their store; + Dark cluster grapes of dusty blue, + And small sweet apples bright of hue + And crimson to the core. + + But she abideth silent, fair, + All shaded by her flaxen hair + The blushes come and go; + I look, and I no more can speak + Than the red sun that on her cheek + Smiles as he lieth low. + + Sometimes the roses by the latch + Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch + Come sailing down like birds; + When from their drifts her board I clear, + She thanks me, but I scarce can hear + The shyly uttered words. + + Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White + By daylight and by candlelight + When we two were apart. + Some better day come on apace, + And let me tell her face to face, + "Maiden, thou hast my heart." + + How gently rock yon poplars high + Against the reach of primrose sky + With heaven's pale candles stored! + She sees them all, sweet Lettice White; + I'll e'en go sit again to-night + Beside her ironing-board! + +Why, you young rascal! who would think it, now? +No sooner do I stop than you look up. +What would you have your poor old father do? +'Twas a brave song, long-winded, and not loud. + + _M._ He heard the bacon sputter on the fork, +And heard his mother's step across the floor. +Where did you get that song?--'tis new to me. + + _G._ I bought it of a peddler. + + _M._ Did you so? +Well, you were always for the love-songs, George. + + _F._ My dear, just lay his head upon your arm. +And if you'll pace and sing two minutes more +He needs must sleep--his eyes are full of sleep. + + _G._ Do you sing, mother. + + _F._ Ay, good mother, do; +'Tis long since we have heard you. + + _M._ Like enough; +I'm an old woman, and the girls and lads +I used to sing to sleep o'ertop me now. +What should I sing for? + + _G._ Why, to pleasure us. +Sing in the chimney corner, where you sit, +And I'll pace gently with the little one. + +[_Mother sings._] + + When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, + My old sorrow wakes and cries, + For I know there is dawn in the far, far north, + And a scarlet sun doth rise; + Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, + And the icy founts run free, + And the bergs begin to bow their heads, + And plunge, and sail in the sea. + + O my lost love, and my own, own love, + And my love that loved me so! + Is there never a chink in the world above + Where they listen for words from below? + Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore, + I remember all that I said, + And now thou wilt hear me no more--no more + Till the sea gives up her dead. + + Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail + To the ice-fields and the snow; + Thou wert sad, for thy love did not avail, + And the end I could not know; + How could I tell I should love thee to-day, + Whom that day I held not dear? + How could I know I should love thee away + When I did not love thee anear? + + We shall walk no more through the sodden plain + With the faded bents o'erspread, + We shall stand no more by the seething main + While the dark wrack drives overhead; + We shall part no more in the wind and the rain, + Where thy last farewell was said; + But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again + When the sea gives up her dead. + + _F._ Asleep at last, and time he was, indeed. +Turn back the cradle-quilt, and lay him in; +And, mother, will you please to draw your chair?-- +The supper's ready. + + + + +SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. + + +While ripening corn grew thick and deep, +And here and there men stood to reap, +One morn I put my heart to sleep, + And to the lanes I took my way. +The goldfinch on a thistle-head +Stood scattering seedlets while she fed; +The wrens their pretty gossip spread, + Or joined a random roundelay. + +On hanging cobwebs shone the dew, +And thick the wayside clovers grew; +The feeding bee had much to do, + So fast did honey-drops exude: +She sucked and murmured, and was gone, +And lit on other blooms anon, +The while I learned a lesson on + The source and sense of quietude. + +For sheep-bells chiming from a wold, +Or bleat of lamb within its fold, +Or cooing of love-legends old + To dove-wives make not quiet less; +Ecstatic chirp of wingèd thing, +Or bubbling of the water-spring, +Are sounds that more than silence bring + Itself and its delightsomeness. + +While thus I went to gladness fain, +I had but walked a mile or twain +Before my heart woke up again, + As dreaming she had slept too late; +The morning freshness that she viewed +With her own meanings she endued, +And touched with her solicitude + The natures she did meditate. + +"If quiet is, for it I wait; +To it, ah! let me wed my fate, +And, like a sad wife, supplicate + My roving lord no more to flee; +If leisure is--but, ah! 'tis not-- +'Tis long past praying for, God wot; +The fashion of it men forgot, + About the age of chivalry. + +"Sweet is the leisure of the bird; +She craves no time for work deferred; +Her wings are not to aching stirred + Providing for her helpless ones. +Fair is the leisure of the wheat; +All night the damps about it fleet; +All day it basketh in the heat, + And grows, and whispers orisons. + +"Grand is the leisure of the earth; +She gives her happy myriads birth, +And after harvest fears not dearth, + But goes to sleep in snow-wreaths dim. +Dread is the leisure up above +The while He sits whose name is Love, +And waits, as Noah did, for the dove, + To wit if she would fly to him. + +"He waits for us, while, houseless things, +We beat about with bruisèd wings +On the dark floods and water-springs, + The ruined world, the desolate sea; +With open windows from the prime +All night, all day, He waits sublime, +Until the fulness of the time + Decreed from His eternity. + +"Where is OUR leisure?--give us rest. +Where is the quiet we possessed? +We must have had it once--were blest + With peace whose phantoms yet entice. +Sorely the mother of mankind +Longed for the garden left behind; +For we prove yet some yearnings blind + Inherited from Paradise." + +"Hold, heart!" I cried; "for trouble sleeps; +I hear no sound of aught that weeps; +I will not look into thy deeps-- + I am afraid, I am afraid!" +"Afraid!" she saith; "and yet 'tis true +That what man dreads he still should view-- +Should do the thing he fears to do, + And storm the ghosts in ambuscade." + +"What good?" I sigh. "Was reason meant +To straighten branches that are bent, +Or soothe an ancient discontent, + The instinct of a race dethroned? +Ah! doubly should that instinct go +Must the four rivers cease to flow, +Nor yield those rumors sweet and low + Wherewith man's life is undertoned." + +"Yet had I but the past," she cries, +"And it was lost, I would arise +And comfort me some other wise. + But more than loss about me clings: +I am but restless with my race; +The whispers from a heavenly place, +Once dropped among us, seem to chase + Rest with their prophet-visitings. + +"The race is like a child, as yet +Too young for all things to be set +Plainly before him with no let + Or hindrance meet for his degree; +But nevertheless by much too old +Not to perceive that men withhold +More of the story than is told, + And so infer a mystery. + +"If the Celestials daily fly +With messages on missions high, +And float, our masts and turrets nigh, + Conversing on Heaven's great intents; +What wonder hints of coming things, +Whereto man's hope and yearning clings, +Should drop like feathers from their wings + And give us vague presentiments? + +"And as the waxing moon can take +The tidal waters in her wake, +And lead them round and round to break + Obedient to her drawings dim; +So may the movements of His mind, +The first Great Father of mankind, +Affect with answering movements blind, + And draw the souls that breathe by Him. + +"We had a message long ago +That like a river peace should flow, +And Eden bloom again below. + We heard, and we began to wait: +Full soon that message men forgot; +Yet waiting is their destined lot, +And waiting for they know not what + They strive with yearnings passionate. + +"Regret and faith alike enchain; +There was a loss, there comes a gain; +We stand at fault betwixt the twain, + And that is veiled for which we pant. +Our lives are short, our ten times seven; +We think the councils held in heaven +Sit long, ere yet that blissful leaven + Work peace amongst the militant. + +"Then we blame God that sin should be; +Adam began it at the tree, +'The woman whom THOU gavest me; + And we adopt his dark device. +O long Thou tarriest! come and reign, +And bring forgiveness in Thy train, +And give us in our hands again + The apples of Thy Paradise." + +"Far-seeing heart! if that be all +The happy things that did not fall," +I sighed, "from every coppice call + They never from that garden went. +Behold their joy, so comfort thee, +Behold the blossom and the bee, +For they are yet as good and free + As when poor Eve was innocent + +"But reason thus: 'If we sank low, +If the lost garden we forego, +Each in his day, nor ever know + But in our poet souls its face; +Yet we may rise until we reach +A height untold of in its speech-- +A lesson that it could not teach + Learn in this darker dwelling-place. + +"And reason on: 'We take the spoil; +Loss made us poets, and the soil +Taught us great patience in our toil, + And life is kin to God through death. +Christ were not One with us but so, +And if bereft of Him we go; +Dearer the heavenly mansions grow, + HIS home, to man that wandereth.' + +"Content thee so, and ease thy smart." +With that she slept again, my heart, +And I admired and took my part + With crowds of happy things the while: +With open velvet butterflies +That swung and spread their peacock eyes, +As if they cared no more to rise + From off their beds of camomile. + +The blackcaps in an orchard met, +Praising the berries while they ate: +The finch that flew her beak to whet + Before she joined them on the tree; +The water mouse among the reeds-- +His bright eyes glancing black as beads, +So happy with a bunch of seeds-- + I felt their gladness heartily. + +But I came on, I smelt the hay, +And up the hills I took my way, +And down them still made holiday, + And walked, and wearied not a whit; +But ever with the lane I went +Until it dropped with steep descent, +Cut deep into the rock, a tent + Of maple branches roofing it. + +Adown the rock small runlets wept, +And reckless ivies leaned and crept, +And little spots of sunshine slept + On its brown steeps and made them fair; +And broader beams athwart it shot, +Where martins cheeped in many a knot, +For they had ta'en a sandy plot + And scooped another Petra there. + +And deeper down, hemmed in and hid +From upper light and life amid +The swallows gossiping, I thrid + Its mazes, till the dipping land +Sank to the level of my lane. +That was the last hill of the chain, +And fair below I saw the plain + That seemed cold cheer to reprimand. + +Half-drowned in sleepy peace it lay, +As satiate with the boundless play +Of sunshine in its green array. + And clear-cut hills of gloomy blue, +To keep it safe rose up behind, +As with a charmèd ring to bind +The grassy sea, where clouds might find + A place to bring their shadows to. + +I said, and blest that pastoral grace, +"How sweet thou art, thou sunny place! +Thy God approves thy smiling face:" + But straight my heart put in her word; +She said, "Albeit thy face I bless, +There have been times, sweet wilderness, +When I have wished to love thee less, + Such pangs thy smile administered." + +But, lo! I reached a field of wheat, +And by its gate full clear and sweet +A workman sang, while at his feet + Played a young child, all life and stir-- +A three years' child, with rosy lip, +Who in the song had partnership, +Made happy with each falling chip + Dropped by the busy carpenter. + +This, reared a new gate for the old, +And loud the tuneful measure rolled, +But stopped as I came up to hold + Some kindly talk of passing things. +Brave were his eyes, and frank his mien; +Of all men's faces, calm or keen, +A better I have never seen + In all my lonely wanderings. + +And how it was I scarce can tell, +We seemed to please each other well; +I lingered till a noonday bell + Had sounded, and his task was done. +An oak had screened us from the heat; +And 'neath it in the standing wheat, +A cradle and a fair retreat, + Full sweetly slept the little one. + +The workman rested from his stroke, +And manly were the words he spoke, +Until the smiling babe awoke + And prayed to him for milk and food. +Then to a runlet forth he went, +And brought a wallet from the bent, +And bade me to the meal, intent + I should not quit his neighborhood. + +"For here," said he, "are bread and beer, +And meat enough to make good cheer; +Sir, eat with me, and have no fear, + For none upon my work depend, +Saving this child; and I may say +That I am rich, for every day +I put by somewhat; therefore stay, + And to such eating condescend." + +We ate. The child--child fair to see-- +Began to cling about his knee, +And he down leaning fatherly + Received some softly-prattled prayer; +He smiled as if to list were balm, +And with his labor-hardened palm +Pushed from the baby-forehead calm + Those shining locks that clustered there. + +The rosy mouth made fresh essay-- +"O would he sing, or would he play?" +I looked, my thought would make its way-- + "Fair is your child of face and limb, +The round blue eyes full sweetly shine." +He answered me with glance benign-- +"Ay, Sir; but he is none of mine. + Although I set great store by him." + +With that, as if his heart was fain +To open--nathless not complain-- +He let my quiet questions gain + His story: "Not of kin to me," +Repeating; "but asleep, awake, +For worse, for better, him I take, +To cherish for my dead wife's sake, + And count him as her legacy. + +"I married with the sweetest lass +That ever stepped on meadow grass; +That ever at her looking-glass + Some pleasure took, some natural care; +That ever swept a cottage floor +And worked all day, nor e'er gave o'er +Till eve, then watched beside the door + Till her good man should meet her there. + +"But I lost all in its fresh prime; +My wife fell ill before her time-- +Just as the bells began to chime + One Sunday morn. By next day's light +Her little babe was born and dead, +And she, unconscious what she said, +With feeble hands about her spread, + Sought it with yearnings infinite. + +"With mother-longing still beguiled, +And lost in fever-fancies wild, +She piteously bemoaned her child + That we had stolen, she said, away. +And ten sad days she sighed to me, +'I cannot rest until I see +My pretty one! I think that he + Smiled in my face but yesterday.' + +"Then she would change, and faintly try +To sing some tender lullaby; +And 'Ah!' would moan, 'if I should die, + Who, sweetest babe, would cherish thee?' +Then weep, 'My pretty boy is grown; +With tender feet on the cold stone +He stands, for he can stand alone, + And no one leads him motherly.' + +"Then she with dying movements slow +Would seem to knit, or seem to sew: +'His feet are bare, he must not go + Unshod:' and as her death drew on, +'O little baby,' she would sigh; +'My little child, I cannot die +Till I have you to slumber nigh-- + You, you to set mine eyes upon.' + +"When she spake thus, and moaning lay, +They said, 'She cannot pass away, +So sore she longs:' and as the day + Broke on the hills, I left her side. +Mourning along this lane I went; +Some travelling folk had pitched their tent +Up yonder: there a woman, bent + With age, sat meanly canopied. + +"A twelvemonths' child was at her side: +'Whose infant may that be?' I cried. +'His that will own him,' she replied; + 'His mother's dead, no worse could be.' +'Since you can give--or else I erred-- +See, you are taken at your word,' +Quoth I; 'That child is mine; I heard, + And own him! Rise, and give him me.' + +"She rose amazed, but cursed me too; +She could not hold such luck for true, +But gave him soon, with small ado. + I laid him by my Lucy's side: +Close to her face that baby crept, +And stroked it, and the sweet soul wept; +Then, while upon her arm he slept, + She passed, for she was satisfied. + +"I loved her well, I wept her sore, +And when her funeral left my door +I thought that I should never more + Feel any pleasure near me glow; +But I have learned, though this I had, +'Tis sometimes natural to be glad, +And no man can be always sad + Unless he wills to have it so. + +"Oh, I had heavy nights at first, +And daily wakening was the worst: +For then my grief arose, and burst + Like something fresh upon my head; +Yet when less keen it seemed to grow, +I was not pleased--I wished to go +Mourning adown this vale of woe, + For all my life uncomforted. + +"I grudged myself the lightsome air, +That makes man cheerful unaware; +When comfort came, I did not care + To take it in, to feel it stir: +And yet God took with me his plan, +And now for my appointed span +I think I am a happier man + For having wed and wept for her. + +"Because no natural tie remains, +On this small thing I spend my gains; +God makes me love him for my pains, + And binds me so to wholesome care +I would not lose from my past life +That happy year, that happy wife! +Yet now I wage no useless strife + With feelings blithe and debonair. + +"I have the courage to be gay, +Although she lieth lapped away +Under the daisies, for I say, + 'Thou wouldst be glad if thou couldst see': +My constant thought makes manifest +I have not what I love the best, +But I must thank God for the rest + While I hold heaven a verity." + +He rose, upon his shoulder set +The child, and while with vague regret +We parted, pleased that we had met, + My heart did with herself confer; +With wholesome shame she did repent +Her reasonings idly eloquent, +And said, "I might be more content: + But God go with the carpenter." + + + + +THE STAR'S MONUMENT. + +IN THE CONCLUDING PART OF A DISCOURSE ON FAME. + + +(_He thinks._) + +If there be memory in the world to come, + If thought recur to SOME THINGS silenced here, +Then shall the deep heart be no longer dumb, + But find expression in that happier sphere; +It shall not be denied their utmost sum + Of love, to speak without or fault or fear, +But utter to the harp with changes sweet +Words that, forbidden still, then heaven were incomplete. + +(_He speaks._) + +Now let us talk about the ancient days, + And things which happened long before our birth: +It is a pity to lament that praise + Should be no shadow in the train of worth. +What is it, Madam, that your heart dismays? + Why murmur at the course of this vast earth? +Think rather of the work than of the praise; +Come, we will talk about the ancient days. + +There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he); + I will relate his story to you now. +While through the branches of this apple-tree + Some spots of sunshine flicker on your brow; +While every flower hath on its breast a bee, + And every bird in stirring doth endow +The grass with falling blooms that smoothly glide, +As ships drop down a river with the tide. + +For telling of his tale no fitter place + Then this old orchard, sloping to the west; +Through its pink dome of blossom I can trace + Some overlying azure; for the rest, +These flowery branches round us interlace; + The ground is hollowed like a mossy nest: +Who talks of fame while the religious Spring +Offers the incense of her blossoming? + +There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he), + Who, while he walked at sundown in a lane, +Took to his heart the hope that destiny + Had singled him this guerdon to obtain, +That by the power of his sweet minstrelsy + Some hearts for truth and goodness he should gain. +And charm some grovellers to uplift their eyes +And suddenly wax conscious of the skies. + +"Master, good e'en to ye!" a woodman said, + Who the low hedge was trimming with his shears. +"This hour is fine"--the Poet bowed his head. + "More fine," he thought, "O friend! to me appears +The sunset than to you; finer the spread + Of orange lustre through these azure spheres, +Where little clouds lie still, like flocks of sheep, +Or vessels sailing in God's other deep. + +"O finer far! What work so high as mine, + Interpreter betwixt the world and man, +Nature's ungathered pearls to set and shrine, + The mystery she wraps her in to scan; +Her unsyllabic voices to combine, + And serve her with such love as poets can; +With mortal words, her chant of praise to bind, +Then die, and leave the poem to mankind? + +"O fair, O fine, O lot to be desired! + Early and late my heart appeals to me, +And says, 'O work, O will--Thou man, be fired + To earn this lot,'--she says, 'I would not be +A worker for mine OWN bread, or one hired + For mine OWN profit. O, I would be free +To work for others; love so earned of them +Should be my wages and my diadem. + +"'Then when I died I should not fall,' says she, + 'Like dropping flowers that no man noticeth, +But like a great branch of some stately tree + Rent in a tempest, and flung down to death, +Thick with green leafage--so that piteously + Each passer by that ruin shuddereth, +And saith, The gap this branch hath left is wide; +The loss thereof can never be supplied.'" + +But, Madam, while the Poet pondered so, + Toward the leafy hedge he turned his eye, +And saw two slender branches that did grow, + And from it rising spring and flourish high: +Their tops were twined together fast, and, lo, + Their shadow crossed the path as he went by-- +The shadow of a wild rose and a brier, +And it was shaped in semblance like a lyre. + +In sooth, a lyre! and as the soft air played, + Those branches stirred, but did not disunite. +"O emblem meet for me!" the Poet said; + "Ay, I accept and own thee for my right; +The shadowy lyre across my feet is laid, + Distinct though frail, and clear with crimson light, +Fast is it twined to bear the windy strain, +And, supple, it will bend and rise again. + +"This lyre is cast across the dusty way, + The common path that common men pursue, +I crave like blessing for my shadowy lay, + Life's trodden paths with beauty to renew, +And cheer the eve of many a toil-stained day. + Light it, old sun, wet it, thou common dew, +That 'neath men's feet its image still may be +While yet it waves above them, living lyre, like thee!" + +But even as the Poet spoke, behold + He lifted up his face toward the sky; +The ruddy sun dipt under the gray wold, + His shadowy lyre was gone; and, passing by, +The woodman lifting up his shears, was bold + Their temper on those branches twain to try, +And all their loveliness and leafage sweet +Fell in the pathway, at the Poet's feet. + +"Ah! my fair emblem that I chose," quoth he, + "That for myself I coveted but now, +Too soon, methinks, them hast been false to me; + The lyre from pathway fades, the light from brow." +Then straightway turned he from it hastily, +As dream that waking sense will disallow; +And while the highway heavenward paled apace, +He went on westward to his dwelling-place. + +He went on steadily, while far and fast + The summer darkness dropped upon the world, +A gentle air among the cloudlets passed + And fanned away their crimson; then it curled +The yellow poppies in the field, and cast + A dimness on the grasses, for it furled +Their daisies, and swept out the purple stain +That eve had left upon the pastoral plain. + +He reached his city. Lo! the darkened street + Where he abode was full of gazing crowds; +He heard the muffled tread of many feet; + A multitude stood gazing at the clouds. +"What mark ye there," said he, "and wherefore meet? + Only a passing mist the heaven o'ershrouds; +It breaks, it parts, it drifts like scattered spars-- +What lies behind it but the nightly stars?" + +Then did the gazing crowd to him aver + They sought a lamp in heaven whose light was hid: +For that in sooth an old Astronomer + Down from his roof had rushed into their mid, +Frighted, and fain with others to confer, + That he had cried, "O sirs!"--and upward bid +Them gaze--"O sirs, a light is quenched afar; +Look up, my masters, we have lost a star!" + +The people pointed, and the Poet's eyes + Flew upward, where a gleaming sisterhood +Swam in the dewy heaven. The very skies + Were mutable; for all-amazed he stood +To see that truly not in any wise + He could behold them as of old, nor could +His eyes receive the whole whereof he wot, +But when he told them over, one WAS NOT. + +While yet he gazed and pondered reverently, + The fickle folk began to move away. +"It is but one star less for us to see; + And what does one star signify?" quoth they: +"The heavens are full of them." "But, ah!" said he, + "That star was bright while yet she lasted." "Ay!" +They answered: "Praise her, Poet, an' ye will: +Some are now shining that are brighter still." + +"Poor star! to be disparagèd so soon + On her withdrawal," thus the Poet sighed; +"That men should miss, and straight deny her noon + Its brightness!" But the people in their pride +Said, "How are we beholden? 'twas no boon + She gave. Her nature 'twas to shine so wide: +She could not choose but shine, nor could we know +Such star had ever dwelt in heaven but so." + +The Poet answered sadly, "That is true!" + And then he thought upon unthankfulness; +While some went homeward; and the residue, + Reflecting that the stars are numberless, +Mourned that man's daylight hours should be so few, + So short the shining that his path may bless: +To nearer themes then tuned their willing lips, +And thought no more upon the star's eclipse. + +But he, the Poet, could not rest content + Till he had found that old Astronomer; +Therefore at midnight to his house he went + And prayed him be his tale's interpreter. +And yet upon the heaven his eyes he bent, + Hearing the marvel; yet he sought for her +That was a wanting, in the hope her face +Once more might fill its reft abiding-place. + +Then said the old Astronomer: "My son. + I sat alone upon my roof to-night; +I saw the stars come forth, and scarcely shun + To fringe the edges of the western light; +I marked those ancient clusters one by one, + The same that blessed our old forefather's sight +For God alone is older--none but He +Can charge the stars with mutability: + +"The elders of the night, the steadfast stars, + The old, old stars which God has let us see, +That they might be our soul's auxiliars, + And help us to the truth how young we be-- +God's youngest, latest born, as if, some spars + And a little clay being over of them--He +Had made our world and us thereof, yet given, +To humble us, the sight of His great heaven. + +"But ah! my son, to-night mine eyes have seen + The death of light, the end of old renown; +A shrinking back of glory that had been, + A dread eclipse before the Eternal's frown. +How soon a little grass will grow between + These eyes and those appointed to look down +Upon a world that was not made on high +Till the last scenes of their long empiry! + +"To-night that shining cluster now despoiled + Lay in day's wake a perfect sisterhood; +Sweet was its light to me that long had toiled, + It gleamed and trembled o'er the distant wood, +Blown in a pile the clouds from it recoiled, + Cool twilight up the sky her way made good; +I saw, but not believed--it was so strange-- +That one of those same stars had suffered change. + +"The darkness gathered, and methought she spread, + Wrapped in a reddish haze that waxed and waned; +But notwithstanding to myself I said-- + 'The stars are changeless; sure some mote hath stained +Mine eyes, and her fair glory minishèd.' + Of age and failing vision I complained, +And I bought 'some vapor in the heavens doth swim, +That makes her look so large and yet so dim.' + +"But I gazed round, and all her lustrous peers + In her red presence showed but wan and white +For like a living coal beheld through tears + She glowed and quivered with a gloomy light: +Methought she trembled, as all sick through fears, + Helpless, appalled, appealing to the night; +Like one who throws his arms up to the sky +And bows down suffering, hopeless of reply. + +"At length, as if an everlasting Hand + Had taken hold upon her in her place, +And swiftly, like a golden grain of sand, + Through all the deep infinitudes of space +Was drawing her--God's truth as here I stand-- + Backward and inward to itself; her face +Fast lessened, lessened, till it looked no more +Than smallest atom on a boundless shore. + +"And she that was so fair, I saw her lie, + The smallest thing in God's great firmament, +Till night was lit the darkest, and on high + Her sisters glittered, though her light was spent; +I strained, to follow her, each aching eye, + So swiftly at her Maker's will she went; +I looked again--I looked--the star was gone, +And nothing marked in heaven where she had shone." + +"Gone!" said the Poet, "and about to be + Forgotten: O, how sad a fate is hers!" +"How is it sad, my son?" all reverently + The old man answered; "though she ministers +No longer with her lamp to me and thee, + She has fulfilled her mission. God transfers +Or dims her ray; yet was she blest as bright, +For all her life was spent in giving light." + +"Her mission she fulfilled assuredly," + The Poet cried; "but, O unhappy star! +None praise and few will bear in memory + The name she went by. O, from far, from far +Comes down, methinks, her mournful voice to me, + Full of regrets that men so thankless are." +So said, he told that old Astronomer +All that the gazing crowd had said of her. + +And he went on to speak in bitter wise, + As one who seems to tell another's fate, +But feels that nearer meaning underlies, + And points its sadness to his own estate: +"If such be the reward," he said with sighs, + "Envy to earn for love, for goodness hate-- +If such be thy reward, hard case is thine! +It had been better for thee not to shine. + +"If to reflect a light that is divine + Makes that which doth reflect it better seen, +And if to see is to contemn the shrine, + 'Twere surely better it had never been: +It had been better for her NOT TO SHINE, + And for me NOT TO SING. Better, I ween, +For us to yield no more that radiance bright, +For them, to lack the light than scorn the light." + +Strange words were those from Poet lips (said he); + And then he paused and sighed, and turned to look +Upon the lady's downcast eyes, and see + How fast the honey-bees in settling shook +Those apple blossoms on her from the tree: + He watched her busy lingers as they took +And slipped the knotted thread, and thought how much +He would have given that hand to hold--to touch. + +At length, as suddenly become aware + Of this long pause, she lifted up her face, +And he withdrew his eyes--she looked so fair + And cold, he thought, in her unconscious grace. +"Ah! little dreams she of the restless care," + He thought, "that makes my heart to throb apace: +Though we this morning part, the knowledge sends +No thrill to her calm pulse--we are but FRIENDS." + +Ah! turret clock (he thought), I would thy hand + Were hid behind yon towering maple-trees! +Ah! tell-tale shadow, but one moment stand-- + Dark shadow--fast advancing to my knees; +Ah! foolish heart (he thought), that vainly planned + By feigning gladness to arrive at ease; +Ah! painful hour, yet pain to think it ends; +I must remember that we are but friends. + +And while the knotted thread moved to and fro, + In sweet regretful tones that lady said: +"It seemeth that the fame you would forego + The Poet whom you tell of coveted; +But I would fain, methinks, his story know. + And was he loved?" said she, "or was he wed? +And had he friends?" "One friend, perhaps," said he, +"But for the rest, I pray you let it be." + +Ah! little bird (he thought), most patient bird, + Breasting thy speckled eggs the long day through, +By so much as my reason is preferred + Above thine instinct, I my work would do +Better than thou dost thine. Thou hast not stirred + This hour thy wing. Ah! russet bird, I sue +For a like patience to wear through these hours-- +Bird on thy nest among the apple-flowers. + +I will not speak--I will not speak to thee, + My star! and soon to be my lost, lost star. +The sweetest, first, that ever shone on me, + So high above me and beyond so far; +I can forego thee, but not bear to see + My love, like rising mist, thy lustre mar: +That were a base return for thy sweet light. +Shine, though I never more-shall see that thou art bright. + +Never! 'Tis certain that no hope is--none! + No hope for me, and yet for thee no fear. +The hardest part of my hard task is done; + Thy calm assures me that I am not dear; +Though far and fast the rapid moments run, + Thy bosom heaveth not, thine eyes are clear; +Silent, perhaps a little sad at heart +She is. I am her friend, and I depart. + +Silent she had been, but she raised her face; + "And will you end," said she, "this half-told tale?" +"Yes, it were best," he answered her. "The place + Where I left off was where he felt to fail +His courage, Madam, through the fancy base + That they who love, endure, or work, may rail +And cease--if all their love, the works they wrought, +And their endurance, men have set at nought." + +"It had been better for me NOT to sing," + My Poet said, "and for her NOT to shine;" +But him the old man answered, sorrowing, + "My son, did God who made her, the Divine +Lighter of suns, when down to yon bright ring + He cast her, like some gleaming almandine, +And set her in her place, begirt with rays, +Say unto her 'Give light,' or say 'Earn praise?'" + +The Poet said, "He made her to give light." + "My son," the old man answered, "Blest are such; +A blessed lot is theirs; but if each night + Mankind had praised her radiance, inasmuch +As praise had never made it wax more bright, + And cannot now rekindle with its touch +Her lost effulgence, it is nought. I wot +That praise was not her blessing nor her lot." + +"Ay," said the Poet, "I my words abjure, + And I repent me that I uttered them; +But by her light and by its forfeiture + She shall not pass without her requiem. +Though my name perish, yet shall hers endure; + Though I should be forgotten, she, lost gem, +Shall be remembered; though she sought not fame, +It shall be busy with her beauteous name. + +"For I will raise in her bright memory, + Lost now on earth, a lasting monument, +And graven on it shall recorded be + That all her rays to light mankind were spent; +And I will sing albeit none heedeth me, + On her exemplar being still intent: +While in men's sight shall stand the record thus-- +'So long as she did last she lighted us.'" + +So said, he raised, according to his vow, + On the green grass where oft his townsfolk met, +Under the shadow of a leafy bough + That leaned toward a singing rivulet, +One pure white stone, whereon, like crown on brow, + The image of the vanished star was set; +And this was graven on the pure white stone +In golden letters--"WHILE SHE LIVED SHE SHONE." + +Madam, I cannot give this story well-- + My heart is beating to another chime; +My voice must needs a different cadence swell; + It is yon singing bird, which all the time +Wooeth his nested mate, that doth dispel + My thoughts. What, deem you, could a lover's rhyme +The sweetness of that passionate lay excel? +O soft, O low her voice--"I cannot tell." + +(_He thinks_.) + +The old man--ay, he spoke, he was not hard; + "She was his joy," he said, "his comforter, +But he would trust me. I was not debarred + Whate'er my heart approved to say to her." +Approved! O torn and tempted and ill-starred + And breaking heart, approve not nor demur; +It is the serpent that beguileth thee +With "God doth know" beneath this apple-tree. + +Yea, God DOTH know, and only God doth know. + Have pity, God, my spirit groans to Thee! +I bear Thy curse primeval, and I go; + But heavier than on Adam falls on me +My tillage of the wilderness; for lo, + I leave behind the woman, and I see +As 'twere the gates of Eden closing o'er +To hide her from my sight for evermore. + +(_He speaks_.) + +I am a fool, with sudden start he cried, + To let the song-bird work me such unrest: +If I break off again, I pray you chide, + For morning neeteth, with my tale at best +Half told. That white stone, Madam, gleamed beside + The little rivulet, and all men pressed +To read the lost one's story traced thereon, +The golden legend--"While she lived she shone." + +And, Madam, when the Poet heard them read, + And children spell the letters softly through, +It may be that he felt at heart some need, + Some craving to be thus remembered too; +It may be that he wondered if indeed + He must die wholly when he passed from view; +It may be, wished when death his eyes made dim, +That some kind hand would raise such stone for him. + +But shortly, as there comes to most of us, + There came to him the need to quit his home: +To tell you why were simply hazardous. + What said I, Madam?--men were made to roam +My meaning is. It hath been always thus: + They are athirst for mountains and sea-foam; +Heirs of this world, what wonder if perchance +They long to see their grand inheritance? + +He left his city, and went forth to teach + Mankind, his peers, the hidden harmony +That underlies God's discords, and to reach + And touch the master-string that like a sigh +Thrills in their souls, as if it would beseech + Some hand to sound it, and to satisfy +Its yearning for expression: but no word +Till poet touch it hath to make its music heard. + +(_He thinks_.) + +I know that God is good, though evil dwells + Among us, and doth all things holiest share; +That there is joy in heaven, while yet our knells + Sound for the souls which He has summoned there: +That painful love unsatisfied hath spells + Earned by its smart to soothe its fellows care: +But yet this atom cannot in the whole +Forget itself--it aches a separate soul. + +(_He speaks._) + +But, Madam, to my Poet I return. + With his sweet cadences of woven words +He made their rude untutored hearts to burn + And melt like gold refined. No brooding birds +Sing better of the love that doth sojourn + Hid in the nest of home, which softly girds +The beating heart of life; and, strait though it be, +Is straitness better than wide liberty. + +He taught them, and they learned, but not the less + Remained unconscious whence that lore they drew, +But dreamed that of their native nobleness + Some lofty thoughts, that he had planted, grew; +His glorious maxims in a lowly dress + Like seed sown broadcast sprung in all men's view. +The sower, passing onward, was not known, +And all men reaped the harvest as their own. + +It may be, Madam, that those ballads sweet, + Whose rhythmic words we sang but yesterday, +Which time and changes make not obsolete, + But (as a river blossoms bears away +That on it drop) take with them while they fleet-- + It may be his they are, from him bear sway: +But who can tell, since work surviveth fame?-- +The rhyme is left, but lost the Poet's name. + +He worked, and bravely he fulfilled his trust-- + So long he wandered sowing worthy seed, +Watering of wayside buds that were adust, + And touching for the common ear his reed-- +So long to wear away the cankering rust + That dulls the gold of life--so long to plead +With sweetest music for all souls oppressed, +That he was old ere he had thought of rest. + +Old and gray-headed, leaning on a staff, + To that great city of his birth he came, +And at its gates he paused with wondering laugh + To think how changed were all his thoughts of fame +Since first he carved the golden epitaph + To keep in memory a worthy name, +And thought forgetfulness had been its doom +But for a few bright letters on a tomb. + +The old Astronomer had long since died; + The friends of youth were gone and far dispersed, +Strange were the domes that rose on every side; + Strange fountains on his wondering vision burst; +The men of yesterday their business plied; + No face was left that he had known at first; +And in the city gardens, lo, he sees +The saplings that he set are stately trees. + +Upon the grass beneath their welcome shade, + Behold! he marks the fair white monument, +And on its face the golden words displayed, + For sixty years their lustre have not spent; +He sitteth by it and is not afraid, + But in its shadow he is well content; +And envies not, though bright their gleamings are, +The golden letters of the vanished star. + +He gazeth up; exceeding bright appears + That golden legend to his aged eyes, +For they are dazzled till they fill with tears, + And his lost Youth doth like a vision rise; +She saith to him, "In all these toilsome years, + What hast thou won by work or enterprise? +What hast thou won to make amends to thee, +As thou didst swear to do, for loss of me? + +"O man! O white-haired man!" the vision said + "Since we two sat beside this monument +Life's clearest hues are all evanishèd; + The golden wealth thou hadst of me is spent; +The wind hath swept thy flowers, their leaves are shed + The music is played out that with thee went." +"Peace, peace!" he cried, "I lost thee, but, in truth, +There are worse losses than the loss of youth." + +He said not what those losses were--but I-- + But I must leave them, for the time draws near. +Some lose not ONLY joy, but memory + Of how it felt: not love that was so dear +Lose only, but the steadfast certainty + That once they had it; doubt comes on, then fear, +And after that despondency. I wis +The Poet must have meant such loss as this. + +But while he sat and pondered on his youth, + He said, "It did one deed that doth remain, +For it preserved the memory and the truth + Of her that now doth neither set nor wane, +But shine in all men's thought; nor sink forsooth, + And be forgotten like the summer rain. +O, it is good that man should not forget +Or benefits foregone or brightness set!" + +He spoke and said, "My lot contented: me; + I am right glad for this her worthy fame; +That which was good and great I fain would see + Drawn with a halo round what rests--its name." +This while the Poet said, behold there came + A workman with his tools anear the tree, +And when he read the words he paused awhile +And pondered on them with a wondering smile. + +And then he said, "I pray you, Sir, what mean + The golden letters of this monument?" +In wonder quoth the Poet, "Hast thou been + A dweller near at hand, and their intent +Hast neither heard by voice of fame, nor seen + The marble earlier?" "Ay," said he, and leant +Upon his spade to hear the tale, then sigh, +And say it was a marvel, and pass by. + +Then said the Poet, "This is strange to me." + But as he mused, with trouble in his mind, +A band of maids approached him leisurely, + Like vessels sailing with a favoring wind; +And of their rosy lips requested he, + As one that for a doubt would solving find, +The tale, if tale there were, of that white stone, +And those fair letters--"While she lived she shone." + +Then like a fleet that floats becalmed they stay. + "O, Sir," saith one, "this monument is old; +But we have heard our virtuous mothers say + That by their mothers thus the tale was told: +A Poet made it; journeying then away, + He left us; and though some the meaning hold +For other than the ancient one, yet we +Receive this legend for a certainty:-- + +"There was a lily once, most purely white, + Beneath the shadow of these boughs it grew; +Its starry blossom it unclosed by night, + And a young Poet loved its shape and hue. +He watched it nightly, 'twas so fair a sight, + Until a stormy wind arose and blew, +And when he came once more his flower to greet +Its fallen petals drifted to his feet. + +"And for his beautiful white lily's sake, + That she might be remembered where her scent +Had been right sweet, he said that he would make + In her dear memory a monument: +For she was purer than a driven flake + Of snow, and in her grace most excellent; +The loveliest life that death did ever mar, +As beautiful to gaze on as a star." + +"I thank you, maid," the Poet answered her. + "And I am glad that I have heard your tale." +With that they passed; and as an inlander, + Having heard breakers raging in a gale, +And falling down in thunder, will aver + That still, when far away in grassy vale, +He seems to hear those seething waters bound, +So in his ears the maiden's voice did sound. + +He leaned his face upon his hand, and thought, + And thought, until a youth came by that way; +And once again of him the Poet sought + The story of the star. But, well-a-day! +He said, "The meaning with much doubt is fraught, + The sense thereof can no man surely say; +For still tradition sways the common ear, +That of a truth a star DID DISAPPEAR. + +"But they who look beneath the outer shell + That wraps the 'kernel of the people's lore,' +Hold THAT for superstition; and they tell + That seven lovely sisters dwelt of yore +In this old city, where it so befell + That one a Poet loved; that, furthermore, +As stars above us she was pure and good, +And fairest of that beauteous sisterhood. + +"So beautiful they were, those virgins seven, + That all men called them clustered stars in song, +Forgetful that the stars abide in heaven: + But woman bideth not beneath it long; +For O, alas! alas! one fated even + When stars their azure deeps began to throng, +That virgin's eyes of Poet loved waxed dim, +And all their lustrous shining waned to him. + +"In summer dusk she drooped her head and sighed + Until what time the evening star went down, +And all the other stars did shining bide + Clear in the lustre of their old renown. +And then--the virgin laid her down and died: + Forgot her youth, forgot her beauty's crown, +Forgot the sisters whom she loved before, +And broke her Poet's heart for evermore." + +"A mournful tale, in sooth," the lady saith: + "But did he truly grieve for evermore?" +"It may be you forget," he answereth, + "That this is but a fable at the core +O' the other fable." "Though it be but breath," + She asketh, "was it true?"--then he, "This lore, +Since it is fable, either way may go; +Then, if it please you, think it might be so." + +"Nay, but," she saith, "if I had told your tale, + The virgin should have lived his home to bless, +Or, must she die, I would have made to fail + His useless love." "I tell you not the less," +He sighs, "because it was of no avail: + His heart the Poet would not dispossess +Thereof. But let us leave the fable now. +My Poet heard it with an aching brow." + +And he made answer thus: "I thank thee, youth; + Strange is thy story to these aged ears, +But I bethink me thou hast told a truth + Under the guise of fable. If my tears, +Thou lost belovèd star, lost now, forsooth, + Indeed could bring thee back among thy peers, +So new thou should'st be deemed as newly seen, +For men forget that thou hast ever been. + +"There was a morning when I longed for fame, + There was a noontide when I passed it by, +There is an evening when I think not shame + Its substance and its being to deny; +For if men bear in mind great deeds, the name + Of him that wrought them shall they leave to die; +Or if his name they shall have deathless writ, +They change the deeds that first ennobled it. + +"O golden letters of this monument! + O words to celebrate a loved renown +Lost now or wrested! and to fancies lent, + Or on a fabled forehead set for crown, +For my departed star, I am content, + Though legends dim and years her memory drown: +For nought were fame to her, compared and set +By this great truth which ye make lustrous yet." + +"Adieu!" the Poet said, "my vanished star, + Thy duty and thy happiness were one. +Work is heaven's best; its fame is sublunar: + The fame thou dost not need--the work is done. +For thee I am content that these things are; + More than content were I, my race being run, +Might it be true of me, though none thereon +Should muse regretful--'While he lived he shone.'" + +So said, the Poet rose and went his way, + And that same lot he proved whereof he spake. +Madam, my story is told out; the day + Draws out her shadows, time doth overtake +The morning. That which endeth call a lay, + Sung after pause--a motto in the break +Between two chapters of a tale not new, +Nor joyful--but a common tale. Adieu! + +And that same God who made your face so fair, + And gave your woman's heart its tenderness, +So shield the blessing He implanted there, + That it may never turn to your distress, +And never cost you trouble or despair, + Nor granted leave the granter comfortless; +But like a river blest where'er it flows, +Be still receiving while it still bestows. + +Adieu, he said, and paused, while she sat mute + In the soft shadow of the apple-tree; +The skylark's song rang like a joyous flute, + The brook went prattling past her restlessly: +She let their tongues be her tongue's substitute; + It was the wind that sighed, it was not she: +And what the lark, the brook, the wind, had said, +We cannot tell, for none interpreted. + +Their counsels might be hard to reconcile, + They might not suit the moment or the spot. +She rose, and laid her work aside the while + Down in the sunshine of that grassy plot; +She looked upon him with an almost smile, + And held to him a hand that faltered not. +One moment--bird and brook went warbling on, +And the wind sighed again--and he was gone. + +So quietly, as if she heard no more + Or skylark in the azure overhead, +Or water slipping past the cressy shore, + Or wind that rose in sighs, and sighing fled-- +So quietly, until the alders hoar + Took him beneath them; till the downward spread +Of planes engulfed him in their leafy seas-- +She stood beneath her rose-flushed apple-trees. + +And then she stooped toward the mossy grass, + And gathered up her work and went her way; +Straight to that ancient turret she did pass, + And startle back some fawns that were at play. +She did not sigh, she never said "Alas!" + Although he was her friend: but still that day, +Where elm and hornbeam spread a towering dome, +She crossed the dells to her ancestral home. + +And did she love him?--what if she did not? + Then home was still the home of happiest years +Nor thought was exiled to partake his lot, + Nor heart lost courage through forboding fears; +Nor echo did against her secret plot, + Nor music her betray to painful tears; +Nor life become a dream, and sunshine dim, +And riches poverty, because of him. + +But did she love him?--what and if she did? + Love cannot cool the burning Austral sand, +Nor show the secret waters that lie hid + In arid valleys of that desert land. +Love has no spells can scorching winds forbid, + Or bring the help which tarries near to hand, +Or spread a cloud for curtaining faded eyes +That gaze up dying into alien skies. + + + + +A DEAD YEAR. + + +I took a year out of my life and story-- + A dead year, and said, "I will hew thee a tomb! + 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory;' +Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom; +Swathed in linen, and precious unguents old; +Painted with cinnabar, and rich with gold. + + "Silent they rest, in solemn salvatory, +Sealed from the moth and the owl and the flitter-mouse-- + Each with his name on his brow. + 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory, +Every one in his own house:' + Then why not thou? + + "Year," I said, "thou shalt not lack + Bribes to bar thy coming back; + Doth old Egypt wear her best + In the chambers of her rest? + Doth she take to her last bed + Beaten gold, and glorious red? + Envy not! for thou wilt wear + In the dark a shroud as fair; + Golden with the sunny ray + Thou withdrawest from my day; + Wrought upon with colors fine, + Stolen from this life of mine; + Like the dusty Lybian kings, + Lie with two wide open wings + On thy breast, as if to say, + On these wings hope flew away; + And so housed, and thus adorned, + Not forgotten, but not scorned, + Let the dark for evermore + Close thee when I close the door; + And the dust for ages fall + In the creases of thy pall; + And no voice nor visit rude + Break thy sealèd solitude." + + I took the year out of my life and story, +The dead year, and said, "I have hewed thee a tomb + 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory,' +Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom; +But for the sword, and the sceptre, and diadem, +Sure thou didst reign like them." +So I laid her with those tyrants old and hoary, + According to my vow; +For I said, "The kings of the nations lie in glory, + And so shalt thou!" + + "Rock," I said, "thy ribs are strong. + That I bring thee guard it long; + Hide the light from buried eyes-- + Hide it, lest the dead arise." + "Year," I said, and turned away, + "I am free of thee this day; + All that we two only know, + I forgive and I forego, + So thy face no more I meet, + In the field or in the street." + + Thus we parted, she and I; + Life hid death, and put it by: + Life hid death, and said, "Be free + I have no more need of thee." + No more need! O mad mistake, + With repentance in its wake! + Ignorant, and rash, and blind, + Life had left the grave behind; + But had locked within its hold + With the spices and the gold, + All she had to keep her warm + In the raging of the storm. + + Scarce the sunset bloom was gone, + And the little stars outshone, + Ere the dead year, stiff and stark, + Drew me to her in the dark; + Death drew life to come to her, + Beating at her sepulchre, + Crying out, "How can I part + With the best share of my heart? + Lo, it lies upon the bier, + Captive, with the buried year. + O my heart!" And I fell prone, + Weeping at the sealèd stone; + "Year among the shades," I said, + "Since I live, and thou art dead, + Let my captive heart be free, + Like a bird to fly to me." + And I stayed some voice to win, + But none answered from within; + And I kissed the door--and night + Deepened till the stars waxed bright + And I saw them set and wane, + And the world turn green again. + + "So," I whispered, "open door, + I must tread this palace floor-- + Sealèd palace, rich and dim. + Let a narrow sunbeam swim + After me, and on me spread + While I look upon my dead; + Let a little warmth be free + To come after; let me see + Through the doorway, when I sit + Looking out, the swallows flit, + Settling not till daylight goes; + Let me smell the wild white rose, + Smell the woodbine and the may; + Mark, upon a sunny day, + Sated from their blossoms rise, + Honey-bees and butterflies. + Let me hear, O! let me hear, + Sitting by my buried year, + Finches chirping to their young, + And the little noises flung + Out of clefts where rabbits play, + Or from falling water-spray; + And the gracious echoes woke + By man's work: the woodman's stroke, + Shout of shepherd, whistlings blithe. + And the whetting of the scythe; + Let this be, lest shut and furled + From the well-beloved world, + I forget her yearnings old, + And her troubles manifold, + Strivings sore, submissions meet, + And my pulse no longer beat, + Keeping time and bearing part + With the pulse of her great heart. + + "So; swing open door, and shade + Take me; I am not afraid, + For the time will not be long; + Soon I shall have waxen strong-- + Strong enough my own to win + From the grave it lies within." + And I entered. On her bier + Quiet lay the buried year; + I sat down where I could see + Life without and sunshine free, + Death within. And I between, + Waited my own heart to wean + From the shroud that shaded her + In the rock-hewn sepulchre-- + Waited till the dead should say, + "Heart, be free of me this day"-- + Waited with a patient will-- + AND I WAIT BETWEEN THEM STILL. + + I take the year back to my life and story, +The dead year, and say, "I will share in thy tomb. + 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory;' +Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom! +They reigned in their lifetime with sceptre and diadem, + But thou excellest them; +For life doth make thy grave her oratory, + And the crown is still on thy brow; +'All the kings of the nations lie in glory,' + And so dost thou." + + + + +REFLECTIONS. + +LOOKING OVER A GATE AT A POOL IN A FIELD. + + +What change has made the pastures sweet +And reached the daisies at my feet, + And cloud that wears a golden hem? +This lovely world, the hills, the sward-- +They all look fresh, as if our Lord + But yesterday had finished them. + +And here's the field with light aglow; +How fresh its boundary lime-trees show, + And how its wet leaves trembling shine! +Between their trunks come through to me +The morning sparkles of the sea + Below the level browsing line + +I see the pool more clear by half +Than pools where other waters laugh + Up at the breasts of coot and rail. +There, as she passed it on her way, +I saw reflected yesterday + A maiden with a milking-pail. + +There, neither slowly nor in haste, +One hand upon her slender waist, + The other lifted to her pail, +She, rosy in the morning light, +Among the water-daisies white, + Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. + +Against her ankles as she trod +The lucky buttercups did nod. + I leaned upon the gate to see: +The sweet thing looked, but did not speak; +A dimple came in either cheek, + And all my heart was gone from me. + +Then, as I lingered on the gate, +And she came up like coming fate, + I saw my picture in her eyes-- +Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes, +Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows + Among white-headed majesties. + +I said, "A tale was made of old +That I would fain to thee unfold; + Ah! let me--let me tell the tale." +But high she held her comely head; +"I cannot heed it now," she said, + "For carrying of the milking-pail." + +She laughed. What good to make ado? +I held the gate, and she came through, + And took her homeward path anon. +From the clear pool her face had fled; +It rested on my heart instead, + Reflected when the maid was gone. + +With happy youth, and work content, +So sweet and stately on she went, + Right careless of the untold tale. +Each step she took I loved her more, +And followed to her dairy door + The maiden with the milking-pail. + + +II. + +For hearts where wakened love doth lurk, +How fine, how blest a thing is work! + For work does good when reasons fail-- +Good; yet the axe at every stroke +The echo of a name awoke-- + Her name is Mary Martindale. + +I'm glad that echo was not heard +Aright by other men: a bird + Knows doubtless what his own notes tell; +And I know not, but I can say +I felt as shame-faced all that day + As if folks heard her name right well. + +And when the west began to glow +I went--I could not choose but go-- + To that same dairy on the hill; +And while sweet Mary moved about +Within, I came to her without. + And leaned upon the window-sill. + +The garden border where I stood +Was sweet with pinks and southernwood. + I spoke--her answer seemed to fail: +I smelt the pinks--I could not see; +The dusk came down and sheltered me, + And in the dusk she heard my tale. + +And what is left that I should tell? +I begged a kiss, I pleaded well: + The rosebud lips did long decline; +But yet I think, I think 'tis true, +That, leaned at last into the dew, + One little instant they were mine. + +O life! how dear thou hast become: +She laughed at dawn and I was dumb, + But evening counsels best prevail. +Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads, +Green be the pastures where she treads, + The maiden with the milking-pail! + + + + +THE LETTER L. + + +ABSENT. + +We sat on grassy slopes that meet + With sudden dip the level strand; +The trees hung overhead--our feet + Were on the sand. + +Two silent girls, a thoughtful man, + We sunned ourselves in open light, +And felt such April airs as fan + The Isle of Wight; + +And smelt the wall-flower in the crag + Whereon that dainty waft had fed, +Which made the bell-hung cowslip wag + Her delicate head; + +And let alighting jackdaws fleet + Adown it open-winged, and pass +Till they could touch with outstretched feet + The warmèd grass. + +The happy wave ran up and rang + Like service bells a long way off, +And down a little freshet sprang + From mossy trough, + +And splashed into a rain of spray, + And fretted on with daylight's loss, +Because so many bluebells lay + Leaning across. + +Blue martins gossiped in the sun, + And pairs of chattering daws flew by, +And sailing brigs rocked softly on + In company. + +Wild cherry-boughs above us spread, + The whitest shade was ever seen, +And flicker, flicker, came and fled + Sun spots between. + +Bees murmured in the milk-white bloom, + As babes will sigh for deep content +When their sweet hearts for peace make room, + As given, not lent. + +And we saw on: we said no word, + And one was lost in musings rare, +One buoyant as the waft that stirred + Her shining hair. + +His eyes were bent upon the sand, + Unfathomed deeps within them lay. +A slender rod was in his hand-- + A hazel spray. + +Her eyes were resting on his face, + As shyly glad, by stealth to glean +Impressions of his manly grace + And guarded mien; + +The mouth with steady sweetness set, + And eyes conveying unaware +The distant hint of some regret + That harbored there. + +She gazed, and in the tender flush + That made her face like roses blown, +And in the radiance and the hush, + Her thought was shown. + +It was a happy thing to sit + So near, nor mar his reverie; +She looked not for a part in it, + So meek was she. + +But it was solace for her eyes, + And for her heart, that yearned to him, +To watch apart in loving wise + Those musings dim. + +Lost--lost, and gone! The Pelham woods + Were full of doves that cooed at ease; +The orchis filled her purple hoods + For dainty bees. + +He heard not; all the delicate air + Was fresh with falling water-spray: +It mattered not--he was not there, + But far away. + +Till with the hazel in his hand, + Still drowned in thought it thus befell; +He drew a letter on the sand-- + The letter L. + +And looking on it, straight there wrought + A ruddy flush about his brow; +His letter woke him: absent thought + Rushed homeward now. + +And half-abashed, his hasty touch + Effaced it with a tell-tale care, +As if his action had been much, + And not his air. + +And she? she watched his open palm + Smooth out the letter from the sand, +And rose, with aspect almost calm, + And filled her hand + +With cherry-bloom, and moved away + To gather wild forget-me-not, +And let her errant footsteps stray + To one sweet spot, + +As if she coveted the fair + White lining of the silver-weed, +And cuckoo-pint that shaded there + Empurpled seed. + +She had not feared, as I divine, + Because she had not hoped. Alas! +The sorrow of it! for that sign + Came but to pass; + +And yet it robbed her of the right + To give, who looked not to receive, +And made her blush in love's despite + That she should grieve. + +A shape in white, she turned to gaze; + Her eyes were shaded with her hand, +And half-way up the winding ways + We saw her stand. + +Green hollows of the fringèd cliff, + Red rocks that under waters show, +Blue reaches, and a sailing skiff, + Were spread below. + +She stood to gaze, perhaps to sigh, + Perhaps to think; but who can tell +How heavy on her heart must lie + The letter L! + + * * * * * + +She came anon with quiet grace; + And "What," she murmured, "silent yet!" +He answered, "'Tis a haunted place, + And spell-beset. + +"O speak to us, and break the spell!" + "The spell is broken," she replied. +"I crossed the running brook, it fell, + It could not bide. + +"And I have brought a budding world, + Of orchis spires and daisies rank, +And ferny plumes but half uncurled, + From yonder bank; + +"And I shall weave of them a crown, + And at the well-head launch it free, +That so the brook may float it down, + And out to sea. + +"There may it to some English hands + From fairy meadow seem to come; +The fairyest of fairy lands-- + The land of home." + +"Weave on," he said, and as she wove + We told how currents in the deep, +With branches from a lemon grove, + Blue bergs will sweep. + +And messages from shipwrecked folk + Will navigate the moon-led main, +And painted boards of splintered oak + Their port regain. + +Then floated out by vagrant thought, + My soul beheld on torrid sand +The wasteful water set at nought + Man's skilful hand, + +And suck out gold-dust from the box, + And wash it down in weedy whirls, +And split the wine-keg on the rocks, + And lose the pearls. + +"Ah! why to that which needs it not," + Methought, "should costly things be given? +How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot, + On this side heaven!" + +So musing, did mine ears awake + To maiden tones of sweet reserve, +And manly speech that seemed to make + The steady curve + +Of lips that uttered it defer + Their guard, and soften for the thought: +She listened, and his talk with her + Was fancy fraught. + +"There is not much in liberty"-- + With doubtful pauses he began; +And said to her and said to me, + "There was a man-- + +"There was a man who dreamed one night + That his dead father came to him; +And said, when fire was low, and light + Was burning dim-- + +"'Why vagrant thus, my sometime pride, + Unloved, unloving, wilt thou roam? +Sure home is best!' The son replied, + 'I have no home.' + +"'Shall not I speak?' his father said, + 'Who early chose a youthful wife, +And worked for her, and with her led + My happy life. + +"'Ay, I will speak, for I was young + As thou art now, when I did hold +The prattling sweetness of thy tongue + Dearer than gold; + +"'And rosy from thy noonday sleep + Would bear thee to admiring kin, +And all thy pretty looks would keep + My heart within. + +"'Then after, mid thy young allies-- + For thee ambition flushed my brow-- +I coveted the school-boy prize + Far more than thou. + +"'I thought for thee, I thought for all + My gamesome imps that round me grew; +The dews of blessing heaviest fall + Where care falls too. + +"'And I that sent my boys away, + In youthful strength to earn their bread, +And died before the hair was gray + Upon my head-- + +"'I say to thee, though free from care, + A lonely lot, an aimless life, +The crowning comfort is not there-- + Son, take a wife.' + +"'Father beloved,' the son replied, + And failed to gather to his breast, +With arms in darkness searching wide, + The formless guest. + +"'I am but free, as sorrow is, + To dry her tears, to laugh, to talk; +And free, as sick men are, I wis + To rise and walk. + +"'And free, as poor men are, to buy + If they have nought wherewith to pay; +Nor hope, the debt before they die, + To wipe away. + +"'What 'vails it there are wives to win, + And faithful hearts for those to yearn, +Who find not aught thereto akin + To make return? + +"'Shall he take much who little gives, + And dwells in spirit far away, +When she that in his presence lives + Doth never stray, + +"But waking, guideth as beseems + The happy house in order trim, +And tends her babes; and sleeping, dreams + Of them and him? + +"'O base, O cold,'"--while thus he spake + The dream broke off, the vision fled; +He carried on his speech awake + And sighing said-- + +"'I had--ah happy man!--I had + A precious jewel in my breast, +And while I kept it I was glad + At work, at rest! + +"'Call it a heart, and call it strong + As upward stroke of eagle's wing; +Then call it weak, you shall not wrong + The beating thing. + +"'In tangles of the jungle reed, + Whose heats are lit with tiger eyes, +In shipwreck drifting with the weed + 'Neath rainy skies, + +"'Still youthful manhood, fresh and keen, + At danger gazed with awed delight +As if sea would not drown, I ween, + Nor serpent bite. + +"'I had--ah happy! but 'tis gone, + The priceless jewel; one came by, +And saw and stood awhile to con + With curious eye, + +"'And wished for it, and faintly smiled + From under lashes black as doom, +With subtle sweetness, tender, mild, + That did illume + +"'The perfect face, and shed on it + A charm, half feeling, half surprise, +And brim with dreams the exquisite + Brown blessèd eyes. + +"'Was it for this, no more but this, + I took and laid it in her hand, +By dimples ruled, to hint submiss, + By frown unmanned? + +"'It was for this--and O farewell + The fearless foot, the present mind, +And steady will to breast the swell + And face the wind! + +"'I gave the jewel from my breast, + She played with it a little while +As I sailed down into the west, + Fed by her smile; + +"'Then weary of it--far from land, + With sigh as deep as destiny, +She let it drop from her fair hand + Into the sea, + +"'And watched it sink; and I--and I,-- + What shall I do, for all is vain? +No wave will bring, no gold will buy, + No toil attain; + +"'Nor any diver reach to raise + My jewel from the blue abyss; +Or could they, still I should but praise + Their work amiss. + +"'Thrown, thrown away! But I love yet + The fair, fair hand which did the deed: +That wayward sweetness to forget + Were bitter meed. + +"'No, let it lie, and let the wave + Roll over it for evermore; +Whelmed where the sailor hath his grave-- + The sea her store. + +"'My heart, my sometime happy heart! + And O for once let me complain, +I must forego life's better part-- + Man's dearer gain. + +"'I worked afar that I might rear + A peaceful home on English soil; +I labored for the gold and gear-- + I loved my toil. + +"'Forever in my spirit spake + The natural whisper, "Well 'twill be +When loving wife and children break + Their bread with thee!" + +"'The gathered gold is turned to dross, + The wife hath faded into air, +My heart is thrown away, my loss + I cannot spare. + +"'Not spare unsated thought her food-- + No, not one rustle of the fold, +Nor scent of eastern sandal-wood, + Nor gleam of gold; + +"'Nor quaint devices of the shawl, + Far less the drooping lashes meek; +The gracious figure, lithe and tall, + The dimpled cheek; + +"'And all the wonders of her eyes, + And sweet caprices of her air, +Albeit, indignant reason cries, + Fool! have a care. + +"'Fool! join not madness to mistake; + Thou knowest she loved thee not a whit; +Only that she thy heart might break-- + She wanted it, + +"'Only the conquered thing to chain + So fast that none might set it free, +Nor other woman there might reign + And comfort thee. + +"'Robbed, robbed of life's illusions sweet; + Love dead outside her closèd door, +And passion fainting at her feet + To wake no more; + +"'What canst thou give that unknown bride + Whom thou didst work for in the waste, +Ere fated love was born, and cried-- + Was dead, ungraced? + +"'No more but this, the partial care, + The natural kindness for its own, +The trust that waxeth unaware, + As worth is known: + +"'Observance, and complacent thought + Indulgent, and the honor due +That many another man has brought + Who brought love too. + +"'Nay, then, forbid it Heaven!' he said, + 'The saintly vision fades from me; +O bands and chains! I cannot wed-- + I am not free.'" + +With that he raised his face to view; + "What think you," asking, "of my tale? +And was he right to let the dew + Of morn exhale, + +"And burdened in the noontide sun, + The grateful shade of home forego-- +Could he be right--I ask as one + Who fain would know?" + +He spoke to her and spoke to me; + The rebel rose-hue dyed her cheek; +The woven crown lay on her knee; + She would not speak. + +And I with doubtful pause--averse + To let occasion drift away-- +I answered--"If his case were worse + Than word can say, + +"Time is a healer of sick hearts, + And women have been known to choose, +With purpose to allay their smarts, + And tend their bruise, + +"These for themselves. Content to give, + In their own lavish love complete, +Taking for sole prerogative + Their tendance sweet. + +"Such meeting in their diadem + Of crowning love's ethereal fire, +Himself he robs who robbeth them + Of their desire. + +"Therefore the man who, dreaming, cried + Against his lot that even-song, +I judge him honest, and decide + That he was wrong." + +"When I am judged, ah may my fate," + He whispered, "in thy code be read! +Be thou both judge and advocate." + Then turned, he said-- + +"Fair weaver!" touching, while he spoke, + The woven crown, the weaving hand, +"And do you this decree revoke, + Or may it stand? + +"This friend, you ever think her right-- + She is not wrong, then?" Soft and low +The little trembling word took flight: + She answered, "No." + + +PRESENT. + +A meadow where the grass was deep, + Rich, square, and golden to the view, +A belt of elms with level sweep + About it grew. + +The sun beat down on it, the line + Of shade was clear beneath the trees; +There, by a clustering eglantine, + We sat at ease. + +And O the buttercups! that field + O' the cloth of gold, where pennons swam-- +Where France set up his lilied shield, + His oriflamb, + +And Henry's lion-standard rolled: + What was it to their matchless sheen, +Their million million drops of gold + Among the green! + +We sat at ease in peaceful trust, + For he had written, "Let us meet; +My wife grew tired of smoke and dust, + And London heat, + +"And I have found a quiet grange, + Set back in meadows sloping west, +And there our little ones can range + And she can rest. + +"Come down, that we may show the view, + And she may hear your voice again, +And talk her woman's talk with you + Along the lane." + +Since he had drawn with listless hand + The letter, six long years had fled, +And winds had blown about the sand, + And they were wed. + +Two rosy urchins near him played, + Or watched, entranced, the shapely ships +That with his knife for them he made + Of elder slips. + +And where the flowers were thickest shed, + Each blossom like a burnished gem, +A creeping baby reared its head, + And cooed at them. + +And calm was on the father's face, + And love was in the mother's eyes; +She looked and listened from her place, + In tender wise. + +She did not need to raise her voice + That they might hear, she sat so nigh; +Yet we could speak when 'twas our choice, + And soft reply. + +Holding our quiet talk apart + Of household things; till, all unsealed, +The guarded outworks of the heart + Began to yield; + +And much that prudence will not dip + The pen to fix and send away, +Passed safely over from the lip + That summer day. + +"I should be happy," with a look + Towards her husband where he lay, +Lost in the pages of his book, + Soft did she say. + +"I am, and yet no lot below + For one whole day eludeth care; +To marriage all the stories flow, + And finish there: + +"As if with marriage came the end, + The entrance into settled rest, +The calm to which love's tossings tend, + The quiet breast. + +"For me love played the low preludes, + Yet life began but with the ring, +Such infinite solicitudes + Around it cling. + +"I did not for my heart divine + Her destiny so meek to grow; +The higher nature matched with mine + Will have it so. + +"Still I consider it, and still + Acknowledge it my master made, +Above me by the steadier will + Of nought afraid. + +"Above me by the candid speech; + The temperate judgment of its own; +The keener thoughts that grasp and reach + At things unknown. + +"But I look up and he looks down, + And thus our married eyes can meet; +Unclouded his, and clear of frown, + And gravely sweet. + +"And yet, O good, O wise and true! + I would for all my fealty, +That I could be as much to you + As you to me; + +"And knew the deep secure content + Of wives who have been hardly won, +And, long petitioned, gave assent, + Jealous of none. + +"But proudly sure in all the earth + No other in that homage shares, +Nor other woman's face or worth + Is prized as theirs." + +I said: "And yet no lot below + For one whole day eludeth care. +Your thought." She answered, "Even so. + I would beware + +"Regretful questionings; be sure + That very seldom do they rise, +Nor for myself do I endure-- + I sympathize. + +"For once"--she turned away her head, + Across the grass she swept her hand-- +"There was a letter once," she said, + "Upon the sand." + +"There was, in truth, a letter writ + On sand," I said, "and swept from view; +But that same hand which fashioned it + Is given to you. + +"Efface the letter; wherefore keep + An image which the sands forego?" +"Albeit that fear had seemed to sleep," + She answered low, + +"I could not choose but wake it now; + For do but turn aside your face, +A house on yonder hilly brow + Your eyes may trace. + +"The chestnut shelters it; ah me, + That I should have so faint a heart! +But yester-eve, as by the sea + I sat apart, + +"I heard a name, I saw a hand + Of passing stranger point that way-- +And will he meet her on the strand, + When late we stray? + +"For she is come, for she is there, + I heard it in the dusk, and heard +Admiring words, that named her fair, + But little stirred + +"By beauty of the wood and wave, + And weary of an old man's sway; +For it was sweeter to enslave + Than to obey." + +--The voice of one that near us stood, + The rustle of a silken fold, +A scent of eastern sandal wood, + A gleam of gold! + +A lady! In the narrow space + Between the husband and the wife, +But nearest him--she showed a face + With dangers rife; + +A subtle smile that dimpling fled, + As night-black lashes rose and fell: +I looked, and to myself I said, + "The letter L." + +He, too, looked up, and with arrest + Of breath and motion held his gaze, +Nor cared to hide within his breast + His deep amaze; + +Nor spoke till on her near advance + His dark cheek flushed a ruddier hue; +And with his change of countenance + Hers altered too. + +"Lenore!" his voice was like the cry + Of one entreating; and he said +But that--then paused with such a sigh + As mourns the dead. + +And seated near, with no demur + Of bashful doubt she silence broke, +Though I alone could answer her + When first she spoke. + +She looked: her eyes were beauty's own; + She shed their sweetness into his; +Nor spared the married wife one moan + That bitterest is. + +She spoke, and lo, her loveliness + Methought she damaged with her tongue; +And every sentence made it less, + All falsely rung. + +The rallying voice, the light demand, + Half flippant, half unsatisfied; +The vanity sincere and bland-- + The answers wide. + +And now her talk was of the East, + And next her talk was of the sea; +"And has the love for it increased + You shared with me?" + +He answered not, but grave and still + With earnest eyes her face perused, +And locked his lips with steady will, + As one that mused-- + +That mused and wondered. Why his gaze + Should dwell on her, methought, was plain; +But reason that should wonder raise + I sought in vain. + +And near and near the children drew, + Attracted by her rich array, +And gems that trembling into view + Like raindrops lay. + +He spoke: the wife her baby took + And pressed the little face to hers; +What pain soe'er her bosom shook, + What jealous stirs + +Might stab her heart, she hid them so, + The cooing babe a veil supplied; +And if she listened none might know, + Or if she sighed; + +Or if forecasting grief and care + Unconscious solace thence she drew, +And lulled her babe, and unaware + Lulled sorrow too. + +The lady, she interpreter + For looks or language wanted none, +If yet dominion stayed with her-- + So lightly won; + +If yet the heart she wounded sore + Could yearn to her, and let her see +The homage that was evermore + Disloyalty; + +If sign would yield that it had bled, + Or rallied from the faithless blow, +Or sick or sullen stooped to wed, + She craved to know. + +Now dreamy deep, now sweetly keen, + Her asking eyes would round him shine; +But guarded lips and settled mien + Refused the sign. + +And unbeguiled and unbetrayed, + The wonder yet within his breast, +It seemed a watchful part he played + Against her quest. + +Until with accent of regret + She touched upon the past once more, +As if she dared him to forget + His dream of yore. + +And words of little weight let fall + The fancy of the lower mind; +How waxing life must needs leave all + Its best behind; + +How he had said that "he would fain + (One morning on the halcyon sea) +That life would at a stand remain + Eternally; + +"And sails be mirrored in the deep, + As then they were, for evermore, +And happy spirits wake and sleep + Afar from shore: + +"The well-contented heart be fed + Ever as then, and all the world +(It were not small) unshadowèd + When sails were furled. + +"Your words"--a pause, and quietly + With touch of calm self-ridicule: +"It may be so--for then," said he, + "I was a fool." + +With that he took his book, and left + An awkward silence to my care, +That soon I filled with questions deft + And debonair; + +And slid into an easy vein, + The favorite picture of the year; +The grouse upon her lord's domain-- + The salmon weir; + +Till she could fain a sudden thought + Upon neglected guests, and rise, +And make us her adieux, with nought + In her dark eyes + +Acknowledging or shame or pain; + But just unveiling for our view +A little smile of still disdain + As she withdrew. + +Then nearer did the sunshine creep, + And warmer came the wafting breeze; +The little babe was fast asleep + On mother's knees. + +Fair was the face that o'er it leant, + The cheeks with beauteous blushes dyed; +The downcast lashes, shyly bent, + That failed to hide + +Some tender shame. She did not see; + She felt his eyes that would not stir, +She looked upon her babe, and he + So looked at her. + +So grave, so wondering, so content, + As one new waked to conscious life, +Whose sudden joy with fear is blent, + He said, "My wife." + +"My wife, how beautiful you are!" + Then closer at her side reclined, +"The bold brown woman from afar + Comes, to me blind. + +"And by comparison, I see + The majesty of matron grace, +And learn how pure, how fair can be + My own wife's face: + +"Pure with all faithful passion, fair + With tender smiles that come and go, +And comforting as April air + After the snow. + +"Fool that I was! my spirit frets + And marvels at the humbling truth, +That I have deigned to spend regrets + On my bruised youth. + +"Its idol mocked thee, seated nigh, + And shamed me for the mad mistake; +I thank my God he could deny, + And she forsake. + +"Ah, who am I, that God hath saved + Me from the doom I did desire, +And crossed the lot myself had craved, + To set me higher? + +"What have I done that He should bow + From heaven to choose a wife for me? +And what deserved, He should endow + My home with THEE? + +"My wife!" With that she turned her face + To kiss the hand about her neck; +And I went down and sought the place + Where leaped the beck-- + +The busy beck, that still would run + And fall, and falter its refrain; +And pause and shimmer in the sun, + And fall again. + +It led me to the sandy shore, + We sang together, it and I-- +"The daylight comes, the dark is o'er, + The shadows fly." + +I lost it on the sandy shore, + "O wife!" its latest murmurs fell, +"O wife, be glad, and fear no more + The letter L." + + + + +THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. + +(1571.) + + +The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, + The ringers ran by two, by three; +"Pull, if ye never pulled before; + Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. +"Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! +Ply all your changes, all your swells, + Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'" + +Men say it was a stolen tyde-- + The Lord that sent it, He knows all; +But in myne ears doth still abide + The message that the bells let fall: +And there was nought of strange, beside +The nights of mews and peewits pied + By millions crouched on the old sea wall. + +I sat and spun within the doore, + My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; +The level sun, like ruddy ore, + Lay sinking in the barren skies; +And dark against day's golden death +She moved where Lindis wandereth, +My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. + + "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, + Ere the early dews were falling, + Farre away I heard her song. + "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; + Where the reedy Lindis floweth, + Floweth, floweth. + From the meads where melick groweth + Faintly came her milking song-- + + "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, + "For the dews will soone be falling; + Leave your meadow grasses mellow, + Mellow, mellow; + Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; + Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot + Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; + Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, + From the clovers lift your head; + Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, + Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, + Jetty, to the milking shed." + +If it be long, ay, long ago, + When I beginne to think howe long, +Againe I hear the Lindis flow, + Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; +And all the aire, it seemeth mee, +Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), +That ring the tune of Enderby. + +Alle fresh the level pasture lay, + And not a shadowe mote be seene, +Save where full fyve good miles away + The steeple towered from out the greene; +And lo! the great bell farre and wide +Was heard in all the country side +That Saturday at eventide. + +The swanherds where their sedges are + Moved on in sunset's golden breath. +The shepherde lads I heard afarre, + And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; +Till floating o'er the grassy sea +Came downe that kyndly message free, +The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." + +Then some looked uppe into the sky, + And all along where Lindis flows +To where the goodly vessels lie, + And where the lordly steeple shows. +They sayde, "And why should this thing be? +What danger lowers by land or sea? +They ring the tune of Enderby! + +"For evil news from Mablethorpe, + Of pyrate galleys warping down; +For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, + They have not spared to wake the towne +But while the west bin red to see, +And storms be none, and pyrates flee, +Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?" + +I looked without, and lo! my sonne + Came riding downe with might and main +He raised a shout as he drew on, + Till all the welkin rang again, +"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" +(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath +Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) + +"The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, + The rising tide comes on apace, +And boats adrift in yonder towne + Go sailing uppe the market-place." +He shook as one that looks on death: +"God save you, mother!" straight he saith; +"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" + +"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, + With her two bairns I marked her long; +And ere yon bells beganne to play + Afar I heard her milking song." +He looked across the grassy lea, +To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!" +They rang "The Brides of Enderby!" + +With that he cried and beat his breast; + For, lo! along the river's bed +A mighty eygre reared his crest, + And uppe the Lindis raging sped. +It swept with thunderous noises loud; +Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, +Or like a demon in a shroud. + +And rearing Lindis backward pressed, + Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; +Then madly at the eygre's breast + Flung uppe her weltering walls again. +Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-- +Then beaten foam flew round about-- +Then all the mighty floods were out. + +So farre, so fast the eygre drave, + The heart had hardly time to beat, +Before a shallow seething wave + Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: +The feet had hardly time to flee +Before it brake against the knee, +And all the world was in the sea. + +Upon the roofe we sate that night, + The noise of bells went sweeping by; +I marked the lofty beacon light + Stream from the church tower, red and high-- +A lurid mark and dread to see; +And awsome bells they were to mee, +That in the dark rang "Enderby." + +They rang the sailor lads to guide + From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; +And I--my sonne was at my side, + And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; +And yet he moaned beneath his breath, +"O come in life, or come in death! +O lost! my love, Elizabeth." + +And didst thou visit him no more? + Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; +The waters laid thee at his doore, + Ere yet the early dawn was clear. +Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, +The lifted sun shone on thy face, +Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. + +That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, + That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; +A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! + To manye more than myne and me: +But each will mourn his own (she saith). +And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath +Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. + +I shall never hear her more +By the reedy Lindis shore, +"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, +Ere the early dews be falling; +I shall never hear her song, +"Cusha! Cusha!" all along +Where the sunny Lindis floweth, + Goeth, floweth; +From the meads where melick groweth, +When the water winding down, +Onward floweth to the town. + +I shall never see her more +Where the reeds and rushes quiver, + Shiver, quiver; +Stand beside the sobbing river, +Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling +To the sandy lonesome shore; +I shall never hear her calling, +"Leave your meadow grasses mellow. + Mellow, mellow; +Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; +Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; +Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; +Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; + Lightfoot, Whitefoot, +From your clovers lift the head; +Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, +Jetty, to the milking shed." + + + + +AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. + +(THE PARSON'S BROTHER, SISTER, AND TWO CHILDREN) + + +_Preface_. + +What wonder man should fail to stay + A nursling wafted from above, +The growth celestial come astray, + That tender growth whose name is Love! + +It is as if high winds in heaven + Had shaken the celestial trees, +And to this earth below had given + Some feathered seeds from one of these. + +O perfect love that 'dureth long! + Dear growth, that shaded by the palms. +And breathed on by the angel's song, + Blooms on in heaven's eternal calms! + +How great the task to guard thee here, + Where wind is rough and frost is keen, +And all the ground with doubt and fear + Is checkered, birth and death between! + +Space is against thee--it can part; + Time is against thee--it can chill; +Words--they but render half the heart; + Deeds--they are poor to our rich will. + + * * * * * + +_Merton_. Though she had loved me, I had never bound +Her beauty to my darkness; that had been +Too hard for her. Sadder to look so near +Into a face all shadow, than to stand +Aloof, and then withdraw, and afterwards +Suffer forgetfulness to comfort her. +I think so, and I loved her; therefore I +Have no complaint; albeit she is not mine: +And yet--and yet, withdrawing I would fain +She would have pleaded duty--would have said +"My father wills it"; would have turned away, +As lingering, or unwillingly; for then +She would have done no damage to the past: +Now she has roughly used it--flung it down +And brushed its bloom away. If she had said, +"Sir, I have promised; therefore, lo! my hand"-- +Would I have taken it? Ah no! by all +Most sacred, no! + I would for my sole share +Have taken first her recollected blush +The day I won her; next her shining tears-- +The tears of our long parting; and for all +The rest--her cry, her bitter heart-sick cry, +That day or night (I know not which it was, +The days being always night), that darkest night. +When being led to her I heard her cry, +"O blind! blind! blind!" +Go with thy chosen mate: +The fashion of thy going nearly cured +The sorrow of it. I am yet so weak +That half my thoughts go after thee; but not +So weak that I desire to have it so. + +JESSIE, _seated at the piano, sings_. + +When the dimpled water slippeth, + Full of laughter, on its way, +And her wing the wagtail dippeth, + Running by the brink at play; +When the poplar leaves atremble + Turn their edges to the light, +And the far-up clouds resemble + Veils of gauze most clear and white; +And the sunbeams fall and flatter + Woodland moss and branches brown. +And the glossy finches chatter + Up and down, up and down: +Though the heart be not attending, + Having music of her own, +On the grass, through meadows wending, + It is sweet to walk alone. + +When the falling waters utter + Something mournful on their way, +And departing swallows flutter, + Taking leave of bank and brae; +When the chaffinch idly sitteth + With her mate upon the sheaves, +And the wistful robin flitteth + Over beds of yellow leaves; +When the clouds, like ghosts that ponder + Evil fate, float by and frown, +And the listless wind doth wander + Up and down, up and down: +Though the heart be not attending, + Having sorrows of her own, +Through the fields and fallows wending, + It is sad to walk alone. + +_Merton_. Blind! blind! blind! +Oh! sitting in the dark for evermore, +And doing nothing--putting out a hand +To feel what lies about me, and to say +Not "This is blue or red," but "This is cold, +And this the sun is shining on, and this +I know not till they tell its name to me." + +O that I might behold once more my God! +The shining rulers of the night and day; +Or a star twinkling; or an almond-tree, +Pink with her blossom and alive with bees, +Standing against the azure! O my sight! +Lost, and yet living in the sunlit cells +Of memory--that only lightsome place +Where lingers yet the dayspring of my youth: +The years of mourning for thy death are long. + +Be kind, sweet memory! O desert me not! +For oft thou show'st me lucent opal seas, +Fringed with their cocoa-palms and dwarf red crags, +Whereon the placid moon doth "rest her chin", +For oft by favor of thy visitings +I feel the dimness of an Indian night, +And lo! the sun is coming. Red as rust +Between the latticed blind his presence burns, +A ruby ladder running up the wall; +And all the dust, printed with pigeons' feet, +Is reddened, and the crows that stalk anear +Begin to trail for heat their glossy wings, +And the red flowers give back at once the dew, +For night is gone, and day is born so fast, +And is so strong, that, huddled as in flight, +The fleeting darkness paleth to a shade, +And while she calls to sleep and dreams "Come on," +Suddenly waked, the sleepers rub their eyes, +Which having opened, lo! she is no more. + +O misery and mourning! I have felt-- +Yes, I have felt like some deserted world +That God had done with, and had cast aside +To rock and stagger through the gulfs of space, +He never looking on it any more-- +Untilled, no use, no pleasure, not desired, +Nor lighted on by angels in their flight +From heaven to happier planets, and the race +That once had dwelt on it withdrawn or dead +Could such a world have hope that some blest day +God would remember her, and fashion her +Anew? + +_Jessie_. What, dearest? Did you speak to me? + +_Child_. I think he spoke to us. + +_M_. No, little elves, +You were so quiet that I half forgot +Your neighborhood. What are you doing there? + +_J_. They sit together on the window-mat +Nursing their dolls. + +_C_. Yes, Uncle, our new dolls-- +Our best dolls, that you gave us. + +_M_. Did you say +The afternoon was bright? + +_J_. Yes, bright indeed! +The sun is on the plane-tree, and it flames +All red and orange. + +_C_. I can see my father-- +Look! look! the leaves are falling on his gown. + +_M_. Where? + +_C_. In the churchyard, Uncle--he is gone: +He passed behind the tower. + +_M_. I heard a bell: +There is a funeral, then, behind the church. + +_2d Child_. Are the trees sorry when their leaves drop off? + +_1st Child_. You talk such silly words;--no, not at all. +There goes another leaf. + +_2d Child_. I did not see. + +_1st Child_. Look! on the grass, between the little hills. +Just where they planted Amy. + +_J._ Amy died-- +Dear little Amy! when you talk of her, +Say, she is gone to heaven. + +_2d Child_. They planted her-- +Will she come up next year? + +_1st Child_. No, not so soon; +But some day God will call her to come up, +And then she will. Papa knows everything-- +He said she would before he planted her. + +_2d Child_. It was at night she went to heaven. Last night +We saw a star before we went to bed. + +_1st Child_. Yes, Uncle, did you know? A large bright star, +And at her side she had some little ones-- +Some young ones. + +_M_. Young ones! no, my little maid, +Those stars are very old. + +_1st Child_. What! all of them? + +_M_. Yes. + +_1st Child_. Older than our father? + +_M_. Older, far. + +_2d Child_. They must be tired of shining there so long. +Perhaps they wish they might come down. + +_J_. Perhaps! +Dear children, talk of what you understand. +Come, I must lift the trailing creepers up +That last night's wind has loosened. + +_1st Child_. May we help? +Aunt, may we help to nail them? + +_J._ We shall see. +Go, find and bring the hammer, and some shreds. + +_[Steps outside the window, lifts a branch, and sings.]_ + +Should I change my allegiance for rancor + If fortune changes her side? +Or should I, like a vessel at anchor, + Turn with the turn of the tide? +Lift! O lift, thou lowering sky; + An thou wilt, thy gloom forego! +An thou wilt not, he and I + Need not part for drifts of snow. + + _M. [within_] Lift! no, thou lowering sky, thou wilt not lift-- +Thy motto readeth, "Never." + +_Children_. Here they are! +Here are the nails! and may we help? + +_J_. You shall, +If I should want help. + +_1st Child_. Will you want it, then? +Please want it--we like nailing. + +_2d Child_. Yes, we do. + +_J_. It seems I ought to want it: hold the bough, +And each may nail in turn. + +[_Sings._] + +Like a daisy I was, near him growing: + Must I move because favors flag, +And be like a brown wall-flower blowing + Far out of reach in a crag? +Lift! O lift, thou lowering sky; + An thou canst, thy blue regain! +An thou canst not, he and I + Need not part for drops of rain. + +_1st Child_. Now, have we nailed enough? + +_J. [trains the creepers_] Yes, you may go; +But do not play too near the churchyard path. + +_M. [within_] Even misfortune does not strike so near +As my dependence. O, in youth and strength +To sit a timid coward in the dark, +And feel before I set a cautious step! +It is so very dark, so far more dark +Than any night that day comes after--night +In which there would be stars, or else at least +The silvered portion of a sombre cloud +Through which the moon is plunging. + +_J. [entering]_ Merton! + +_M_. Yes + +_J_. Dear Merton, did you know that I could hear? + +_M_. No: e'en my solitude is not mine now, +And if I be alone is ofttimes doubt. +Alas! far more than eyesight have I lost; +For manly courage drifteth after it-- +E'en as a splintered spar would drift away +From some dismasted wreck. Hear, I complain-- +Like a weak ailing woman I complain. + +_J_. For the first time. + +_M_. I cannot bear the dark. + +_J_. My brother! you do bear it--bear it well-- +Have borne it twelve long months, and not complained +Comfort your heart with music: all the air +Is warm with sunbeams where the organ stands. +You like to feel them on you. Come and play. + +_M_. My fate, my fate is lonely! + +_J_. So it is-- +I know it is. + +_M_. And pity breaks my heart. + +_J_. Does it, dear Merton? + +_M_. Yes, I say it does. +What! do you think I am so dull of ear +That I can mark no changes in the tones +That reach me? Once I liked not girlish pride +And that coy quiet, chary of reply, +That held me distant: now the sweetest lips +Open to entertain me--fairest hands +Are proffered me to guide. + +_J_. That is not well? + +_M_. No: give me coldness, pride, or still disdain, +Gentle withdrawal. Give me anything +But this--a fearless, sweet, confiding ease, +Whereof I may expect, I may exact, +Considerate care, and have it--gentle speech, +And have it. Give me anything but this! +For they who give it, give it in the faith +That I will not misdeem them, and forget +My doom so far as to perceive thereby +Hope of a wife. They make this thought too plain; +They wound me--O they cut me to the heart! +When have I said to any one of them, +"I am a blind and desolate man;--come here, +I pray you--be as eyes to me?" When said, +Even to her whose pitying voice is sweet +To my dark ruined heart, as must be hands +That clasp a lifelong captive's through the grate, +And who will ever lend her delicate aid +To guide me, dark encumbrance that I am!-- +When have I said to her, "Comforting voice, +Belonging to a face unknown, I pray +Be my wife's voice?" + +_J_. Never, my brother--no, +You never have! + +_M_. What could she think of me +If I forgot myself so far? or what +Could she reply? + +_J_. You ask not as men ask +Who care for an opinion, else perhaps, +Although I am not sure--although, perhaps, +I have no right to give one--I should say +She would reply, "I will" + + * * * * * + +_Afterthought_. + +Man dwells apart, though not alone, + He walks among his peers unread; +The best of thoughts which he hath known. + For lack of listeners are not said. + +Yet dreaming on earth's clustered isles, + He saith "They dwell not lone like men, +Forgetful that their sunflecked smiles + Flash far beyond each other's ken." + +He looks on God's eternal suns + That sprinkle the celestial blue, +And saith, "Ah! happy shining ones, + I would that men were grouped like you!" + +Yet this is sure, the loveliest star + That clustered with its peers we see, +Only because from us so far + Doth near its fellows seem to be. + + + + +SONGS OF SEVEN. + + +SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION. + +There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, + There's no rain left in heaven: +I've said my "seven times" over and over, + Seven times one are seven. + +I am old, so old, I can write a letter; + My birthday lessons are done; +The lambs play always, they know no better; + They are only one times one. + +O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing + And shining so round and low; +You were bright! ah bright! but your light is failing-- + You are nothing now but a bow. + +You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven + That God has hidden your face? +I hope if you have you will soon be forgiven, + And shine again in your place. + +O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, + You've powdered your legs with gold! +O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, + Give me your money to hold! + +O columbine, open your folded wrapper, + Where two twin turtle-doves dwell! +O cuckoo pint, toll me the purple clapper + That hangs in your clear green bell! + +And show me your nest with the young ones in it; + I will not steal them away; +I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet-- + I am seven times one to-day. + + +SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE. + +You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, + How many soever they be, +And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges + Come over, come over to me. + +Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling + No magical sense conveys, +And bells have forgotten their old art of telling + The fortune of future days. + +"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, + While a boy listened alone; +Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily + All by himself on a stone. + +Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, + And mine, they are yet to be; +No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: + You leave the story to me. + +The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, + And hangeth her hoods of snow; +She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: + O, children take long to grow. + +I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, + Nor long summer bide so late; +And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, + For some things are ill to wait. + +I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, + While dear hands are laid on my head; +"The child is a woman, the book may close over, + For all the lessons are said." + +I wait for my story--the birds cannot sing it, + Not one, as he sits on the tree; +The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it! + Such as I wish it to be. + + +SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE. + +I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, + Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; +"Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover-- + Hush, nightingale, hush! O, sweet nightingale, wait + Till I listen and hear + If a step draweth near, + For my love he is late! + +"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, + A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, +The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: + To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? + Let the star-clusters glow, + Let the sweet waters flow, + And cross quickly to me. + +"You night-moths that hover where honey brims over + From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; +You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover + To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. + Ah, my sailor, make haste, + For the time runs to waste, + And my love lieth deep-- + +"Too deep for swift telling: and yet my one lover + I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." + +By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover, + Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight: + But I'll love him more, more + Than e'er wife loved before, + Be the days dark or bright. + + +SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITY. + +Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, + Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! +When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, + And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small! +Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, + Eager to gather them all. + +Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups! + Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; +Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, + That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; +Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow"-- + Sing once, and sing it again. + +Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, + Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; +A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, + And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. +O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, + Maybe he thinks on you now! + +Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, + Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall-- +A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, + And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall! +Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, + God that is over us all! + + +SEVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOWHOOD. + +I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan + Before I am well awake; +"Let me bleed! O let me alone, + Since I must not break!" + +For children wake, though fathers sleep + With a stone at foot and at head: +O sleepless God, forever keep, + Keep both living and dead! + +I lift mine eyes, and what to see + But a world happy and fair! +I have not wished it to mourn with me-- + Comfort is not there. + +O what anear but golden brooms, + And a waste of reedy rills! +O what afar but the fine glooms + On the rare blue hills! + +I shall not die, but live forlore-- + How bitter it is to part! +O to meet thee, my love, once more! + O my heart, my heart! + +No more to hear, no more to see! + O that an echo might wake +And waft one note of thy psalm to me + Ere my heart-strings break! + +I should know it how faint soe'er, + And with angel voices blent; +O once to feel thy spirit anear, + I could be content! + +Or once between the gates of gold, + While an angel entering trod, +But once--thee sitting to behold + On the hills of God! + + +SEVEN TIMES SIX. GIVING IN MARRIAGE. + +To bear, to nurse, to rear, + To watch, and then to lose: +To see my bright ones disappear, + Drawn up like morning dews-- +To bear, to nurse, to rear, + To watch, and then to lose: +This have I done when God drew near + Among his own to choose. + +To hear, to heed, to wed, + And with thy lord depart +In tears that he, as soon as shed, + Will let no longer smart.-- +To hear, to heed, to wed, + This while thou didst I smiled, +For now it was not God who said, +"Mother, give ME thy child." + +O fond, O fool, and blind, + To God I gave with tears; +But when a man like grace would find, + My soul put by her fears-- +O fond, O fool, and blind, + God guards in happier spheres; +That man will guard where he did bind + Is hope for unknown years. + +To hear, to heed, to wed, + Fair lot that maidens choose, +Thy mother's tenderest words are said, + Thy face no more she views; +Thy mother's lot, my dear, + She doth in nought accuse; +Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, + To love--and then to lose. + + +SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. LONGING FOR HOME. + +I. + + A song of a boat:-- + There was once a boat on a billow: + Lightly she rocked to her port remote, +And the foam was white in her wake like snow, +And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow + And bent like a wand of willow. + +II. + + I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat + Went curtseying over the billow, + I marked her course till a dancing mote +She faded out on the moonlit foam, +And I stayed behind in the dear loved home; + And my thoughts all day were about the boat, + And my dreams upon the pillow. + +III. + +I pray you hear my song of a boat, + For it is but short:-- +My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat, + In river or port. +Long I looked out for the lad she bore, + On the open desolate sea, +And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, + For he came not back to me-- + Ah me! + +IV. + + A song of a nest:-- + There was once a nest in a hollow: +Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, + Soft and warm, and full to the brim-- + Vetches leaned over it purple and dim, + With buttercup buds to follow. + +V. + +I pray you hear my song of a nest, + For it is not long:-- +You shall never light, in a summer quest + The bushes among-- +Shall never light on a prouder sitter, + A fairer nestful, nor ever know +A softer sound than their tender twitter + That wind-like did come and go. + +VI. + + I had a nestful once of my own, + Ah happy, happy I! +Right dearly I loved them: but when they were grown + They spread out their wings to fly-- + O, one after one they flew away + Far up to the heavenly blue, + To the better country, the upper day, + And--I wish I was going too. + +VII. + +I pray you, what is the nest to me, + My empty nest? +And what is the shore where I stood to see + My boat sail down to the west? +Can I call that home where I anchor yet, + Though my good man has sailed? +Can I call that home where my nest was set, + Now all its hope hath failed? +Nay, but the port where my sailor went, + And the land where my nestlings be: +There is the home where my thoughts are sent, + The only home for me-- + Ah me! + + + + +A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. + + +We reached the place by night, + And heard the waves breaking: +They came to meet us with candles alight + To show the path we were taking. +A myrtle, trained on the gate, was white + With tufted flowers down shaking. + +With head beneath her wing, + A little wren was sleeping-- +So near, I had found it an easy thing + To steal her for my keeping +From the myrtle-bough that with easy swing + Across the path was sweeping. + +Down rocky steps rough-hewed, + Where cup-mosses flowered, +And under the trees, all twisted and rude, + Wherewith the dell was dowered, +They led us, where deep in its solitude + Lay the cottage, leaf-embowered. + +The thatch was all bespread + With climbing passion-flowers; +They were wet, and glistened with raindrops, shed + That day in genial showers. +"Was never a sweeter nest," we said, + "Than this little nest of ours." + +We laid us down to sleep: + But as for me--waking, +I marked the plunge of the muffled deep + On its sandy reaches breaking; +For heart-joyance doth sometimes keep + From slumber, like heart-aching. + +And I was glad that night, + With no reason ready, +To give my own heart for its deep delight, + That flowed like some tidal eddy, +Or shone like a star that was rising bright + With comforting radiance steady. + +But on a sudden--hark! + Music struck asunder +Those meshes of bliss, and I wept in the dark, + So sweet was the unseen wonder; +So swiftly it touched, as if struck at a mark, + The trouble that joy kept under. + +I rose--the moon outshone: + I saw the sea heaving, +And a little vessel sailing alone, + The small crisp wavelet cleaving; +'Twas she as she sailed to her port unknown-- + Was that track of sweetness leaving. + +We know they music made + In heaven, ere man's creation; +But when God threw it down to us that strayed + It dropt with lamentation, +And ever since doth its sweetness shade + With sighs for its first station. + +Its joy suggests regret-- + Its most for more is yearning; +And it brings to the soul that its voice hath met, + No rest that cadence learning, +But a conscious part in the sighs that fret + Its nature for returning. + +O Eve, sweet Eve! methought + When sometimes comfort winning, +As she watched the first children's tender sport, + Sole joy born since her sinning, +If a bird anear them sang, it brought + The pang as at beginning. + +While swam the unshed tear, + Her prattlers little heeding, +Would murmur, "This bird, with its carol clear. + When the red clay was kneaden, +And God made Adam our father dear, + Sang to him thus in Eden." + +The moon went in--the sky + And earth and sea hiding, +I laid me down, with the yearning sigh + Of that strain in my heart abiding; +I slept, and the barque that had sailed so nigh + In my dream was ever gliding. + +I slept, but waked amazed, + With sudden noise frighted, +And voices without, and a flash that dazed + My eyes from candles lighted. +"Ah! surely," methought, "by these shouts upraised + Some travellers are benighted." + +A voice was at my side-- + "Waken, madam, waken! +The long prayed-for ship at her anchor doth ride. + Let the child from its rest be taken, +For the captain doth weary for babe and for bride-- + Waken, madam, waken! + +"The home you left but late, + He speeds to it light-hearted; +By the wires he sent this news, and straight + To you with it they started." +O joy for a yearning heart too great, + O union for the parted! + +We rose up in the night, + The morning star was shining; +We carried the child in its slumber light + Out by the myrtles twining: +Orion over the sea hung bright, + And glorious in declining. + +Mother, to meet her son, + Smiled first, then wept the rather; +And wife, to bind up those links undone, + And cherished words to gather, +And to show the face of her little one, + That had never seen its father. + +That cottage in a chine + We were not to behold it; +But there may the purest of sunbeams shine, + May freshest flowers enfold it, +For sake of the news which our hearts must twine + With the bower where we were told it! + +Now oft, left lone again, + Sit mother and sit daughter, +And bless the good ship that sailed over the main, + And the favoring winds that brought her; +While still some new beauty they fable and feign + For the cottage by the water. + + + + +PERSEPHONE. + +(Written for THE PORTFOLIO SOCIETY, January, 1862. + +Subject given--"Light and Shade.") + + +She stepped upon Sicilian grass, + Demeter's daughter fresh and fair, +A child of light, a radiant lass, + And gamesome as the morning air. +The daffodils were fair to see, +They nodded lightly on the lea, +Persephone--Persephone! + +Lo! one she marked of rarer growth + Than orchis or anemone; +For it the maiden left them both, + And parted from her company. +Drawn nigh she deemed it fairer still, +And stooped to gather by the rill +The daffodil, the daffodil. + +What ailed the meadow that it shook? + What ailed the air of Sicily? +She wondered by the brattling brook, + And trembled with the trembling lea. +"The coal-black horses rise--they rise: +O mother, mother!" low she cries-- +Persephone--Persephone! + +"O light, light, light!" she cries, "farewell; + The coal-black horses wait for me. +O shade of shades, where I must dwell, + Demeter, mother, far from thee! +Ah, fated doom that I fulfil! +Ah, fateful flower beside the rill! +The daffodil, the daffodil!" + +What ails her that she comes not home? + Demeter seeks her far and wide, +And gloomy-browed doth ceaseless roam + From many a morn till eventide. +"My life, immortal though it be, +Is nought," she cries, "for want of thee, +Persephone--Persephone! + +"Meadows of Enna, let the rain + No longer drop to feed your rills, +Nor dew refresh the fields again, + With all their nodding daffodils! +Fade, fade and droop, O lilied lea, +Where thou, dear heart, wert reft from me-- +Persephone--Persephone!" + +She reigns upon her dusky throne, + Mid shades of heroes dread to see; +Among the dead she breathes alone, + Persephone--Persephone! +Or seated on the Elysian hill +She dreams of earthly daylight still, +And murmurs of the daffodil. + +A voice in Hades soundeth clear, + The shadows mourn and fill below; +It cries--"Thou Lord of Hades, hear, + And let Demeter's daughter go. +The tender corn upon the lea +Droops in her goddess gloom when she +Cries for her lost Persephone. + +"From land to land she raging flies, + The green fruit falleth in her wake, +And harvest fields beneath her eyes + To earth the grain unripened shake. +Arise, and set the maiden free; +Why should the world such sorrow dree +By reason of Persephone?" + +He takes the cleft pomegranate seeds: + "Love, eat with me this parting day;" +Then bids them fetch the coal-black steeds-- + "Demeter's daughter, wouldst away?" +The gates of Hades set her free: +"She will return full soon," saith he-- +"My wife, my wife Persephone." + +Low laughs the dark king on his throne-- + "I gave her of pomegranate seeds." +Demeter's daughter stands alone + Upon the fair Eleusian meads. +Her mother meets her. "Hail!" saith she; +"And doth our daylight dazzle thee, +My love, my child Persephone? + +"What moved thee, daughter, to forsake + Thy fellow-maids that fatal morn, +And give thy dark lord power to take + Thee living to his realm forlorn?" +Her lips reply without her will, +As one addressed who slumbereth still-- +"The daffodil, the daffodil!" + +Her eyelids droop with light oppressed, + And sunny wafts that round her stir, +Her cheek upon her mother's breast-- + Demeter's kisses comfort her. +Calm Queen of Hades, art thou she +Who stepped so lightly on the lea-- +Persephone, Persephone? + +When, in her destined course, the moon + Meets the deep shadow of this world, +And laboring on doth seem to swoon + Through awful wastes of dimness whirled-- +Emerged at length, no trace hath she +Of that dark hour of destiny, +Still silvery sweet--Persephone. + +The greater world may near the less, + And draw it through her weltering shade, +But not one biding trace impress + Of all the darkness that she made; +The greater soul that draweth thee +Hath left his shadow plain to see +On thy fair face, Persephone! + +Demeter sighs, but sure 'tis well + The wife should love her destiny: +They part, and yet, as legends tell, + She mourns her lost Persephone; +While chant the maids of Enna still-- +"O fateful flower beside the rill-- +The daffodil, the daffodil!" + + + + +A SEA SONG. + + +Old Albion sat on a crag of late. + And sang out--"Ahoy! ahoy! +Long, life to the captain, good luck to the mate. +And this to my sailor boy! + Come over, come home, + Through the salt sea foam, + My sailor, my sailor boy. + +"Here's a crown to be given away, I ween, + A crown for my sailor's head, +And all for the worth of a widowed queen, + And the love of the noble dead; + And the fear and fame + Of the island's name + Where my boy was born and bred. + +"Content thee, content thee, let it alone, + Thou marked for a choice so rare; +Though treaties be treaties, never a throne + Was proffered for cause as fair. + Yet come to me home, + Through the salt sea foam, + For the Greek must ask elsewhere. + +"'Tis a pity, my sailor, but who can tell? + Many lands they look to me; +One of these might be wanting a Prince as well, + But that's as hereafter may be." + She raised her white head + And laughed; and she said + "That's as hereafter may be." + + + + +BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. + + +It was a village built in a green rent, +Between two cliffs that skirt the dangerous bay +A reef of level rock runs out to sea, +And you may lie on it and look sheer down, +Just where the "Grace of Sunderland" was lost, +And see the elastic banners of the dulse +Rock softly, and the orange star-fish creep +Across the laver, and the mackerel shoot +Over and under it, like silver boats +Turning at will and plying under water. + +There on that reef we lay upon our breasts, +My brother and I, and half the village lads, +For an old fisherman had called to us +With "Sirs, the syle be come." "And what are they?" +My brother said. "Good lack!" the old man cried, +And shook his head; "To think you gentlefolk +Should ask what syle be! Look you; I can't say +What syle be called in your fine dictionaries, +Nor what name God Almighty calls them by +When their food's ready and He sends them south: +But our folk call them syle, and nought but syle, +And when they're grown, why then we call them herring. +I tell you, Sir, the water is as full +Of them as pastures be of blades of grass; +You'll draw a score out in a landing net, +And none of them be longer than a pin. + +"Syle! ay, indeed, we should be badly off, +I reckon, and so would God Almighty's gulls," +He grumbled on in his quaint piety, +"And all His other birds, if He should say +I will not drive my syle into the south; +The fisher folk may do without my syle, +And do without the shoals of fish it draws +To follow and feed on it." + This said, we made +Our peace with him by means of two small coins, +And down we ran and lay upon the reef, +And saw the swimming infants, emerald green, +In separate shoals, the scarcely turning ebb +Bringing them in; while sleek, and not intent +On chase, but taking that which came to hand, +The full-fed mackerel and the gurnet swam +Between; and settling on the polished sea, +A thousand snow-white gulls sat lovingly +In social rings, and twittered while they fed. +The village dogs and ours, elate and brave, +Lay looking over, barking at the fish; +Fast, fast the silver creatures took the bait, +And when they heaved and floundered on the rock, +In beauteous misery, a sudden pat +Some shaggy pup would deal, then back away, +At distance eye them with sagacious doubt, +And shrink half frighted from the slippery things. + +And so we lay from ebb-tide, till the flow +Rose high enough to drive us from the reef; +The fisher lads went home across the sand; +We climbed the cliff, and sat an hour or more, +Talking and looking down. It was not talk +Of much significance, except for this-- +That we had more in common than of old, +For both were tired, I with overwork. +He with inaction; I was glad at heart +To rest, and he was glad to have an ear +That he could grumble to, and half in jest +Rail at entails, deplore the fate of heirs, +And the misfortune of a good estate-- +Misfortune that was sure to pull him down, +Make him a dreamy, selfish, useless man: +Indeed he felt himself deteriorate +Already. Thereupon he sent down showers +Of clattering stones, to emphasize his words, +And leap the cliffs and tumble noisily +Into the seething wave. And as for me, +I railed at him and at ingratitude, +While rifling of the basket he had slung +Across his shoulders; then with right good will +We fell to work, and feasted like the gods, +Like laborers, or like eager workhouse folk +At Yuletide dinner; or, to say the whole +At once, like tired, hungry, healthy youth, +Until the meal being o'er, the tilted flask +Drained of its latest drop, the meat and bread +And ruddy cherries eaten, and the dogs +Mumbling the bones, this elder brother of mine-- +This man, that never felt an ache or pain +In his broad, well-knit frame, and never knew +The trouble of an unforgiven grudge, +The sting of a regretted meanness, nor +The desperate struggle of the unendowed +For place and for possession--he began +To sing a rhyme that he himself had wrought; +Sending it out with cogitative pause, +As if the scene where he had shaped it first +Had rolled it back on him, and meeting it +Thus unaware, he was of doubtful mind +Whether his dignity it well beseemed +To sing of pretty maiden: + +Goldilocks sat on the grass, + Tying up of posies rare; +Hardly could a sunbeam pass + Through the cloud that was her hair. +Purple orchis lasteth long, + Primrose flowers are pale and clear; +O the maiden sang a song + It would do you good to hear! + +Sad before her leaned the boy, + "Goldilocks that I love well, +Happy creature, fair and coy, + Think o' me, sweet Amabel." +Goldilocks she shook apart, + Looked with doubtful, doubtful eyes; +Like a blossom in her heart, + Opened out her first surprise. + +As a gloriole sign o' grace, + Goldilocks, ah fall and flow, +On the blooming, childlike face, + Dimple, dimple, come and go. +Give her time; on grass and sky + Let her gaze if she be fain: +As they looked ere he drew nigh, + They will never look again. + +Ah! the playtime she has known, + While her goldilocks grew long, +Is it like a nestling flown, + Childhood over like a song? +Yes, the boy may clear his brow, + Though she thinks to say him nay, +When she sighs, "I cannot now-- + Come again some other day." + +"Hold! there," he cried, half angry with himself; +"That ending goes amiss:" then turned again +To the old argument that we had held-- +"Now look you!" said my brother, "You may talk +Till, weary of the talk, I answer 'Ay, +There's reason in your words;' and you may talk +Till I go on to say, 'This should be so;' +And you may talk till I shall further own +'It _is_ so; yes, I am a lucky dog!' +Yet not the less shall I next morning wake. +And with a natural and fervent sigh, +Such as you never heaved, I shall exclaim +'What an unlucky dog I am!'" And here +He broke into a laugh. "But as for you-- +You! on all hands you have the best of me; +Men have not robbed _you_ of your birthright--work, +Nor ravaged in old days a peaceful field, +Nor wedded heiresses against their will, +Nor sinned, nor slaved, nor stooped, nor overreached, +That you might drone a useless life away +'Mid half a score of bleak and barren farms +And half a dozen bogs." + "O rare!" I cried; +"His wrongs go nigh to make him eloquent: +Now we behold how far bad actions reach! +Because five hundred years ago a Knight +Drove geese and beeves out from a Franklin's yard +Because three hundred years ago a squire-- +Against her will, and for her fair estate-- +Married a very ugly red-haired maid, +The blest inheritor of all their pelf, +While in the full enjoyment of the same, +Sighs on his own confession every day. +He cracks no egg without a moral sigh, +Nor eats of beef, but thinking on that wrong; +Then, yet the more to be revenged on them, +And shame their ancient pride, if they should know, +Works hard as any horse for his degree, +And takes to writing verses." + "Ay," he said, +Half laughing at himself. "Yet you and I, +But for those tresses which enrich us yet +With somewhat of the hue that partial fame +Calls auburn when it shines on heads of heirs, +But when it flames round brows of younger sons, +Just red--mere red; why, but for this, I say, +And but for selfish getting of the land, +And beggarly entailing it, we two, +To-day well fed, well grown, well dressed, well read, +We might have been two horny-handed boors-- +Lean, clumsy, ignorant, and ragged boors-- +Planning for moonlight nights a poaching scheme, +Or soiling our dull souls and consciences +With plans for pilfering a cottage roost. + +"What, chorus! are you dumb? you should have cried, +'So good comes out of evil;'" and with that, +As if all pauses it was natural +To seize for songs, his voice broke out again: + + Coo, dove, to thy married mate-- + She has two warm eggs in her nest: + Tell her the hours are few to wait + Ere life shall dawn on their rest; + And thy young shall peck at the shells, elate + With a dream of her brooding breast. + + Coo, dove, for she counts the hours, + Her fair wings ache for flight: + By day the apple has grown in the flowers, + And the moon has grown by night, + And the white drift settled from hawthorn bowers, + Yet they will not seek the light. + + Coo, dove; but what of the sky? + And what if the storm-wind swell, + And the reeling branch come down from on high + To the grass where daisies dwell, + And the brood beloved should with them lie + Or ever they break the shell? + + Coo, dove; and yet black clouds lower, + Like fate, on the far-off sea: + Thunder and wind they bear to thy bower, + As on wings of destiny. + Ah, what if they break in an evil hour, + As they broke over mine and me? + +What next?--we started like to girls, for lo! +The creaking voice, more harsh than rusty crane, +Of one who stooped behind us, cried aloud +"Good lack! how sweet the gentleman does sing-- +So loud and sweet, 'tis like to split his throat. +Why, Mike's a child to him, a two years child-- +Chrisom child." + "Who's Mike?" my brother growled +A little roughly. Quoth the fisherman-- +"Mike, Sir? he's just a fisher lad, no more; +But he can sing, when he takes on to sing, +So loud there's not a sparrow in the spire +But needs must hear. Sir, if I might make bold, +I'd ask what song that was you sung. My mate, +As we were shoving off the mackerel boats, +Said he, 'I'll wager that's the sort o' song +They kept their hearts up with in the Crimea,'" + +"There, fisherman," quoth I, "he showed his wit, +Your mate; he marked the sound of savage war-- +Gunpowder, groans, hot-shot, and bursting shells, +And 'murderous messages,' delivered by +Spent balls that break the heads of dreaming men." + +"Ay, ay, Sir!" quoth the fisherman. "Have done!" +My brother. And I--"The gift belongs to few +Of sending farther than the words can reach +Their spirit and expression;" still--"Have done!" +He cried; and then "I rolled the rubbish out +More loudly than the meaning warranted, +To air my lungs--I thought not on the words." + +Then said the fisherman, who missed the point, +"So Mike rolls out the psalm; you'll hear him, Sir, +Please God you live till Sunday." + "Even so: +And you, too, fisherman; for here, they say, +You are all church-goers." + "Surely, Sir," quoth he, +Took off his hat, and stroked his old white head +And wrinkled face; then sitting by us said, +As one that utters with a quiet mind +Unchallenged truth--"'Tis lucky for the boats." + +The boats! 'tis lucky for the boats! Our eyes +Were drawn to him as either fain would say, +What! do they send the psalm up in the spire, +And pray because 'tis lucky for the boats? + +But he, the brown old man, the wrinkled man, +That all his life had been a church-goer, +Familiar with celestial cadences, +Informed of all he could receive, and sure +Of all he understood--he sat content, +And we kept silence. In his reverend face +There was a simpleness we could not sound; +Much truth had passed him overhead; some error +He had trod under foot;--God comfort him! +He could not learn of us, for we were young +And he was old, and so we gave it up; +And the sun went into the west, and down +Upon the water stooped an orange cloud, +And the pale milky reaches flushed, as glad +To wear its colors; and the sultry air +Went out to sea, and puffed the sails of ships +With thymy wafts, the breath of trodden grass: +It took moreover music, for across +The heather belt and over pasture land +Came the sweet monotone of one slow bell, +And parted time into divisions rare, +Whereof each morsel brought its own delight. + +"They ring for service," quoth the fisherman; +"Our parson preaches in the church to-night." + +"And do the people go?" my brother asked. + +"Ay, Sir; they count it mean to stay away, +He takes it so to heart. He's a rare man, +Our parson; half a head above us all" + +"That's a great gift, and notable," said I. + +"Ay, Sir; and when he was a younger man +He went out in the lifeboat very oft, +Before the 'Grace of Sunderland' was wrecked. +He's never been his own man since that hour: +For there were thirty men aboard of her, +Anigh as close as you are now to me, +And ne'er a one was saved. + They're lying now, +With two small children, in a row: the church +And yard are full of seamen's graves, and few +Have any names. + She bumped upon the reef; +Our parson, my young son, and several more +Were lashed together with a two-inch rope, +And crept along to her; their mates ashore +Ready to haul them in. The gale was high, +The sea was all a boiling seething froth, +And God Almighty's guns were going off, +And the land trembled. + + "When she took the ground, +She went to pieces like a lock of hay +Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that, +The captain reeled on deck with two small things, +One in each arm--his little lad and lass. +Their hair was long, and blew before his face, +Or else we thought he had been saved; he fell, +But held them fast. The crew, poor luckless souls! +The breakers licked them off; and some were crushed, +Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung up dead, +The dear breath beaten out of them: not one +Jumped from the wreck upon the reef to catch +The hands that strained to reach, but tumbled back +With eyes wide open. But the captain lay +And clung--the only man alive. They prayed-- +'For God's sake, captain, throw the children here!' +'Throw them!' our parson cried; and then she struck +And he threw one, a pretty two years child; +But the gale dashed him on the slippery verge, +And down he went. They say they heard him cry. + +"Then he rose up and took the other one, +And all our men reached out their hungry arms, +And cried out, 'Throw her! throw her!' and he did: +He threw her right against the parson's breast, +And all at once a sea broke over them, +And they that saw it from the shore have said +It struck the wreck, and piecemeal scattered it, +Just as a woman might the lump of salt +That 'twixt her hands into the kneading pan +She breaks and crumbles on her rising bread. + +"We hauled our men in: two of them were dead-- +The sea had beaten them, their heads hung down; +Our parson's arms were empty, for the wave +Had torn away the pretty, pretty lamb; +We often see him stand beside her grave: +But 'twas no fault of his, no fault of his. + +"I ask your pardon, Sirs, I prate and prate, +And never have I said what brought me here. +Sirs, if you want a boat to-morrow morn, +I'm bold to say there's ne'er a boat like mine." + +"Ay, that was what we wanted," we replied; +"A boat, his boat;" and off he went, well pleased. + +We, too, rose up (the crimson in the sky +Flushing our faces), and went sauntering on, +And thought to reach our lodging, by the cliff. +And up and down among the heather beds, +And up and down between the sheaves we sped, +Doubling and winding; for a long ravine +Ran up into the land and cut us off, +Pushing out slippery ledges for the birds. +And rent with many a crevice, where the wind +Had laid up drifts of empty eggshells, swept +From the bare berths of gulls and guillemots. + +So as it chanced we lighted on a path +That led into a nutwood; and our talk +Was louder than beseemed, if we had known, +With argument and laughter; for the path, +As we sped onward, took a sudden turn +Abrupt, and we came out on churchyard grass, +And close upon a porch, and face to face +With those within, and with the thirty graves. +We heard the voice of one who preached within, +And stopped. "Come on," my brother whispered me; +"It were more decent that we enter now; +Come on! we'll hear this rare old demigod: +I like strong men and large; I like gray heads, +And grand gruff voices, hoarse though this may be +With shouting in the storm." + It was not hoarse, +The voice that preached to those few fishermen +And women, nursing mothers with the babes +Hushed on their breasts; and yet it held them not: +Their drowsy eyes were drawn to look at us, +Till, having leaned our rods against the wall, +And left the dogs at watch, we entered, sat, +And were apprised that, though he saw us not, +The parson knew that he had lost the eyes +And ears of those before him, for he made +A pause--a long dead pause, and dropped his arms, +And stood awaiting, till I felt the red +Mount to my brow. + And a soft fluttering stir +Passed over all, and every mother hushed +The babe beneath her shawl, and he turned round +And met our eyes, unused to diffidence, +But diffident of his; then with a sigh +Fronted the folk, lifted his grand gray head, +And said, as one that pondered now the words +He had been preaching on with new surprise, +And found fresh marvel in their sound, "Behold! +Behold!" saith He, "I stand at the door and knock." + +Then said the parson: "What! and shall He wait, +And must He wait, not only till we say, +'Good Lord, the house is clean, the hearth is swept. +The children sleep, the mackerel-boats are in, +And all the nets are mended; therefore I +Will slowly to the door and open it:' +But must He also wait where still, behold! +He stands and knocks, while we do say, 'Good Lord. +The gentlefolk are come to worship here, +And I will up and open to Thee soon; +But first I pray a little longer wait, +For I am taken up with them; my eyes +Must needs regard the fashion of their clothes, +And count the gains I think to make by them; +Forsooth, they are of much account, good Lord! +Therefore have patience with me--wait, dear Lord +Or come again?' + What! must He wait for THIS-- +For this? Ay, He doth wait for this, and still, +Waiting for this, He, patient, raileth not; +Waiting for this, e'en this He saith, 'Behold! +I stand at the door and knock,' + O patient hand! +Knocking and waiting--knocking in the night +When work is done! I charge you, by the sea +Whereby you fill your children's mouths, and by +The might of Him that made it--fishermen! +I charge you, mothers! by the mother's milk +He drew, and by His Father, God over all. +Blessed forever, that ye answer Him! +Open the door with shame, if ye have sinned; +If ye be sorry, open it with sighs. +Albeit the place be bare for poverty, +And comfortless for lack of plenishing, +Be not abashed for that, but open it, +And take Him in that comes to sup with thee; +'Behold!' He saith, 'I stand at the door and knock.' + +"Now, hear me: there be troubles in this world +That no man can escape, and there is one +That lieth hard and heavy on my soul, +Concerning that which is to come:-- + I say +As a man that knows what earthly trouble means, +I will not bear this ONE--I cannot bear +This ONE--I cannot bear the weight of you-- +You--every one of you, body and soul; +You, with the care you suffer, and the loss +That you sustain; you, with the growing up +To peril, maybe with the growing old +To want, unless before I stand with you +At the great white throne, I may be free of all, +And utter to the full what shall discharge +Mine obligation: nay, I will not wait +A day, for every time the black clouds rise, +And the gale freshens, still I search my soul +To find if there be aught that can persuade +To good, or aught forsooth that can beguile +From evil, that I (miserable man! +If that be so) have left unsaid, undone. + +"So that when any risen from sunken wrecks, +Or rolled in by the billows to the edge +Of the everlasting strand, what time the sea +Gives up her dead, shall meet me, they may say +Never, 'Old man, you told us not of this; +You left us fisher lads that had to toil +Ever in danger of the secret stab +Of rocks, far deadlier than the dagger; winds +Of breath more murderous than the cannon's; wave +Mighty to rock us to our death; and gulfs, +Ready beneath to suck and swallow us in: +This crime be on your head; and as for us-- +What shall we do? 'but rather--nay, not so, +I will not think it; I will leave the dead, +Appealing but to life: I am afraid +Of you, but not so much if you have sinned +As for the doubt if sin shall be forgiven. +The day was, I have been afraid of pride-- +Hard man's hard pride; but now I am afraid +Of man's humility, I counsel you, +By the great God's great humbleness, and by +His pity, be not humble over-much. +See! I will show at whose unopened doors +He stands and knocks, that you may never says +'I am too mean, too ignorant, too lost; +He knocks at other doors, but not at mine.' + +"See here! it is the night! it is the night! +And snow lies thickly, white untrodden snow, +And the wan moon upon a casement shines-- +A casement crusted o'er with frosty leaves, +That make her ray less bright along the floor. +A woman sits, with hands upon her knees, +Poor tired soul! and she has nought to do, +For there is neither fire nor candle-light: +The driftwood ash lies cold upon her hearth, +The rushlight flickered down an hour ago; +Her children wail a little in their sleep +For cold and hunger, and, as if that sound +Was not enough, another comes to her, +Over God's undefiled snow--a song-- +Nay, never hang your heads--I say, a song. + And doth she curse the alehouse, and the sots +That drink the night out and their earnings there, +And drink their manly strength and courage down, +And drink away the little children's bread, +And starve her, starving by the self-same act +Her tender suckling, that with piteous eye +Looks in her face, till scarcely she has heart +To work, and earn the scanty bit and drop +That feed the others? + Does she curse the song? +I think not, fishermen; I have not heard +Such women curse. God's curse is curse enough. +To-morrow she will say a bitter thing, +Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises show-- +A bitter thing, but meant for an excuse-- +'My master is not worse than many men:' +But now, ay, now she sitteth dumb and still; +No food, no comfort, cold and poverty +Bearing her down. + My heart is sore for her; +How long, how long? When troubles come of God, +When men are frozen out of work, when wives +Are sick, when working fathers fail and die, +When boats go down at sea--then nought behoves +Like patience; but for troubles wrought of men +Patience is hard--I tell you it is hard. + +"O thou poor soul! it is the night--the night; +Against thy door drifts up the silent snow, +Blocking thy threshold: 'Fall' thou sayest, 'fall, fall +Cold snow, and lie and be trod underfoot. +Am not I fallen? wake up and pipe, O wind, +Dull wind, and heat and bluster at my door: +Merciful wind, sing me a hoarse rough song, +For there is other music made to-night +That I would fain not hear. Wake, thou still sea, +Heavily plunge. Shoot on, white waterfall. +O, I could long like thy cold icicles +Freeze, freeze, and hang upon the frosty clift +And not complain, so I might melt at last +In the warm summer sun, as thou wilt do! + +"'But woe is me! I think there is no sun; +My sun is sunken, and the night grows dark: +None care for me. The children cry for bread, +And I have none, and nought can comfort me; +Even if the heavens were free to such as I, +It were not much, for death is long to wait, +And heaven is far to go!' + + "And speak'st thou thus, +Despairing of the sun that sets to thee, +And of the earthly love that wanes to thee, +And of the heaven that lieth far from thee? +Peace, peace, fond fool! One draweth near thy door +Whose footsteps leave no print across the snow; +Thy sun has risen with comfort in his face, +The smile of heaven, to warm thy frozen heart, +And bless with saintly hand. What! is it long +To wait, and far to go? Thou shalt not go; +Behold, across the snow to thee He comes, +Thy heaven descends, and is it long to wait? +Thou shalt not wait: 'This night, this night,' he saith, +'I stand at the door and knock.' + +"It is enough--can such an one be here-- +Yea, here? O God forgive you, fishermen! +One! is there only one? But do thou know, +O woman pale for want, if thou art here, +That on thy lot much thought is spent in heaven; +And, coveting the heart a hard man broke, +One standeth patient, watching in the night, +And waiting in the daytime. + What shall be +If thou wilt answer? He will smile on thee, +One smile of His shall be enough to heal +The wound of man's neglect; and He will sigh, +Pitying the trouble which that sigh shall cure; +And He will speak--speak in the desolate nigh +In the dark night: 'For me a thorny crown +Men wove, and nails were driven in my hands +And feet: there was an earthquake, and I died +I died, and am alive for evermore. + +"'I died for thee; for thee I am alive, +And my humanity doth mourn for thee, +For thou art mine; and all thy little ones, +They, too, are mine, are mine. Behold, the house +Is dark, but there is brightness where the sons +Of God are singing, and, behold, the heart +Is troubled: yet the nations walk in white; +They have forgotten how to weep; and thou +Shalt also come, and I will foster thee +And satisfy thy soul; and thou shall warm +Thy trembling life beneath the smile of God. +A little while--it is a little while-- +A little while, and I will comfort thee; +I go away, but I will come again.' + +"But hear me yet. There was a poor old man +Who sat and listened to the raging sea, +And heard it thunder, lunging at the cliffs +As like to tear them down. He lay at night; +And 'Lord have mercy on the lads,' said he, +'That sailed at noon, though they be none of mine! +For when the gale gets up, and when the wind +Flings at the window, when it beats the roof, +And lulls and stops and rouses up again, +And cuts the crest clean off the plunging wave. +And scatters it like feathers up the field, +Why, then I think of my two lads: my lads +That would have worked and never let me want, +And never let me take the parish pay. +No, none of mine; my lads were drowned at sea-- +My two--before the most of these wore born. +I know how sharp that cuts, since my poor wife +Walked up and down, and still walked up and down. +And I walked after, and one could not hear +A word the other said, for wind and sea +That raged and beat and thundered in the night-- +The awfullest, the longest, lightest night +That ever parents had to spend--a moon +That shone like daylight on the breaking wave. +Ah me! and other men have lost their lads, +And other women wiped their poor dead mouths, +And got them home and dried them in the house, +And seen the driftwood lie along the coast, +That was a tidy boat but one day back. +And seen next tide the neighbors gather it +To lay it on their fires. + Ay, I was strong +And able-bodied--loved my work;--but now +I am a useless hull: 'tis time I sank; +I am in all men's way; I trouble them; +I am a trouble to myself: but yet +I feel for mariners of stormy nights, +And feel for wives that watch ashore. Ay, ay! +If I had learning I would pray the Lord +To bring them in: but I'm no scholar, no; +Book-learning is a world too hard for me: +But I make bold to say, 'O Lord, good Lord, +I am a broken-down poor man, a fool +To speak to Thee: but in the Book 'tis writ, +As I hear say from others that can read, +How, when Thou camest, Thou didst love the sea, +And live with fisherfolk, whereby 'tis sure +Thou knowest all the peril they go through. +And all their trouble. + As for me, good Lord, +I have no boat; I am too old, too old-- +My lads are drowned; I buried my poor wife; +My little lasses died so long ago +That mostly I forget what they were like. +Thou knowest, Lord; they were such little ones. +I know they went to Thee, but I forget +Their faces, though I missed them sore. + O Lord, +I was a strong man; I have drawn good food +And made good money out of Thy great sea: +But yet I cried for them at nights; and now, +Although I be so old, I miss my lads, +And there be many folk this stormy night +Heavy with fear for theirs. Merciful Lord, +Comfort them; save their honest boys, their pride, +And let them hear next ebb the blessedest, +Best sound--the boat-keels grating on the sand. +I cannot pray with finer words: I know +Nothing; I have no learning, cannot learn-- +Too old, too old. They say I want for nought, +I have the parish pay; but I am dull +Of hearing, and the fire scarce warms me through. +God save me, I have been a sinful man-- +And save the lives of them that still can work, +For they are good to me; ay, good to me. +But, Lord, I am a trouble! and I sit, +And I am lonesome, and the nights are few +That any think to come and draw a chair, +And sit in my poor place and talk a while. +Why should they come, forsooth? Only the wind +Knocks at my door, O long and loud it knocks, +The only thing God made that has a mind +To enter in.' + + "Yea, thus the old man spake: +These were the last words of his aged mouth-- +BUT ONE DID KNOCK. One came to sup with him, +That humble, weak, old man; knocked at his door +In the rough pauses of the laboring wind. +I tell you that One knocked while it was dark. +Save where their foaming passion had made white +Those livid seething billows. What He said +In that poor place where He did talk a while, +I cannot tell: but this I am assured, +That when the neighbors came the morrow morn, +What time the wind had bated, and the sun +Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile +He passed away in, and they said, 'He looks +As he had woke and seen the face of Christ, +And with that rapturous smile held out his arms +To come to Him!' + + "Can such an one be here, +So old, so weak, so ignorant, so frail? +The Lord be good to thee, thou poor old man; +It would be hard with thee if heaven were shut +To such as have not learning! Nay, nay, nay, +He condescends to them of low estate; +To such as are despised He cometh down, +Stands at the door and knocks. + + "Yet bear with me. +I have a message; I have more to say. +Shall sorrow win His pity, and not sin-- +That burden ten times heavier to be borne? +What think you? Shall the virtuous have His care +Alone? O virtuous women, think not scorn. +For you may lift your faces everywhere; +And now that it grows dusk, and I can see +None though they front me straight, I fain would tell +A certain thing to you. I say to _you_; +And if it doth concern you, as methinks +It doth, then surely it concerneth all. +I say that there was once--I say not here-- +I say that there was once a castaway, +And she was weeping, weeping bitterly; +Kneeling, and crying with a heart-sick cry +That choked itself in sobs--'O my good name! +Oh my good name!' And none did hear her cry! +Nay; and it lightened, and the storm-bolts fell, +And the rain splashed upon the roof, and still +She, storm-tost as the storming elements-- +She cried with an exceeding bitter cry, +'O my good name!' And then the thunder-cloud +Stooped low and burst in darkness overhead, +And rolled, and rocked her on her knees, and shook +The frail foundations of her dwelling-place. +But she--if any neighbors had come in +(None did): if any neighbors had come in, +They might have seen her crying on her knees. +And sobbing 'Lost, lost, lost!' beating her breast-- +Her breast forever pricked with cruel thorns. +The wounds whereof could neither balm assuage +Nor any patience heal--beating her brow, +Which ached, it had been bent so long to hide +From level eyes, whose meaning was contempt. + +"O ye good women, it is hard to leave +The paths of virtue, and return again. +What if this sinner wept, and none of you +Comforted her? And what if she did strive +To mend, and none of you believed her strife. +Nor looked upon her? Mark, I do not say, +Though it was hard, you therefore were to blame; +That she had aught against you, though your feet +Never drew near her door. But I beseech +Your patience. Once in old Jerusalem +A woman kneeled at consecrated feet, +Kissed them, and washed them with her tears. + What then? +I think that yet our Lord is pitiful: +I think I see the castaway e'en now! +And she is not alone: the heavy rain +Splashes without, and sullen thunder rolls, +But she is lying at the sacred feet +Of One transfigured. + + "And her tears flow down, +Down to her lips,--her lips that kiss the print +Of nails; and love is like to break her heart! +Love and repentance--for it still doth work +Sore in her soul to think, to think that she, +Even she, did pierce the sacred, sacred feet. +And bruise the thorn-crowned head. + + "O Lord, our Lord, +How great is Thy compassion. Come, good Lord, +For we will open. Come this night, good Lord; +Stand at the door and knock. + + "And is this all?-- +Trouble, old age and simpleness, and sin-- +This all? It might be all some other night; +But this night, if a voice said 'Give account +Whom hast thou with thee?' then must I reply, +'Young manhood have I, beautiful youth and strength, +Rich with all treasure drawn up from the crypt +Where lies the learning of the ancient world-- +Brave with all thoughts that poets fling upon +The strand of life, as driftweed after storms: +Doubtless familiar with Thy mountain heads, +And the dread purity of Alpine snows, +Doubtless familiar with Thy works concealed +For ages from mankind--outlying worlds, +And many moonèd spheres--and Thy great store +Of stars, more thick than mealy dust which here +Powders the pale leaves of Auriculas. +This do I know, but, Lord, I know not more. +Not more concerning them--concerning Thee, +I know Thy bounty; where Thou givest much +Standing without, if any call Thee in +Thou givest more.' Speak, then, O rich and strong: +Open, O happy young, ere yet the hand +Of Him that knocks, wearied at last, forbear; +The patient foot its thankless quest refrain, +The wounded heart for evermore withdraw." + +I have heard many speak, but this one man-- +So anxious not to go to heaven alone-- +This one man I remember, and his look, +Till twilight overshadowed him. He ceased. +And out in darkness with the fisherfolk +We passed and stumbled over mounds of moss, +And heard, but did not see, the passing beck. +Ah, graceless heart, would that it could regain +From the dim storehouse of sensations past +The impress full of tender awe, that night, +Which fell on me! It was as if the Christ +Had been drawn down from heaven to track us home, +And any of the footsteps following us +Might have been His. + + + + +A WEDDING SONG. + + +Come up the broad river, the Thames, my Dane, + My Dane with the beautiful eyes! +Thousands and thousands await thee full fain, + And talk of the wind and the skies. +Fear not from folk and from country to part, + O, I swear it is wisely done: +For (I said) I will bear me by thee, sweetheart, + As becometh my father's son. + +Great London was shouting as I went down. + "She is worthy," I said, "of this; +What shall I give who have promised a crown? + O, first I will give her a kiss." +So I kissed her and brought her, my Dane, my Dane, + Through the waving wonderful crowd: +Thousands and thousands, they shouted amain, + Like mighty thunders and loud. + +And they said, "He is young, the lad we love, + The heir of the Isles is young: +How we deem of his mother, and one gone above, + Can neither be said nor sung. + +"He brings us a pledge--he will do his part + With the best of his race and name;"-- +And I will, for I look to live, sweetheart, + As may suit with my mother's fame. + + + + +THE FOUR BRIDGES. + + +I love this gray old church, the low, long nave, + The ivied chancel and the slender spire; +No less its shadow on each heaving grave, + With growing osier bound, or living brier; +I love those yew-tree trunks, where stand arrayed +So many deep-cut names of youth and maid. + +A simple custom this--I love it well-- + A carved betrothal and a pledge of truth; +How many an eve, their linkèd names to spell, + Beneath the yew-trees sat our village youth! +When work was over, and the new-cut hay +Sent wafts of balm from meadows where it lay. + +Ah! many an eve, while I was yet a boy, + Some village hind has beckoned me aside, +And sought mine aid, with shy and awkward joy, + To carve the letters of his rustic bride, +And make them clear to read as graven stone, +Deep in the yew-tree's trunk beside his own. + +For none could carve like me, and here they stand. + Fathers and mothers of this present race: +And underscored by some less practised hand, + That fain the story of its line would trace, +With children's names, and number, and the day +When any called to God have passed away. + +I look upon them, and I turn aside, + As oft when carving them I did erewhile; +And there I see those wooden bridges wide + That cross the marshy hollow; there the stile +In reeds embedded, and the swelling down, +And the white road towards the distant town. + +But those old bridges claim another look. + Our brattling river tumbles through the one; +The second spans a shallow, weedy brook; + Beneath the others, and beneath the sun, +Lie two long stilly pools, and on their breasts +Picture their wooden piles, encased in swallows' nests. + +And round about them grows a fringe of reeds, + And then a floating crown of lily-flowers, +And yet within small silver-budded weeds; + But each clear centre evermore embowers +A deeper sky, where, stooping, you may see +The little minnows darting restlessly. + +My heart is bitter, lilies, at your sweet; + Why did the dewdrop fringe your chalices? +Why in your beauty are you thus complete, + You silver ships--you floating palaces? +O! if need be, you must allure man's eye, + Yet wherefore blossom here? O why? O why? + +O! O! the world is wide, you lily flowers, + It hath warm forests, cleft by stilly pools, +Where every night bathe crowds of stars; and bowers + Of spicery hang over. Sweet air cools +And shakes the lilies among those stars that lie: +Why are not ye content to reign there? Why? + +That chain of bridges, it were hard to tell + How it is linked with all my early joy. +There was a little foot that I loved well, + It danced across them when I was a boy; +There was a careless voice that used to sing; +There was a child, a sweet and happy thing. + +Oft through that matted wood of oak and birch + She came from yonder house upon the hill; +She crossed the wooden bridges to the church, + And watched, with village girls, my boasted skill: +But loved to watch the floating lilies best, +Or linger, peering in a swallow's nest; + +Linger and linger, with her wistful eyes + Drawn to the lily-buds that lay so white +And soft on crimson water; for the skies + Would crimson, and the little cloudlets bright +Would all be flung among the flowers sheer down, +To flush the spaces of their clustering crown. + +Till the green rushes--O, so glossy green-- + The rushes, they would whisper, rustle, shake; +And forth on floating gauze, no jewelled queen + So rich, the green-eyed dragon-flies would break, +And hover on the flowers--aërial things, +With little rainbows flickering on their wings. + +Ah! my heart dear! the polished pools lie still, + Like lanes of water reddened by the west, +Till, swooping down from yon o'erhanging hill, + The bold marsh harrier wets her tawny breast; +We scared her oft in childhood from her prey, +And the old eager thoughts rise fresh as yesterday. + +To yonder copse by moonlight I did go, + In luxury of mischief, half afraid, +To steal the great owl's brood, her downy snow, + Her screaming imps to seize, the while she preyed +With yellow, cruel eyes, whose radiant glare, +Fell with their mother rage, I might not dare. + +Panting I lay till her great fanning wings + Troubled the dreams of rock-doves, slumbering nigh, +And she and her fierce mate, like evil things, + Skimmed the dusk fields; then rising, with a cry +Of fear, joy, triumph, darted on my prey. + And tore it from the nest and fled away. + +But afterward, belated in the wood, + I saw her moping on the rifled tree, +And my heart smote me for her, while I stood + Awakened from my careless reverie; +So white she looked, with moonlight round her shed. +So motherlike she drooped and hung her head. + +O that mine eyes would cheat me! I behold + The godwits running by the water edge, +Tim mossy bridges mirrored as of old; + The little curlews creeping from the sedge, +But not the little foot so gayly light +O that mine eyes would cheat me, that I might!-- + +Would cheat me! I behold the gable ends-- + Those purple pigeons clustering on the cote; +The lane with maples overhung, that bends + Toward her dwelling; the dry grassy moat, +Thick mullions, diamond-latticed, mossed and gray, +And walls bunked up with laurel and with bay. + +And up behind them yellow fields of corn, + And still ascending countless firry spires, +Dry slopes of hills uncultured, bare, forlorn, + And green in rocky clefts with whins and briers; +Then rich cloud masses dyed the violet's hue, +With orange sunbeams dropping swiftly through. + +Ay, I behold all this full easily; + My soul is jealous of my happier eyes. +And manhood envies youth. Ah, strange to see, + By looking merely, orange-flooded skies; +Nay, any dew-drop that may near me shine: +But never more the face of Eglantine! + +She was my one companion, being herself + The jewel and adornment of my days, +My life's completeness. O, a smiling elf, + That I do but disparage with my praise-- +My playmate; and I loved her dearly and long, +And she loved me, as the tender love the strong. + +Ay, but she grew, till on a time there came + A sudden restless yearning to my heart; +And as we went a-nesting, all for shame + And shyness, I did hold my peace, and start; +Content departed, comfort shut me out, +And there was nothing left to talk about. + +She had but sixteen years, and as for me, + Four added made my life. This pretty bird, +This fairy bird that I had cherished--she, + Content, had sung, while I, contented, heard. +The song had ceased; the bird, with nature's art, +Had brought a thorn and set it in my heart. + +The restless birth of love my soul opprest, + I longed and wrestled for a tranquil day, +And warred with that disquiet in my breast + As one who knows there is a better way; +But, turned against myself, I still in vain +Looked for the ancient calm to come again. + +My tired soul could to itself confess + That she deserved a wiser love than mine; +To love more truly were to love her less, + And for this truth I still awoke to pine; +I had a dim belief that it would be +A better thing for her, a blessed thing for me. + +Good hast Thou made them--comforters right sweet; + Good hast Thou made the world, to mankind lent; +Good are Thy dropping clouds that feed the wheat; + Good are Thy stars above the firmament. +Take to Thee, take, Thy worship, Thy renown; +The good which Thou hast made doth wear Thy crown. + +For, O my God, Thy creatures are so frail, + Thy bountiful creation is so fair. +That, drawn before us like the temple veil, + It hides the Holy Place from thought and care, +Giving man's eyes instead its sweeping fold, +Rich as with cherub wings and apples wrought of gold. + +Purple and blue and scarlet--shimmering bells + And rare pomegranates on its broidered rim, +Glorious with chain and fretwork that the swell + Of incense shakes to music dreamy and dim, +Till on a day comes loss, that God makes gain, +And death and darkness rend the veil in twain. + + * * * * * + +Ah, sweetest! my beloved! each outward thing + Recalls my youth, and is instinct with thee; +Brown wood-owls in the dusk, with noiseless wing, + Float from yon hanger to their haunted tree, +And hoot full softly. Listening, I regain +A flashing thought of thee with their remembered strain. + +I will not pine--it is the careless brook. + These amber sunbeams slanting down the vale; +It is the long tree-shadows, with their look + Of natural peace, that make my heart to fail: +The peace of nature--No, I will not pine-- +But O the contrast 'twixt her face and mine! + +And still I changed--I was a boy no more; + My heart was large enough to hold my kind, +And all the world. As hath been oft before + With youth, I sought, but I could never find +Work hard enough to quiet my self-strife, +And use the strength of action-craving life. + +She, too, was changed: her bountiful sweet eyes + Looked out full lovingly on all the world. +O tender as the deeps in yonder skies + Their beaming! but her rosebud lips were curled +With the soft dimple of a musing smile, +Which kept my gaze, but held me mute the while. + +A cast of bees, a slowly moving wain, + The scent of bean-flowers wafted up a dell, +Blue pigeons wheeling over fields of grain, + Or bleat of folded lamb, would please her well; +Or cooing of the early coted dove;-- +She sauntering mused of these; I, following, mused of love. + +With her two lips, that one the other pressed + So poutingly with such a tranquil air, +With her two eyes, that on my own would rest + So dream-like, she denied my silent prayer, +Fronted unuttered words and said them nay, +And smiled down love till it had nought to say. + +The words that through mine eyes would clearly shine + Hovered and hovered on my lips in vain; +If after pause I said but "Eglantine," + She raised to me her quiet eyelids twain, +And looked me this reply--look calm, yet bland-- +"I shall not know, I will not understand." + +Yet she did know my story--knew my life + Was wrought to hers with bindings many and strong +That I, like Israel, served for a wife, + And for the love I bare her thought not long, +But only a few days, full quickly told, +My seven years' service strict as his of old. + +I must be brief: the twilight shadows grow, + And steal the rose-bloom genial summer sheds, +And scented wafts of wind that come and go + Have lifted dew from honeyed clover-heads; +The seven stars shine out above the mill, +The dark delightsome woods lie veiled and still. + +Hush! hush! the nightingale begins to sing, + And stops, as ill-contented with her note; +Then breaks from out the bush with hurried wing. + Restless and passionate. She tunes her throat, +Laments awhile in wavering trills, and then +Floods with a stream of sweetness all the glen. + +The seven stars upon the nearest pool + Lie trembling down betwixt the lily leaves, +And move like glowworms; wafting breezes cool + Come down along the water, and it heaves +And bubbles in the sedge; while deep and wide +The dim night settles on the country side. + +I know this scene by heart. O! once before + I saw the seven stars float to and fro, +And stayed my hurried footsteps by the shore + To mark the starry picture spread below: +Its silence made the tumult in my breast +More audible; its peace revealed my own unrest. + +I paused, then hurried on; my heart beat quick; + I crossed the bridges, reached the steep ascent, +And climbed through matted fern and hazels thick; + Then darkling through the close green maples went +And saw--there felt love's keenest pangs begin-- +An oriel window lighted from within-- + +I saw--and felt that they were scarcely cares + Which I had known before; I drew more near, +And O! methought how sore it frets and wears + The soul to part with that it holds so dear; +Tis hard two woven tendrils to untwine, +And I was come to part with Eglantine. + +For life was bitter through those words repressed, + And youth was burdened with unspoken vows; +Love unrequited brooded in my breast, + And shrank, at glance, from the beloved brows: +And three long months, heart-sick, my foot withdrawn, +I had not sought her side by rivulet, copse, or lawn-- + +Not sought her side, yet busy thought no less + Still followed in her wake, though far behind; +And I, being parted from her loveliness, + Looked at the picture of her in my mind: +I lived alone, I walked with soul oppressed, +And ever sighed for her, and sighed for rest. + +Then I had risen to struggle with my heart. +And said--"O heart! the world is fresh and fair, +And I am young; but this thy restless smart + Changes to bitterness the morning air: +I will, I must, these weary fetters break-- +I will be free, if only for her sake. + +"O let me trouble her no more with sighs! + Heart-healing comes by distance, and with time: +Then let me wander, and enrich mine eyes + With the green forests of a softer clime, +Or list by night at sea the wind's low stave +And long monotonous rockings of the wave. + +"Through open solitudes, unbounded meads, + Where, wading on breast-high in yellow bloom, +Untamed of man, the shy white lama feeds-- + There would I journey and forget my doom; +Or far, O far as sunrise I would see +The level prairie stretch away from me! + +"Or I would sail upon the tropic seas, + Where fathom long the blood-red dulses grow, +Droop from the rock and waver in the breeze, + Lashing the tide to foam; while calm below +The muddy mandrakes throng those waters warm, +And purple, gold, and green, the living blossoms swarm." + +So of my father I did win consent, + With importunities repeated long, +To make that duty which had been my bent, + To dig with strangers alien tombs among, +And bound to them through desert leagues to pace. +Or track up rivers to their starting-place. + +For this I had done battle and had won, + But not alone to tread Arabian sands, +Measure the shadows of a southern sun, + Or dig out gods in the old Egyptian lands; +But for the dream wherewith I thought to cope-- +The grief of love unmated with love's hope. + +And now I would set reason in array, + Methought, and fight for freedom manfully, +Till by long absence there would come a day + When this my love would not be pain to me; +But if I knew my rosebud fair and blest +I should not pine to wear it on my breast. + +The days fled on; another week should fling + A foreign shadow on my lengthening way; +Another week, yet nearness did not bring + A braver heart that hard farewell to say. +I let the last day wane, the dusk begin, +Ere I had sought that window lighted from within. + +Sinking and sinking, O my heart! my heart! + Will absence heal thee whom its shade doth rend? +I reached the little gate, and soft within + The oriel fell her shadow. She did lend +Her loveliness to me, and let me share +The listless sweetness of those features fair. + +Among thick laurels in the gathering gloom, + Heavy for this our parting, I did stand; +Beside her mother in the lighted room, + She sitting leaned her cheek upon her hand +And as she read, her sweet voice floating through +The open casement seemed to mourn me an adieu. + +Youth! youth! how buoyant are thy hopes! they turn, + Like marigolds, toward the sunny side. +My hopes were buried in a funeral urn, + And they sprung up like plants and spread them wide; +Though I had schooled and reasoned them away, +They gathered smiling near and prayed a holiday. + +Ah, sweetest voice! how pensive were its tones, + And how regretful its unconscious pause! +"Is it for me her heart this sadness owns, + And is our parting of to-night the cause? +Ah, would it might be so!" I thought, and stood +Listening entranced among the underwood. + +I thought it would be something worth the pain + Of parting, to look once in those deep eyes, +And take from them an answering look again: + "When eastern palms," I thought, "about me rise, +If I might carve our names upon the rind, +Betrothed, I would not mourn, though leaving thee behind." + +I can be patient, faithful, and most fond + To unacknowledged love; I can be true +To this sweet thraldom, this unequal bond, + This yoke of mine that reaches not to you: +O, how much more could costly parting buy-- +If not a pledge, one kiss, or, failing that, a sigh! + +I listened, and she ceased to read; she turned + Her face towards the laurels where I stood: +Her mother spoke--O wonder! hardly learned; + She said, "There is a rustling in the wood; +Ah, child! if one draw near to bid farewell, +Let not thine eyes an unsought secret tell. + +"My daughter, there is nothing held so dear + As love, if only it be hard to win. +The roses that in yonder hedge appear + Outdo our garden-buds which bloom within; +But since the hand may pluck them every day, +Unmarked they bud, bloom, drop, and drift away. + +"My daughter, my beloved, be not you + Like those same roses." O bewildering word! +My heart stood still, a mist obscured my view: + It cleared; still silence. No denial stirred +The lips beloved; but straight, as one opprest, +She, kneeling, dropped her face upon her mother's breast. + +This said, "My daughter, sorrow comes to all; + Our life is checked with shadows manifold: +But woman has this more--she may not call + Her sorrow by its name. Yet love not told, +And only born of absence and by thought, +With thought and absence may return to nought." + +And my belovèd lifted up her face, + And moved her lips as if about to speak; +She dropped her lashes with a girlish grace, + And the rich damask mantled in her cheek: +I stood awaiting till she should deny +Her love, or with sweet laughter put it by. + +But, closer nestling to her mother's heart, + She, blushing, said no word to break my trance, +For I was breathless; and, with lips apart, + Felt my breast pant and all my pulses dance, +And strove to move, but could not for the weight +Of unbelieving joy, so sudden and so great, + +Because she loved me. With a mighty sigh + Breaking away, I left her on her knees, +And blest the laurel bower, the darkened sky, + The sultry night of August. Through the trees, +Giddy with gladness, to the porch I went, +And hardly found the way for joyful wonderment. + +Yet, when I entered, saw her mother sit + With both hands cherishing the graceful head, +Smoothing the clustered hair, and parting it + From the fair brow; she, rising, only said, +In the accustomed tone, the accustomed word, +The careless greeting that I always heard; + +And she resumed her merry, mocking smile, + Though tear-drops on the glistening lashes hung. +O woman! thou wert fashioned to beguile: + So have all sages said, all poets sung. +She spoke of favoring winds and waiting ships, +With smiles of gratulation on her lips! + +And then she looked and faltered: I had grown + So suddenly in life and soul a man: +She moved her lips, but could not find a tone + To set her mocking music to; began +One struggle for dominion, raised her eyes, +And straight withdrew them, bashful through surprise + +The color over cheek and bosom flushed; + I might have heard the beating of her heart, +But that mine own beat louder; when she blushed, + The hand within mine own I felt to start, +But would not change my pitiless decree +To strive with her for might and mastery. + +She looked again, as one that, half afraid, + Would fain be certain of a doubtful thing; +Or one beseeching "Do not me upbraid!" + And then she trembled like the fluttering +Of timid little birds, and silent stood, +No smile wherewith to mock my hardihood. + +She turned, and to an open casement moved + With girlish shyness, mute beneath my gaze. +And I on downcast lashes unreproved + Could look as long as pleased me; while, the rays +Of moonlight round her, she her fair head bent, +In modest silence to my words attent. + +How fast the giddy whirling moments flew! + The moon had set; I heard the midnight chime, +Hope is more brave than fear, and joy than dread. + And I could wait unmoved the parting time. +It came; for, by a sudden impulse drawn, +She, risen, stepped out upon the dusky lawn. + +A little waxen taper in her hand, + Her feet upon the dry and dewless grass, +She looked like one of the celestial band, + Only that on her cheeks did dawn and pass +Most human blushes; while, the soft light thrown +On vesture pure and white, she seemed yet fairer grown. + +Her mother, looking out toward her, sighed, + Then gave her hand in token of farewell. +And with her warning eyes, that seemed to chide, + Scarce suffered that I sought her child to tell +The story of my life, whose every line +No other burden bore than--Eglantine. + +Black thunder-clouds were rising up behind, + The waxen taper burned full steadily; +It seemed as if dark midnight had a mind + To hear what lovers say, and her decree +Had passed for silence, while she, dropped to ground +With raiment floating wide, drank in the sound. + +O happiness! thou dost not leave a trace + So well defined as sorrow. Amber light, +Shed like a glory on her angel face, + I can remember fully, and the sight +Of her fair forehead and her shining eyes, +And lips that smiled in sweet and girlish wise. + +I can remember how the taper played + Over her small hands and her vesture white; +How it struck up into the trees, and laid + Upon their under leaves unwonted light; +And when she held it low, how far it spread +O'er velvet pansies slumbering on their bed. + +I can remember that we spoke full low, + That neither doubted of the other's truth; +And that with footsteps slower and more slow, + Hands folded close for love, eyes wet for ruth: +Beneath the trees, by that clear taper's flame, +We wandered till the gate of parting came. + +But I forget the parting words she said, + So much they thrilled the all-attentive soul; +For one short moment human heart and head + May bear such bliss--its present is the whole: +I had that present, till in whispers fell +With parting gesture her subdued farewell. + +Farewell! she said, in act to turn away, + But stood a moment yet to dry her tears, +And suffered my enfolding arm to stay + The time of her departure. O ye years +That intervene betwixt that day and this! +You all received your hue from that keen pain and bliss. + +O mingled pain and bliss! O pain to break + At once from happiness so lately found, +And four long years to feel for her sweet sake + The incompleteness of all sight and sound! +But bliss to cross once more the foaming brine-- +O bliss to come again and make her mine! + +I cannot--O, I cannot more recall! + But I will soothe my troubled thoughts to rest +With musing over journeyings wide, and all + Observance of this active-humored west, +And swarming cities steeped in eastern day, +With swarthy tribes in gold and striped array. + +I turn away from these, and straight there will succeed + (Shifting and changing at the restless will), +Imbedded in some deep Circassian mead, + White wagon-tilts, and flocks that eat their fill +Unseen above, while comely shepherds pass, +And scarcely show their heads above the grass. + +--The red Sahara in an angry glow, + With amber fogs, across its hollows trailed +Long strings of camels, gloomy-eyed and slow, + And women on their necks, from gazers veiled, +And sun-swart guides who toil across the sand +To groves of date-trees on the watered land. + +Again--the brown sails of an Arab boat, + Flapping by night upon a glassy sea, +Whereon the moon and planets seem to float, + More bright of hue than they were wont to be, +While shooting-stars rain down with crackling sound, +And, thick as swarming locusts, drop to ground. + +Or far into the heat among the sands + The gembok nations, snuffing up the wind, +Drawn by the scent of water--and the bands + Of tawny-bearded lions pacing, blind +With the sun-dazzle in their midst, opprest +With prey, and spiritless for lack of rest! + +What more? Old Lebanon, the frosty-browed, + Setting his feet among oil-olive trees, +Heaving his bare brown shoulder through a cloud; + And after, grassy Carmel, purple seas, +Flattering his dreams and echoing in his rocks, +Soft as the bleating of his thousand flocks. + +Enough: how vain this thinking to beguile, + With recollected scenes, an aching breast! +Did not I, journeying, muse on her the while? + Ah, yes! for every landscape comes impressed-- +Ay, written on, as by an iron pen-- +With the same thought I nursed about her then. + +Therefore let memory turn again to home; + Feel, as of old, the joy of drawing near; +Watch the green breakers and the wind-tossed foam, + And see the land-fog break, dissolve, and clear; +Then think a skylark's voice far sweeter sound +Than ever thrilled but over English ground; + +And walk, glad, even to tears, among the wheat, + Not doubting this to be the first of lands; +And, while in foreign words this murmuring, meet + Some little village school-girls (with their hands +Full of forget-me-nots), who, greeting me, +I count their English talk delightsome melody; + +And seat me on a bank, and draw them near, + That I may feast myself with hearing it, +Till shortly they forget their bashful fear, + Push back their flaxen curls, and round me sit-- +Tell me their names, their daily tasks, and show +Where wild wood-strawberries in the copses grow. + +So passed the day in this delightful land: + My heart was thankful for the English tongue-- +For English sky with feathery cloudlets spanned-- + For English hedge with glistening dewdrops hung. +I journeyed, and at glowing eventide +Stopped at a rustic inn by the wayside. + +That night I slumbered sweetly, being right glad + To miss the flapping of the shrouds; but lo! +A quiet dream of beings twain I had, + Behind the curtain talking soft and low: +Methought I did not heed their utterance fine, +Till one of them said, softly, "Eglantine." + +I started up awake, 'twas silence all: + My own fond heart had shaped that utterance clear: +And "Ah!" methought, "how sweetly did it fall, + Though but in dream, upon the listening ear! +How sweet from other lips the name well known-- +That name, so many a year heard only from mine own!" + +I thought awhile, then slumber came to me, + And tangled all my fancy in her maze, +And I was drifting on a raft at sea. + The near all ocean, and the far all haze; +Through the while polished water sharks did glide, +And up in heaven I saw no stars to guide. + +"Have mercy, God!" but lo! my raft uprose; + Drip, drip, I heard the water splash from it; +My raft had wings, and as the petrel goes, + It skimmed the sea, then brooding seemed to sit +The milk-white mirror, till, with sudden spring, +She flew straight upward like a living thing. + +But strange!--I went not also in that flight, + For I was entering at a cavern's mouth; +Trees grew within, and screaming birds of night + Sat on them, hiding from the torrid south. +On, on I went, while gleaming in the dark +Those trees with blanched leaves stood pale and stark. + +The trees had flower-buds, nourished in deep night, + And suddenly, as I went farther in, +They opened, and they shot out lambent light; + Then all at once arose a railing din +That frighted me: "It is the ghosts," I said, +And they are railing for their darkness fled. + +"I hope they will not look me in the face; + It frighteth me to hear their laughter loud;" +I saw them troop before with jaunty pace, + And one would shake off dust that soiled her shroud: +But now, O joy unhoped! to calm my dread, +Some moonlight filtered through a cleft o'erhead. + +I climbed the lofty trees--the blanchèd trees-- + The cleft was wide enough to let me through; +I clambered out and felt the balmy breeze, + And stepped on churchyard grasses wet with dew. +O happy chance! O fortune to admire! +I stood beside my own loved village spire. + +And as I gazed upon the yew-tree's trunk, + Lo, far-off music--music in the night! +So sweet and tender as it swelled and sunk; + It charmed me till I wept with keen delight, +And in my dream, methought as it drew near +The very clouds in heaven stooped low to hear. + +Beat high, beat low, wild heart so deeply stirred, + For high as heaven runs up the piercing strain; +The restless music fluttering like a bird + Bemoaned herself, and dropped to earth again, +Heaping up sweetness till I was afraid +That I should die of grief when it did fade. + +And it DID fade; but while with eager ear + I drank its last long echo dying away, +I was aware of footsteps that drew near, + And round the ivied chancel seemed to stray: +O soft above the hallowed place they trod-- +Soft as the fall of foot that is not shod! + +I turned--'twas even so--yes, Eglantine! + For at the first I had divined the same; +I saw the moon on her shut eyelids shine, + And said, "She is asleep:" still on she came; +Then, on her dimpled feet, I saw it gleam, +And thought--"I know that this is but a dream." + +My darling! O my darling! not the less + My dream went on because I knew it such; +She came towards me in her loveliness-- + A thing too pure, methought, for mortal touch; +The rippling gold did on her bosom meet, +The long white robe descended to her feet. + +The fringèd lids dropped low, as sleep-oppressed; + Her dreamy smile was very fair to see, +And her two hands were folded to her breast, + With somewhat held between them heedfully. +O fast asleep! and yet methought she knew +And felt my nearness those shut eyelids through. + +She sighed: my tears ran down for tenderness-- + And have I drawn thee to me in my sleep? +Is it for me thou wanderest shelterless, + Wetting thy steps in dewy grasses deep? +"O if this be!" I said--"yet speak to me; +I blame my very dream for cruelty." + +Then from her stainless bosom she did take + Two beauteous lily flowers that lay therein, +And with slow-moving lips a gesture make, + As one that some forgotten words doth win: +"They floated on the pool," methought she said, +And water trickled from each lily's head. + +It dropped upon her feet--I saw it gleam + Along the ripples of her yellow hair. +And stood apart, for only in a dream + She would have come, methought, to meet me there. +She spoke again--"Ah fair! ah fresh they shine! +And there are many left, and these are mine." + +I answered her with flattering accents meet-- + "Love, they are whitest lilies e'er were blown." +"And sayest thou so?" she sighed in murmurs sweet; + "I have nought else to give thee now, mine own! +For it is night. Then take them, love!" said she: +"They have been costly flowers to thee--and me." + +While thus she said I took them from her hand, + And, overcome with love and nearness, woke; +And overcome with ruth that she should stand + Barefooted in the grass; that, when she spoke, +Her mystic words should take so sweet a tone, +And of all names her lips should choose "My own" + +I rose, I journeyed, neared my home, and soon + Beheld the spire peer out above the hill. +It was a sunny harvest afternoon. + When by the churchyard wicket, standing still, +I cast my eager eyes abroad to know +If change had touched the scenes of long ago. + +I looked across the hollow; sunbeams shone + Upon the old house with the gable ends: +"Save that the laurel trees are taller grown, + No change," methought, "to its gray wall extends +What clear bright beams on yonder lattice shine! +There did I sometime talk with Eglantine." + +There standing with my very goal in sight, + Over my haste did sudden quiet steal; +I thought to dally with my own delight, + Nor rush on headlong to my garnered weal, +But taste the sweetness of a short delay, +And for a little moment hold the bliss at bay. + +The church was open; it perchance might be + That there to offer thanks I might essay, +Or rather, as I think, that I might see + The place where Eglantine was wont to pray. +But so it was; I crossed that portal wide, +And felt my riot joy to calm subside. + +The low depending curtains, gently swayed, + Cast over arch and roof a crimson glow; +But, ne'ertheless, all silence and all shade + It seemed, save only for the rippling flow +Of their long foldings, when the sunset air +Sighed through the casements of the house of prayer. + +I found her place, the ancient oaken stall, + Where in her childhood I had seen her sit, +Most saint-like and most tranquil there of all, + Folding her hands, as if a dreaming fit-- +A heavenly vision had before her strayed +Of the Eternal Child in lowly manger laid. + +I saw her prayer-book laid upon the seat, + And took it in my hand, and felt more near +in fancy to her, finding it most sweet + To think how very oft, low kneeling there, +In her devout thoughts she had let me share, +And set my graceless name in her pure prayer. + +My eyes were dazzled with delightful tears-- + In sooth they were the last I ever shed; +For with them fell the cherished dreams of years. + I looked, and on the wall above my head, +Over her seat, there was a tablet placed, +With one word only on the marble traced.-- + + +Ah well! I would not overstate that woe, + For I have had some blessings, little care; +But since the falling of that heavy blow, + God's earth has never seemed to me so fair; +Nor any of his creatures so divine, +Nor sleep so sweet;--the word was--EGLANTINE. + + + + +A MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD. + +(F.M.L.) + + +Living child or pictured cherub, + Ne'er o'ermatched its baby grace; +And the mother, moving nearer, + Looked it calmly in the face; +Then with slight and quiet gesture, + And with lips that scarcely smiled, +Said--"A Portrait of my daughter + When she was a child." + +Easy thought was hers to fathom, + Nothing hard her glance to read, +For it seemed to say, "No praises + For this little child I need: +If you see, I see far better, + And I will not feign to care +For a stranger's prompt assurance + That the face is fair." + +Softly clasped and half extended, + She her dimpled hands doth lay: +So they doubtless placed them, saying-- + "Little one, you must not play." +And while yet his work was growing, + This the painter's hand hath shown, +That the little heart was making + Pictures of its own. + +Is it warm in that green valley, + Vale of childhood, where you dwell? +Is it calm in that green valley, + Round whose bournes such great hills swell? +Are there giants in the valley-- + Giants leaving footprints yet? +Are there angels in the valley? + Tell me--I forget. + +Answer, answer, for the lilies, + Little one, o'ertop you much, +And the mealy gold within them + You can scarcely reach to touch; +O how far their aspect differs, + Looking up and looking down! +You look up in that green valley-- + Valley of renown. + +Are there voices in the valley, + Lying near the heavenly gate? +When it opens, do the harp-strings, + Touched within, reverberate? +When, like shooting-stars, the angels + To your couch at nightfall go, +Are their swift wings heard to rustle? + Tell me! for you know. + +Yes, you know; and you are silent, + Not a word shall asking win; +Little mouth more sweet than rosebud, + Fast it locks the secret in. +Not a glimpse upon your present + You unfold to glad my view; +Ah, what secrets of your future + I could tell to you! + +Sunny present! thus I read it, + By remembrance of my past:-- +Its to-day and its to-morrow + Are as lifetimes vague and vast; +And each face in that green valley + Takes for you an aspect mild, +And each voice grows soft in saying-- + "Kiss me, little child!" + +As a boon the kiss is granted: + Baby mouth, your touch is sweet, +Takes the love without the trouble + From those lips that with it meet; +Gives the love, O pure! O tender! + Of the valley where it grows, +But the baby heart receiveth + MORE THAN IT BESTOWS. + +Comes the future to the present-- + "Ah!" she saith, "too blithe of mood; +Why that smile which seems to whisper-- + 'I am happy, God is good?' +God is good: that truth eternal + Sown for you in happier years, +I must tend it in my shadow, + Water it with tears. + +"Ah, sweet present! I must lead thee + By a daylight more subdued; +There must teach thee low to whisper-- + 'I am mournful, God is good!'" +Peace, thou future! clouds are coming, + Stooping from the mountain crest, +But that sunshine floods the valley: + Let her--let her rest. + +Comes the future to the present-- + "Child," she saith, "and wilt thou rest? +How long, child, before thy footsteps + Fret to reach yon cloudy crest? +Ah, the valley!--angels guard it, + But the heights are brave to see; +Looking down were long contentment: + Come up, child, to me." + +So she speaks, but do not heed her, + Little maid with wondrous eyes, +Not afraid, but clear and tender, + Blue, and filled with prophecies; +Thou for whom life's veil unlifted + Hangs, whom warmest valleys fold, +Lift the veil, the charm dissolveth-- + Climb, but heights are cold. + +There are buds that fold within them, + Closed and covered from our sight, +Many a richly tinted petal, + Never looked on by the light: +Fain to see their shrouded faces, + Sun and dew are long at strife, +Till at length the sweet buds open-- + Such a bud is life. + +When the rose of thine own being + Shall reveal its central fold, +Thou shalt look within and marvel, + Fearing what thine eyes behold; +What it shows and what it teaches + Are not things wherewith to part; +Thorny rose! that always costeth + Beatings at the heart. + +Look in fear, for there is dimness; + Ills unshapen float anigh. +Look in awe, for this same nature + Once the Godhead deigned to die. +Look in love, for He doth love it, + And its tale is best of lore: +Still humanity grows dearer, + Being learned the more. + +Learn, but not the less bethink thee + How that all can mingle tears; +But his joy can none discover, + Save to them that are his peers; +And that they whose lips do utter + Language such as bards have sung-- +Lo! their speech shall be to many + As an unknown tongue. + +Learn, that if to thee the meaning + Of all other eyes be shown, +Fewer eyes can ever front thee, + That are skilled to read thine own; +And that if thy love's deep current + Many another's far outflows, +Then thy heart must take forever, + LESS THAN IT BESTOWS. + + + + +STRIFE AND PEACE. + +(Written for THE PORTFOLIO SOCIETY, October 1861.) + + +The yellow poplar-leaves came down + And like a carpet lay, +No waftings were in the sunny air + To flutter them away; +And he stepped on blithe and debonair + That warm October day. + +"The boy," saith he, "hath got his own, + But sore has been the fight, +For ere his life began the strife + That ceased but yesternight; +For the will," he said, "the kinsfolk read, + And read it not aright. + +"His cause was argued in the court + Before his christening day, +And counsel was heard, and judge demurred, + And bitter waxed the fray; +Brother with brother spake no word + When they met in the way. + +"Against each one did each contend, + And all against the heir. +I would not bend, for I knew the end-- + I have it for my share, +And nought repent, though my first friend + From henceforth I must spare. + +"Manor and moor and farm and wold + Their greed begrudged him sore, +And parchments old with passionate hold + They guarded heretofore; +And they carped at signature and seal, + But they may carp no more. + +"An old affront will stir the heart + Through years of rankling pain, +And I feel the fret that urged me yet + That warfare to maintain; +For an enemy's loss may well be set + Above an infant's gain. + +"An enemy's loss I go to prove, + Laugh out, thou little heir! +Laugh in his face who vowed to chase + Thee from thy birthright fair; +For I come to set thee in thy place: + Laugh out, and do not spare." + +A man of strife, in wrathful mood + He neared the nurse's door; +With poplar-leaves the roof and eaves + Were thickly scattered o'er, +And yellow as they a sunbeam lay + Along the cottage floor. + +"Sleep on, thou pretty, pretty lamb," + He hears the fond nurse say; +"And if angels stand at thy right hand, + As now belike they may, +And if angels meet at thy bed's feet, + I fear them not this day. + +"Come wealth, come want to thee, dear heart, + It was all one to me, +For thy pretty tongue far sweeter rung + Than coinèd gold and fee; +And ever the while thy waking smile + It was right fair to see. + +"Sleep, pretty bairn, and never know + Who grudged and who transgressed: +Thee to retain I was full fain, + But God, He knoweth best! +And His peace upon thy brow lies plain + As the sunshine on thy breast!" + +The man of strife, he enters in, + Looks, and his pride doth cease; +Anger and sorrow shall be to-morrow + Trouble, and no release; +But the babe whose life awoke the strife + Hath entered into peace. + + + + +THE + +DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE + +[Illustration.] + + + + +THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. + + +I saw in a vision once, our mother-sphere + The world, her fixed foredooméd oval tracing, +Rolling and rolling on and resting never, + While like a phantom fell, behind her pacing +The unfurled flag of night, her shadow drear + Fled as she fled and hung to her forever. + +Great Heaven! methought, how strange a doom to share. + Would I may never bear + Inevitable darkness after me +(Darkness endowed with drawings strong, + And shadowy hands that cling unendingly), + Nor feel that phantom-wings behind me sweep, +As she feels night pursuing through the long + Illimitable reaches of "the vasty deep." + + * * * * * + +God save you, gentlefolks. There was a man + Who lay awake at midnight on his bed, +Watching the spiral flame that feeding ran + Among the logs upon his hearth, and shed +A comfortable glow, both warm and dim, +On crimson curtains that encompassed him. + +Right stately was his chamber, soft and white + The pillow, and his quilt was eider-down. +What mattered it to him though all that night + The desolate driving cloud might lower and frown, +And winds were up the eddying sleet to chase, +That drave and drave and found no settling-place? + +What mattered it that leafless trees might rock, + Or snow might drift athwart his window-pane? +He bare a charméd life against their shock, + Secure from cold, hunger, and weather stain; +Fixed in his right, and born to good estate, +From common ills set by and separate. + +From work and want and fear of want apart, + This man (men called him Justice Wilvermore),-- +This man had comforted his cheerful heart + With all that it desired from every shore. +He had a right,--the right of gold is strong,-- +He stood upon his right his whole life long. + +Custom makes all things easy, and content + Is careless, therefore on the storm and cold, +As he lay waking, never a thought he spent, + Albeit across the vale beneath the wold, +Along a reedy mere that frozen lay, +A range of sordid hovels stretched away. + +What cause had he to think on them, forsooth? + What cause that night beyond another night? +He was familiar even from his youth + With their long ruin and their evil plight. +The wintry wind would search them like a scout, +The water froze within as freely as without. + +He think upon them? No! They were forlorn, + So were the cowering inmates whom they held; +A thriftless tribe, to shifts and leanness born, + Ever complaining: infancy or eld +Alike. But there was rent, or long ago +Those cottage roofs had met with overthrow. + +For this they stood; and what his thoughts might be + That winter night, I know not; but I know +That, while the creeping flame fed silently + And cast upon his bed a crimson glow, +The Justice slept, and shortly in his sleep +He fell to dreaming, and his dream was deep. + +He dreamed that over him a shadow came; + And when he looked to find the cause, behold +Some person knelt between him and the flame:-- + A cowering figure of one frail and old,-- +A woman; and she prayed as he descried, +And spread her feeble hands, and shook and sighed. + +"Good Heaven!" the Justice cried, and being distraught + He called not to her, but he looked again: +She wore a tattered cloak, but she had naught + Upon her head; and she did quake amain, +And spread her wasted hands and poor attire +To gather in the brightness of his fire. + +"I know you, woman!" then the Justice cried; + "I know that woman well," he cried aloud; +"The shepherd Aveland's widow: God me guide! + A pauper kneeling on my hearth": and bowed +The hag, like one at home, its warmth to share! +"How dares she to intrude? What does she there? + +"Ho, woman, ho!"--but yet she did not stir, + Though from her lips a fitful plaining broke; +"I'll ring my people up to deal with her; + I'll rouse the house," he cried; but while he spoke +He turned, and saw, but distant from his bed, +Another form,--a Darkness with a head. + +Then in a rage, he shouted, "Who are you?" + For little in the gloom he might discern. +"Speak out; speak now; or I will make you rue + The hour!" but there was silence, and a stern, +Dark face from out the dusk appeared to lean, +And then again drew back, and was not seen. + +"God!" cried the dreaming man, right impiously, + "What have I done, that these my sleep affray?" +"God!" said the Phantom, "I appeal to Thee, + Appoint Thou me this man to be my prey." +"God!" sighed the kneeling woman, frail and old, +"I pray Thee take me, for the world is cold." + +Then said the trembling Justice, in affright, + "Fiend, I adjure thee, speak thine errand here!" +And lo! it pointed in the failing light + Toward the woman, answering, cold and clear, +"Thou art ordained an answer to thy prayer; +But first to tell _her_ tale that kneeleth there." + +"_Her_ tale!" the Justice cried. "A pauper's tale!" + And he took heart at this so low behest, +And let the stoutness of his will prevail, + Demanding, "Is't for _her_ you break my rest? +She went to jail of late for stealing wood, +She will again for this night's hardihood. + +"I sent her; and to-morrow, as I live, + I will commit her for this trespass here." +"Thou wilt not!" quoth the Shadow, "thou wilt give + Her story words"; and then it stalked anear +And showed a lowering face, and, dread to see, +A countenance of angered majesty. + +Then said the Justice, all his thoughts astray, + With that material Darkness chiding him, +"If this must be, then speak to her, I pray, + And bid her move, for all the room is dim +By reason of the place she holds to-night: +She kneels between me and the warmth and light." + +"With adjurations deep and drawings strong, + And with the power," it said, "unto me given, +I call upon thee, man, to tell thy wrong, + Or look no more upon the face of Heaven. +Speak! though she kneel throughout the livelong night, +And yet shall kneel between thee and the light." + +This when the Justice heard, he raised his hands, + And held them as the dead in effigy +Hold theirs, when carved upon a tomb. The bands + Of fate had bound him fast: no remedy +Was left: his voice unto himself was strange, +And that unearthly vision did not change. + +He said, "That woman dwells anear my door, + Her life and mine began the selfsame day, +And I am hale and hearty: from my store + I never spared her aught: she takes her way +Of me unheeded; pining, pinching care +Is all the portion that she has to share. + +"She is a broken-down, poor, friendless wight, + Through labor and through sorrow early old; +And I have known of this her evil plight, + Her scanty earnings, and her lodgment cold; +A patienter poor soul shall ne'er be found: +She labored on my land the long year round. + +"What wouldst thou have me say, thou fiend abhorred? + Show me no more thine awful visage grim. +If thou obey'st a greater, tell thy lord + That I have paid her wages. Cry to him! +He has not _much_ against me. None can say +I have not paid her wages day by day. + +"The spell! It draws me. I must speak again; + And speak against myself; and speak aloud. +The woman once approached me to complain,-- + 'My wages are so low.' I may be proud; +It is a fault." "Ay," quoth the Phantom fell, +"Sinner! it is a fault: thou sayest well." + +"She made her moan, 'My wages are so low.'" + "Tell on!" "She said," he answered, "'My best days +Are ended, and the summer is but slow + To come; and my good strength for work decays +By reason that I live so hard, and lie +On winter nights so bare for poverty.'" + +"And you replied,"--began the lowering shade, + "And I replied," the Justice followed on, +"That wages like to mine my neighbor paid; + And if I raised the wages of the one +Straight should the others murmur; furthermore, +The winter was as winters gone before. + +"No colder and not longer." "Afterward?"-- + The Phantom questioned. "Afterward," he groaned, +"She said my neighbor was a right good lord, + Never a roof was broken that he owned; +He gave much coal and clothing. 'Doth he so? +Work for my neighbor, then,' I answered. 'Go! + +"'You are full welcome.' Then she mumbled out + She hoped I was not angry; hoped, forsooth, +I would forgive her: and I turned about, + And said I should be angry in good truth +If this should be again, or ever more +She dared to stop me thus at the church door." + +"Then?" quoth the Shade; and he, constrained, said on, + "Then she, reproved, curtseyed herself away." +"Hast met her since?" it made demand anon; + And after pause the Justice answered, "Ay; +Some wood was stolen; my people made a stir: +She was accused, and I did sentence her." + +But yet, and yet, the dreaded questions came: + "And didst thou weigh the matter,--taking thought +Upon her sober life and honest fame?" + "I gave it," he replied, with gaze distraught; +"I gave it, Fiend, the usual care; I took +The usual pains; I could not nearer look, + +"Because,--because their pilfering had got head. + What wouldst thou more? The neighbors pleaded hard, +'Tis true, and many tears the creature shed; + But I had vowed their prayers to disregard, +Heavily strike the first that robbed my land, +And put down thieving with a steady hand. + +"She said she was not guilty. Ay, 'tis true + She said so, but the poor are liars all. +O thou fell Fiend, what wilt thou? Must I view + Thy darkness yet, and must thy shadow fall +Upon me miserable? I have done +No worse, no more than many a scathless one." + +"Yet," quoth the Shade, "if ever to thine ears + The knowledge of her blamelessness was brought, +Or others have confessed with dying tears + The crime she suffered for, and thou hast wrought +All reparation in thy power, and told +Into her empty hand thy brightest gold:-- + +"If thou hast honored her, and hast proclaimed + Her innocence and thy deplored wrong, +Still thou art nought; for thou shalt yet be blamed + In that she, feeble, came before thee strong, +And thou, in cruel haste to deal a blow, +Because thou hadst been angered, worked her woe. + +"But didst thou right her? Speak!" The Justice sighed, + And beaded drops stood out upon his brow; +"How could I humble me," forlorn he cried, + "To a base beggar? Nay, I will avow +That I did ill. I will reveal the whole; +I kept that knowledge in my secret soul." + +"Hear him!" the Phantom muttered; "hear this man, + O changeless God upon the judgment throne." +With that, cold tremors through his pulses ran, + And lamentably he did make his moan; +While, with its arms upraised above his head, +The dim dread visitor approached his bed. + +"Into these doors," it said, "which thou hast closed, + Daily this woman shall from henceforth come; +Her kneeling form shall yet be interposed + Till all thy wretched hours have told their sum; +Shall yet be interposed by day, by night, +Between thee, sinner, and the warmth and light. + +"Remembrance of her want shall make thy meal + Like ashes, and thy wrong thou shalt not right. +But what! Nay, verily, nor wealth nor weal + From henceforth shall afford thy soul delight. +Till men shall lay thy head beneath the sod, +There shall be no deliverance, saith my God." + +"Tell me thy name," the dreaming Justice cried; + "By what appointment dost thou doom me thus?" +"'Tis well that thou shouldst know me," it replied, + "For mine thou art, and nought shall sever us; +From thine own lips and life I draw my force: +The name thy nation give me is REMORSE." + +This when he heard, the dreaming man cried out, + And woke affrighted; and a crimson glow +The dying ember shed. Within, without, + In eddying rings the silence seemed to flow; +The wind had lulled, and on his forehead shone +The last low gleam; he was indeed alone. + +"O, I have had a fearful dream," said he; + "I will take warning and for mercy trust; +The fiend Remorse shall never dwell with me: + I will repair that wrong, I will be just, +I will be kind, I will my ways amend." +_Now the first dream is told unto its end._ + +Anigh the frozen mere a cottage stood, + A piercing wind swept round and shook the door, +The shrunken door, and easy way made good, + And drave long drifts of snow along the floor. +It sparkled there like diamonds, for the moon +Was shining in, and night was at the noon. + +Before her dying embers, bent and pale, + A woman sat because her bed was cold; +She heard the wind, the driving sleet and hail, + And she was hunger-bitten, weak and old; +Yet while she cowered, and while the casement shook, +Upon her trembling knees she held a book,-- + +A comfortable book for them that mourn, + And good to raise the courage of the poor; +It lifts the veil and shows, beyond the bourne, + Their Elder Brother, from His home secure, +That for them desolate He died to win, +Repeating, "Come, ye blessed, enter in." + +What thought she on, this woman? on her days + Of toil, or on the supperless night forlorn? +I think not so; the heart but seldom weighs + With conscious care a burden always borne; +And she was used to these things, had grown old +In fellowship with toil, hunger, and cold. + +Then did she think how sad it was to live + Of all the good this world can yield bereft? +No, her untutored thoughts she did not give + To such a theme; but in their warp and weft +She wove a prayer: then in the midnight deep +Faintly and slow she fell away to sleep. + +A strange, a marvellous sleep, which brought a dream. + And it was this: that all at once she heard +The pleasant babbling of a little stream + That ran beside her door, and then a bird +Broke out in songs. She looked, and lo! the rime +And snow had melted; it was summer time! + +And all the cold was over, and the mere + Full sweetly swayed the flags and rushes green; +The mellow sunlight poured right warm and clear + Into her casement, and thereby were seen +Fair honeysuckle flowers, and wandering bees +Were hovering round the blossom-laden trees. + +She said, "I will betake me to my door, + And will look out and see this wondrous sight, +How summer is come back, and frost is o'er, + And all the air warm waxen in a night." +With that she opened, but for fear she cried, +For lo! two Angels,--one on either side. + +And while she looked, with marvelling measureless, + The Angels stood conversing face to face, +But neither spoke to her. "The wilderness," + One Angel said, "the solitary place, +Shall yet be glad for Him." And then full fain +The other Angel answered, "He shall reign." + +And when the woman heard, in wondering wise, + She whispered, "They are speaking of my Lord." +And straightway swept across the open skies + Multitudes like to these. They took the word, +That flock of Angels, "He shall come again, +My Lord, my Lord!" they sang, "and He shall reign!" + +Then they, drawn up into the blue o'er-head, + Right happy, shining ones, made haste to flee; +And those before her one to other said, + "Behold He stands aneath yon almond-tree." +This when the woman heard, she fain had gazed, +But paused for reverence, and bowed down amazed. + +After she looked, for this her dream was deep; + She looked, and there was nought beneath the tree; +Yet did her love and longing overleap + The fear of Angels, awful though they be, +And she passed out between the blessed things, +And brushed her mortal weeds against their wings. + +O, all the happy world was in its best, + The trees were covered thick with buds and flowers, +And these were dropping honey; for the rest, + Sweetly the birds were piping in their bowers; +Across the grass did groups of Angels go, +And Saints in pairs were walking to and fro. + +Then did she pass toward the almond-tree, + And none she saw beneath it: yet each Saint +Upon his coming meekly bent the knee, + And all their glory as they gazed waxed faint. +And then a 'lighting Angel neared the place, +And folded his fair wings before his face. + +She also knelt, and spread her aged hands + As feeling for the sacred human feet; +She said, "Mine eyes are held, but if He stands + Anear, I will not let Him hence retreat +Except He bless me." Then, O sweet! O fair! +Some words were spoken, but she knew not where. + +She knew not if beneath the boughs they woke, + Or dropt upon her from the realms above; +"What wilt thou, woman?" in the dream He spoke, + "Thy sorrow moveth Me, thyself I love; +Long have I counted up thy mournful years, +Once I did weep to wipe away thy tears." + +She said: "My one Redeemer, only blest, + I know Thy voice, and from my yearning heart +Draw out my deep desire, my great request, + My prayer, that I might enter where Thou art. +Call me, O call from this world troublesome, +And let me see Thy face." He answered, "Come." + +_Here is the ending of the second dream._ + It is a frosty morning, keen and cold, +Fast locked are silent mere and frozen stream, + And snow lies sparkling on the desert wold; +With savory morning meats they spread the board, +But Justice Wilvermore will walk abroad. + +"Bring me my cloak," quoth he, as one in haste. + "Before you breakfast, sir?" his man replies. +"Ay," quoth he quickly, and he will not taste + Of aught before him, but in urgent wise +As he would fain some carking care allay, +Across the frozen field he takes his way. + +"A dream! how strange that it should move me so, + 'Twas but a dream," quoth Justice Wilvermore: +"And yet I cannot peace nor pleasure know, + For wrongs I have not heeded heretofore; +Silver and gear the crone shall have of me, +And dwell for life in yonder cottage free. + +"For visions of the night are fearful things, + Remorse is dread, though merely in a dream; +I will not subject me to visitings + Of such a sort again. I will esteem +My peace above my pride. From natures rude +A little gold will buy me gratitude. + +"The woman shall have leave to gather wood, + As much as she may need, the long year round; +She shall, I say,--moreover, it were good + Yon other cottage roofs to render sound. +Thus to my soul the ancient peace restore, +And sleep at ease," quoth Justice Wilvermore. + +With that he nears the door: a frosty rime + Is branching over it, and drifts are deep +Against the wall. He knocks, and there is time,-- + (For none doth open),--time to list the sweep +And whistle of the wind along the mere +Through beds of stiffened reeds and rushes sere. + +"If she be out, I have my pains for nought," + He saith, and knocks again, and yet once more, +But to his ear nor step nor stir is brought; + And after pause, he doth unlatch the door +And enter. No: she is not out, for see +She sits asleep 'mid frost-work winterly. + +Asleep, asleep before her empty grate, + Asleep, asleep, albeit the landlord call. +"What, dame," he saith, and comes toward her straight, + "Asleep so early!" But whate'er befall, +She sleepeth; then he nears her, and behold +He lays a hand on hers, and it is cold. + +Then doth the Justice to his home return; + From that day forth he wears a sadder brow; +His hands are opened, and his heart doth learn + The patience of the poor. He made a vow +And keeps it, for the old and sick have shared +His gifts, their sordid homes he hath repaired. + +And some he hath made happy, but for him + Is happiness no more. He doth repent, +And now the light of joy is waxen dim, + Are all his steps toward the Highest sent; +He looks for mercy, and he waits release +Above, for this world doth not yield him peace. + +Night after night, night after desolate night, + Day after day, day after tedious day, +Stands by his fire, and dulls its gleamy light, + Paceth behind or meets him in the way; +Or shares the path by hedgerow, mere, or stream, +The visitor that doomed him in his dream. + + Thy kingdom come. +I heard a Seer cry,--"The wilderness, + The solitary place, +Shall yet be glad for Him, and He shall bless +(Thy kingdom come) with his revealéd face +The forests; they shall drop their precious gum, +And shed for Him their balm: and He shall yield +The grandeur of His speech to charm the field. + +"Then all the soothéd winds shall drop to listen, + (Thy kingdom come,) +Comforted waters waxen calm shall glisten +With bashful tremblement beneath His smile: + And Echo ever the while +Shall take, and in her awful joy repeat, +The laughter of His lips--(thy kingdom come): +And hills that sit apart shall be no longer dumb; + No, they shall shout and shout, +Raining their lovely loyalty along the dewy plain: + And valleys round about, + +"And all the well-contented land, made sweet + With flowers she opened at His feet, +Shall answer; shout and make the welkin ring +And tell it to the stars, shout, shout, and sing; + Her cup being full to the brim, + Her poverty made rich with Him, +Her yearning satisfied to its utmost sum,-- +Lift up thy voice, O earth, prepare thy song, + It shall not yet be long, +Lift up, O earth, for He shall come again, +Thy Lord; and He shall reign, and He SHALL reign,-- + Thy kingdom come." + + + + +SONGS + +ON + +THE VOICES OF BIRDS. + +[Illustration] + + + + + +SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. + + +INTRODUCTION. + +CHILD AND BOATMAN. + +"Martin, I wonder who makes all the songs." +"You do, sir?" + "Yes, I wonder how they come." +"Well, boy, I wonder what you'll wonder next!" +"But somebody must make them?" + "Sure enough." +"Does your wife know?" + "She never said she did." +"You told me that she knew so many things." +"I said she was a London woman, sir, +And a fine scholar, but I never said +She knew about the songs." + "I wish she did." +"And I wish no such thing; she knows enough, +She knows too much already. Look you now, +This vessel's off the stocks, a tidy craft." +"A schooner, Martin?" + "No, boy, no; a brig, +Only she's schooner rigged,--a lovely craft." +"Is she for me? O, thank you, Martin, dear. +What shall I call her?" + "Well, sir, what you please." +"Then write on her 'The Eagle.'" + "Bless the child! +Eagle! why, you know naught of eagles, you. +When we lay off the coast, up Canada way, +And chanced to be ashore when twilight fell, +That was the place for eagles; bald they were, +With eyes as yellow as gold." + "O, Martin, dear, +Tell me about them." + "Tell! there's nought to tell, +Only they snored o' nights and frighted us." +"Snored?" + "Ay, I tell you, snored; they slept upright +In the great oaks by scores; as true as time, +If I'd had aught upon my mind just then, +I wouldn't have walked that wood for unknown gold; +It was most awful. When the moon was full, +I've seen them fish at night, in the middle watch, +When she got low. I've seen them plunge like stones, +And come up fighting with a fish as long, +Ay, longer than my arm; and they would sail,-- +When they had struck its life out,--they would sail +Over the deck, and show their fell, fierce eyes, +And croon for pleasure, hug the prey, and speed +Grand as a frigate on a wind." + "My ship, +She must be called 'The Eagle' after these. +And, Martin, ask your wife about the songs +When you go in at dinner-time." + "Not I." + + +THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD BY THE UNSATISFIED HEART. + + When in a May-day hush + Chanteth the Missel-thrush +The harp o' the heart makes answer with murmurous stirs; + When Robin-redbreast sings, + We think on budding springs, +And Culvers when they coo are love's remembrancers. + + But thou in the trance of light + Stayest the feeding night, +And Echo makes sweet her lips with the utterance wise, + And casts at our glad feet, + In a wisp of fancies fleet, +Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned prophecies. + + Her central thought full well + Thou hast the wit to tell, +To take the sense o' the dark and to yield it so; + The moral of moonlight + To set in a cadence bright, +And sing our loftiest dream that we thought none did know. + + I have no nest as thou, + Bird on the blossoming bough, +Yet over thy tongue outfloweth the song o' my soul, + Chanting, "forego thy strife, + The spirit out-acts the life, +But MUCH is seldom theirs who can perceive THE WHOLE. + + "Thou drawest a perfect lot + All thine, but holden not, +Lie low, at the feet of beauty that ever shall bide; + There might be sorer smart + Than thine, far-seeing heart, +Whose fate is still to yearn, and not be satisfied." + + +SAND MARTINS. + +I passed an inland-cliff precipitate; + From tiny caves peeped many a soot-black poll; +In each a mother-martin sat elate, + And of the news delivered her small soul. + +Fantastic chatter! hasty, glad, and gay, + Whereof the meaning was not ill to tell: +"Gossip, how wags the world with you to-day?" + "Gossip, the world wags well, the world wags well." + +And heark'ning, I was sure their little ones + Were in the bird-talk, and discourse was made +Concerning hot sea-bights and tropic suns, + For a clear sultriness the tune conveyed;-- + +And visions of the sky as of a cup + Hailing down light on pagan Pharaoh's sand, +And quivering air-waves trembling up and up, + And blank stone faces marvellously bland. + +"When should the young be fledged and with them hie + Where costly day drops down in crimson light? +(Fortunate countries of the firefly + Swarm with blue diamonds all the sultry night, + +"And the immortal moon takes turn with them.) + When should they pass again by that red land, +Where lovely mirage works a broidered hem + To fringe with phantom-palms a robe of sand? + +"When should they dip their breasts again and play + In slumberous azure pools, clear as the air, +Where rosy-winged flamingoes fish all day, + Stalking amid the lotus blossom fair? + +"Then, over podded tamarinds bear their flight, + While cassias blossom in the zone of calms, +And so betake them to a south sea-bight, + To gossip in the crowns of cocoa-palms + +"Whose roots are in the spray. O, haply there + Some dawn, white-winged they might chance to find +A frigate standing in to make more fair + The loneliness unaltered of mankind. + +"A frigate come to water: nuts would fall, + And nimble feet would climb the flower-flushed strand, +While northern talk would ring, and there withal + The martins would desire the cool north land. + +"And all would be as it had been before; + Again at eve there would be news to tell; +Who passed should hear them chant it o'er and o'er, + Gossip, how wags the world?' 'Well, gossip, well.'" + + +A POET IN HIS YOUTH, AND THE CUCKOO-BIRD. + +Once upon a time, I lay +Fast asleep at dawn of day; +Windows open to the south, +Fancy pouting her sweet mouth +To my ear. + She turned a globe +In her slender hand, her robe +Was all spangled; and she said, +As she sat at my bed's head, +"Poet, poet, what, asleep! +Look! the ray runs up the steep +To your roof." Then in the golden +Essence of romances olden, +Bathed she my entrancéd heart. +And she gave a hand to me, +Drew me onward, "Come!" said she; +And she moved with me apart, +Down the lovely vale of Leisure. + +Such its name was, I heard say, +For some Fairies trooped that way; +Common people of the place, +Taking their accustomed pleasure, +(All the clocks being stopped) to race +Down the slope on palfreys fleet. +Bridle bells made tinkling sweet; +And they said, "What signified +Faring home till eventide: +There were pies on every shelf, +And the bread would bake itself." +But for that I cared not, fed, +As it were, with angels' bread, +Sweet as honey; yet next day +All foredoomed to melt away; +Gone before the sun waxed hot, +Melted manna that _was not_. + +Rock-doves' poetry of plaint, +Or the starling's courtship quaint, +Heart made much of; 'twas a boon +Won from silence, and too soon +Wasted in the ample air: +Building rooks far distant were. +Scarce at all would speak the rills, +And I saw the idle hills, +In their amber hazes deep, +Fold themselves and go to sleep, +Though it was not yet high noon. + +Silence? Rather music brought +From the spheres! As if a thought, +Having taken wings, did fly +Through the reaches of the sky. +Silence? No, a sumptuous sigh +That had found embodiment, +That had come across the deep +After months of wintry sleep, +And with tender heavings went +Floating up the firmament. + +"O," I mourned, half slumbering yet, +"'Tis the voice of _my_ regret,-- +_Mine!_" and I awoke. Full sweet +Saffron sunbeams did me greet; +And the voice it spake again, +Dropped from yon blue cup of light +Or some cloudlet swan's-down white +On my soul, that drank full fain +The sharp joy--the sweet pain-- +Of its clear, right innocent, +Unreprovéd discontent. + +How it came--where it went-- +Who can tell? The open blue +Quivered with it, and I, too, +Trembled. I remembered me +Of the springs that used to be, +When a dimpled white-haired child, +Shy and tender and half wild, +In the meadows I had heard +Some way off the talking bird, +And had felt it marvellous sweet, +For it laughed: it did me greet, +Calling me: yet, hid away +In the woods, it would not play. +No. + + And all the world about, +While a man will work or sing, +Or a child pluck flowers of spring, +Thou wilt scatter music out, +Rouse him with thy wandering note, +Changeful fancies set afloat, +Almost tell with thy clear throat, +But not quite,--the wonder-rife, +Most sweet riddle, dark and dim, +That he searcheth all his life, +Searcheth yet, and ne'er expoundeth; +And so winnowing of thy wings, +Touch and trouble his heart's strings. +That a certain music soundeth +In that wondrous instrument, +With a trembling upward sent, +That is reckoned sweet above +By the Greatness surnamed Love. + +"O, I hear thee in the blue; +Would that I might wing it too! +O to have what hope hath seen! +O to be what might have been! + +"O to set my life, sweet bird, +To a tune that oft I heard +When I used to stand alone +Listening to the lovely moan +Of the swaying pines o'erhead, +While, a-gathering of bee-bread +For their living, murmured round, +As the pollen dropped to ground, +All the nations from the hives; +And the little brooding wives +On each nest, brown dusky things, +Sat with gold-dust on their wings. +Then beyond (more sweet than all) +Talked the tumbling waterfall; +And there were, and there were not +(As might fall, and form anew +Bell-hung drops of honey-dew) +Echoes of--I know not what; +As if some right-joyous elf, +While about his own affairs, +Whistled softly otherwheres. +Nay, as if our mother dear, +Wrapped in sun-warm atmosphere, +Laughed a little to herself, +Laughed a little as she rolled, +Thinking on the days of old. + +"Ah! there be some hearts, I wis, +To which nothing comes amiss. +Mine was one. Much secret wealth +I was heir to: and by stealth, +When the moon was fully grown, +And she thought herself alone, +I have heard her, ay, right well, +Shoot a silver message down +To the unseen sentinel +Of a still, snow-thatchéd town. + +"Once, awhile ago, I peered +In the nest where Spring was reared. +There, she quivering her fair wings, +Flattered March with chirrupings; +And they fed her; nights and days, +Fed her mouth with much sweet food, +And her heart with love and praise, +Till the wild thing rose and flew +Over woods and water-springs, +Shaking off the morning dew +In a rainbow from her wings. + +"Once (I will to you confide +More), O once in forest wide, +I, benighted, overheard +Marvellous mild echoes stirred, +And a calling half defined, +And an answering from afar; +Somewhat talkéd with a star, +And the talk was of mankind. + +"'Cuckoo, cuckoo!' +Float anear in upper blue: +Art thou yet a prophet true? +Wilt thou say, 'And having seen +Things that be, and have not been, +Thou art free o' the world, for naught +Can despoil thee of thy thought'? +Nay, but make me music yet, +Bird, as deep as my regret, +For a certain hope hath set, +Like a star; and left me heir +To a crying for its light, +An aspiring infinite, +And a beautiful despair! + +"Ah! no more, no more, no more +I shall lie at thy shut door, +Mine ideal, my desired, +Dreaming thou wilt open it, +And step out, thou most admired, +By my side to fare, or sit, +Quenching hunger and all drouth +With the wit of thy fair mouth, +Showing me the wishéd prize +In the calm of thy dove's eyes, +Teaching me the wonder-rife +Majesties of human life, +All its fairest possible sum, +And the grace of its to come. + +"What a difference! Why of late +All sweet music used to say, +'She will come, and with thee stay +To-morrow, man, if not to-day.' +Now it murmurs, 'Wait, wait, wait!'" + + +A RAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE. + +I saw when I looked up, on either hand, + A pale high chalk-cliff, reared aloft in white; +A narrowing rent soon closed toward the land,-- + Toward the sea, an open yawning bight. + +The polished tide, with scarce a hint of blue, + Washed in the bight; above with angry moan +A raven, that was robbed, sat up in view, + Croaking and crying on a ledge alone. + +"Stand on thy nest, spread out thy fateful wings, + With sullen hungry love bemoan thy brood, +For boys have wrung their necks, those imp-like things, + Whose beaks dripped crimson daily at their food. + +"Cry, thou black prophetess! cry, and despair, + None love thee, none! Their father was thy foe, +Whose father in his youth did know thy lair, + And steal thy little demons long ago. + +"Thou madest many childless for their sake, + And picked out many eyes that loved the light. +Cry, thou black prophetess! sit up, awake, + Forebode; and ban them through the desolate night" + +Lo! while I spake it, with a crimson hue + The dipping sun endowed that silver flood, +And all the cliffs flushed red, and up she flew, + The bird, as mad to bathe in airy blood. + +"Nay, thou mayst cry, the omen is not thine, + Thou aged priestess of fell doom, and fate. +It is not blood: thy gods are making wine, + They spilt the must outside their city gate, + +"And stained their azure pavement with the lees: + They will not listen though thou cry aloud. +Old Chance, thy dame, sits mumbling at her ease, + Nor hears; the fair hag, Luck, is in her shroud. + +"They heed not, they withdraw the sky-hung sign, + Thou hast no charm against the favorite race; +Thy gods pour out for it, not blood, but wine: + There is no justice in their dwelling-place! + +"Safe in their father's house the boys shall rest, + Though thy fell brood doth stark and silent lie; +Their unborn sons may yet despoil thy nest: + Cry, thou black prophetess! lift up! cry, cry!" + + +THE WARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS. + + When I hear the waters fretting, + When I see the chestnut letting +All her lovely blossom falter down, I think, "Alas the day!" + Once with magical sweet singing, + Blackbirds set the woodland ringing, +That awakes no more while April hours wear themselves away. + + In our hearts fair hope lay smiling, + Sweet as air, and all beguiling; +And there hung a mist of bluebells on the slope and down the dell; + And we talked of joy and splendor + That the years unborn would render, +And the blackbirds helped us with the story, for they knew it well. + + Piping, fluting, "Bees are humming, + April's here, and summer's coming; +Don't forget us when you walk, a man with men, in pride and joy; + Think on us in alleys shady, + When you step a graceful lady; +For no fairer day have we to hope for, little girl and boy. + + "Laugh and play, O lisping waters, + Lull our downy sons and daughters; +Come, O wind, and rock their leafy cradle in thy wanderings coy; + When they wake we'll end the measure + With a wild sweet cry of pleasure, +And a 'Hey down derry, let's be merry! little girl and boy!'" + + +SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME. + +I walked beside a dark gray sea. + And said, "O world, how cold thou art! +Thou poor white world, I pity thee, + For joy and warmth from thee depart. + +"Yon rising wave licks off the snow, + Winds on the crag each other chase, +In little powdery whirls they blow + The misty fragments down its face. + +"The sea is cold, and dark its rim, + Winter sits cowering on the wold, +And I beside this watery brim, + Am also lonely, also cold." + +I spoke, and drew toward a rock, + Where many mews made twittering sweet; +Their wings upreared, the clustering flock + Did pat the sea-grass with their feet. + +A rock but half submerged, the sea + Ran up and washed it while they fed; +Their fond and foolish ecstasy + A wondering in my fancy bred. + +Joy companied with every cry, + Joy in their food, in that keen wind, +That heaving sea, that shaded sky, + And in themselves, and in their kind. + +The phantoms of the deep at play! + What idless graced the twittering things; +Luxurious paddlings in the spray, + And delicate lifting up of wings. + +Then all at once a flight, and fast + The lovely crowd flew out to sea; +If mine own life had been recast, + Earth had not looked more changed to me. + +"Where is the cold? Yon clouded skies + Have only dropt their curtains low +To shade the old mother where she lies + Sleeping a little, 'neath the snow. + +"The cold is not in crag, nor scar, + Not in the snows that lap the lea, +Not in yon wings that beat afar, + Delighting, on the crested sea; + +"No, nor in yon exultant wind + That shakes the oak and bends the pine. +Look near, look in, and thou shalt find + No sense of cold, fond fool, but thine!" + +With that I felt the gloom depart, + And thoughts within me did unfold, +Whose sunshine warmed me to the heart,-- + I walked in joy, and was not cold. + + + + +LAURANCE. + + +I. + +He knew she did not love him; but so long +As rivals were unknown to him, he dwelt +At ease, and did not find his love a pain. + +He had much deference in his nature, need +To honor--it became him; he was frank, +Fresh, hardy, of a joyous mind, and strong,-- +Looked all things straight in the face. So when she came +Before him first, he looked at her, and looked +No more, but colored to his healthful brow, +And wished himself a better man, and thought +On certain things, and wished they were undone, +Because her girlish innocence, the grace +Of her unblemished pureness, wrought in him +A longing and aspiring, and a shame +To think how wicked was the world,--that world +Which he must walk in,--while from her (and such +As she was) it was hidden; there was made +A clean path, and the girl moved on like one +In some enchanted ring. + + In his young heart +She reigned, with all the beauties that she had, +And all the virtues that he rightly took +For granted; there he set her with her crown, +And at her first enthronement he turned out +Much that was best away, for unaware +His thoughts grew noble. She was always there +And knew it not, and he grew like to her +And like to what he thought her. + Now he dwelt +With kin that loved him well,--two fine old folk, +A rich, right honest yeoman, and his dame,-- +Their only grandson he, their pride, their heir. + +To these, one daughter had been born, one child, +And as she grew to woman, "Look," they said, +"She must not leave us; let us build a wing, +With cheerful rooms and wide, to our old grange; +There may she dwell, with her good man, and all +God sends them." Then the girl in her first youth +Married a curate,--handsome, poor in purse, +Of gentle blood and manners, and he lived +Under her father's roof, as they had planned. + +Full soon, for happy years are short, they filled +The house with children; four were born to them. +Then came a sickly season; fever spread + Among the poor. The curate, never slack + In duty, praying by the sick, or worse, +Burying the dead, when all the air was clogged +With poisonous mist, was stricken; long he lay +Sick, almost to the death, and when his head +He lifted from the pillow, there was left +One only of that pretty flock: his girls, +His three, were cold beneath the sod; his boy, +Their eldest born, remained. + + The drooping wife +Bore her great sorrow in such quiet wise, +That first they marvelled at her, then they tried +To rouse her, showing her their bitter grief, +Lamenting, and not sparing; but she sighed, +"Let me alone, it will not be for long." +Then did her mother tremble, murmuring out, +"Dear child, the best of comfort will be soon. +O, when you see this other little face, +You will, please God, be comforted." + + She said, +"I shall not live to see it"; but she did,-- +little sickly face, a wan, thin face. +Then she grew eager, and her eyes were bright +When she would plead with them: "Take me away, +Let me go south; it is the bitter blast +That chills my tender babe; she cannot thrive +Under the desolate, dull, mournful cloud." +Then all they journeyed south together, mute +With past and coming sorrow, till the sun, +In gardens edging the blue tideless main, +Warmed them and calmed the aching at their hearts, +And all went better for a while; but not +For long. They sitting by the orange-trees +Once rested, and the wife was very still: +One woman with narcissus flowers heaped up +Let down her basket from her head, but paused +With pitying gesture, and drew near and stooped, +Taking a white wild face upon her breast,-- +The little babe on its poor mother's knees, +None marking it, none knowing else, had died. + +The fading mother could not stay behind, +Her heart was broken; but it awed them most +To feel they must not, dared not, pray for life, +Seeing she longed to go, and went so gladly. + +After, these three, who loved each other well, +Brought their one child away, and they were best +Together in the wide old grange. Full oft +The father with the mother talked of her, +Their daughter, but the husband nevermore; +He looked for solace in his work, and gave +His mind to teach his boy. And time went on, +Until the grandsire prayed those other two +"Now part with him; it must be; for his good: +He rules and knows it; choose for him a school, +Let him have all advantages, and all +Good training that should make a gentleman." + +With that they parted from their boy, and lived +Longing between his holidays, and time +Sped; he grew on till he had eighteen years. +His father loved him, wished to make of him +Another parson; but the farmer's wife +Murmured at that: "No, no, they learned bad ways, +They ran in debt at college; she had heard +That many rued the day they sent their boys +To college"; and between the two broke in +His grandsire: "Find a sober, honest man, +A scholar, for our lad should see the world +While he is young, that he may marry young. +He will not settle and be satisfied +Till he has run about the world awhile. +Good lack, I longed to travel in my youth, +And had no chance to do it. Send him off, +A sober man being found to trust him with, +One with the fear of God before his eyes." +And he prevailed; the careful father chose +A tutor, young,--the worthy matron thought,-- +In truth, not ten years older than her boy, +And glad as he to range, and keen for snows, +Desert, and ocean. And they made strange choice +Of where to go, left the sweet day behind, +And pushed up north in whaling ships, to feel +What cold was, see the blowing whale come up, +And Arctic creatures, while a scarlet sun +Went round and round, crowd on the clear blue berg. + +Then did the trappers have them; and they heard +Nightly the whistling calls of forest-men +That mocked the forest wonners; and they saw +Over the open, raging up like doom, +The dangerous dust-cloud, that was full of eyes,-- +The bisons. So were three years gone like one; +And the old cities drew them for a while, +Great mothers, by the Tiber and the Seine; +They have hid many sons hard by their seats, +But all the air is stirring with them still, +The waters murmur of them, skies at eve +Are stained with their rich blood, and every sound +Means men. + At last, the fourth year running out, +The youth came home. And all the cheerful house +Was decked in fresher colors, and the dame +Was full of joy. But in the father's heart +Abode a painful doubt. "It is not well; +He cannot spend his life with dog and gun. +I do not care that my one son should sleep +Merely for keeping him in breath, and wake +Only to ride to cover." + Not the less +The grandsire pondered. "Ay, the boy must WORK +Or SPEND; and I must let him spend; just stay +Awhile with us, and then from time to time +Have leave to be away with those fine folk +With whom, these many years, at school, and now, +During his sojourn in the foreign towns, +He has been made familiar." Thus a month +Went by. They liked the stirring ways of youth, +The quick elastic step, and joyous mind, +Ever expectant of it knew not what, +But something higher than has e'er been born +Of easy slumber and sweet competence. +And as for him,--the while they thought and thought +A comfortable instinct let him know +How they had waited for him, to complete +And give a meaning to their lives; and still +At home, but with a sense of newness there, +And frank and fresh as in the school-boy days, +He oft--invading of his father's haunts, +The study where he passed the silent morn-- +Would sit, devouring with a greedy joy +The piled-up books, uncut as yet; or wake +To guide with him by night the tube, and search, +Ay, think to find new stars; then risen betimes, +Would ride about the farm, and list the talk +Of his hale grandsire. + But a day came round, +When, after peering in his mother's room, +Shaded and shuttered from the light, he oped +A door, and found the rosy grandmother +Ensconced and happy in her special pride, +Her storeroom. She was corking syrups rare, +And fruits all sparkling in a crystal coat. +Here after choice of certain cates well known, +He, sitting on her bacon-chest at ease, +Sang as he watched her, till right suddenly, +As if a new thought came, "Goody," quoth he, +"What, think you, do they want to do with me? +What have they planned for me that I should do?" + +"Do, laddie!" quoth she faltering, half in tears; +"Are you not happy with us, not content? +Why would ye go away? There is no need +That ye should DO at all. O, bide at home. +Have we not plenty?" + "Even so," he said; +"I did not wish to go." + "Nay, then," quoth she, +"Be idle; let me see your blessed face. +What, is the horse your father chose for you +Not to your mind? He is? Well, well, remain; +Do as you will, so you but do it here. +You shall not want for money." + But, his arms +Folding, he sat and twisted up his mouth +With comical discomfiture. + "What, then," +She sighed, "what is it, child, that you would like?" +"Why," said he, "farming." + And she looked at him, +Fond, foolish woman that she was, to find +Some fitness in the worker for the work, +And she found none. A certain grace there was +Of movement, and a beauty in the face, +Sun-browned and healthful beauty that had come +From his grave father; and she thought, "Good lack, +A farmer! he is fitter for a duke. +He walks; why, how he walks! if I should meet +One like him, whom I knew not, I should ask, +'And who may that be?'" So the foolish thought +Found words. Quoth she, half laughing, half ashamed, +"We planned to make of you--a gentleman." +And with engaging sweet audacity +She thought it nothing less,--he, looking up, +With a smile in his blue eyes, replied to her, +"And hav'n't you done it?" Quoth she, lovingly, +"I think we have, laddie; I think we have." + +"Then," quoth he, "I may do what best I like; +It makes no matter. Goody, you were wise +To help me in it, and to let me farm; +I think of getting into mischief else!" +"No! do ye, laddie?" quoth the dame, and laughed. +"But ask my grandfather," the youth went on, +"To let me have the farm he bought last year, +The little one, to manage. I like land; +I want some." And she, womanlike, gave way +Convinced; and promised, and made good her word, +And that same night upon the matter spoke, +In presence of the father and the son. + +"Roger," quoth she, "our Laurance wants to farm; +I think he might do worse." The father sat +Mute but right glad. The grandson breaking in +Set all his wish and his ambition forth; +But cunningly the old man hid his joy, +And made conditions with a faint demur. +Then pausing, "Let your father speak," quoth he; +"I am content if he is": at his word +The parson took him, ay, and, parson like, +Put a religious meaning in the work, +Man's earliest work, and wished his son God speed. + + +II. + +Thus all were satisfied, and day by day, +For two sweet years a happy course was theirs; +Happy, but yet the fortunate, the young +Loved, and much cared-for, entered on his strife,-- +A stirring of the heart, a quickening keen +Of sight and hearing to the delicate +Beauty and music of an altered world; +Began to walk in that mysterious light +Which doth reveal and yet transform; which gives +Destiny, sorrow, youth, and death, and life, +Intenser meaning; in disquieting +Lifts up; a shining light: men call it Love. + +Fair, modest eyes had she, the girl he loved; +A silent creature, thoughtful, grave, sincere. +She never turned from him with sweet caprice, +Nor changing moved his soul to troublous hope, +Nor dropped for him her heavy lashes low, +But excellent in youthful grace came up; +And ere his words were ready, passing on, +Had left him all a-tremble; yet made sure +That by her own true will, and fixed intent, +She held him thus remote. Therefore, albeit +He knew she did not love him, yet so long +As of a rival unaware, he dwelt +All in the present, without fear, or hope, +Enthralled and whelmed in the deep sea of love, +And could not get his head above its wave +To reach the far horizon, or to mark +Whereto it drifted him. + So long, so long; +Then, on a sudden, came the ruthless fate, +Showed him a bitter truth, and brought him bale +All in the tolling out of noon. + 'Twas thus: +Snow-time was come; it had been snowing hard; +Across the churchyard path he walked; the clock +Began to strike, and, as he passed the porch, +Half turning, through a sense that came to him +As of some presence in it, he beheld +His love, and she had come for shelter there; +And all her face was fair with rosy bloom, +The blush of happiness; and one held up +Her ungloved hand in both his own, and stooped +Toward it, sitting by her. O her eyes +Were full of peace and tender light: they looked +One moment in the ungraced lover's face +While he was passing in the snow; and he +Received the story, while he raised his hat +Retiring. Then the clock left off to strike, +And that was all. It snowed, and he walked on; +And in a certain way he marked the snow, +And walked, and came upon the open heath; +And in a certain way he marked the cold, +And walked as one that had no starting-place +Might walk, but not to any certain goal. + +And he strode on toward a hollow part, +Where from the hillside gravel had been dug, +And he was conscious of a cry, and went +Dulled in his sense, as though he heard it not; +Till a small farmhouse drudge, a half-grown girl, +Rose from the shelter of a drift that lay +Against the bushes, crying, "God! O God, +O my good God, He sends us help at last." + +Then looking hard upon her, came to him +The power to feel and to perceive. Her teeth +Chattered, and all her limbs with shuddering failed, +And in her threadbare shawl was wrapped a child +That looked on him with wondering, wistful eyes. + +"I thought to freeze," the girl broke out with tears; +"Kind sir, kind sir," and she held out the child, +As praying him to take it; and he did; +And gave to her the shawl, and swathed his charge +In the foldings of his plaid; and when it thrust +Its small round face against his breast, and felt +With small red hands for warmth,--unbearable +Pains of great pity rent his straitened heart, +For the poor upland dwellers had been out +Since morning dawn, at early milking-time, +Wandering and stumbling in the drift. And now, +Lamed with a fall, half crippled by the cold, +Hardly prevailed his arm to drag her on, +That ill-clad child, who yet the younger child +Had motherly cared to shield. So toiling through +The great white storm coming, and coming yet. +And coming till the world confounded sat +With all her fair familiar features gone, +The mountains muffled in an eddying swirl, +He led or bore them, and the little one +Peered from her shelter, pleased; but oft would mourn +The elder, "They will beat me: O my can, +I left my can of milk upon the moor." +And he compared her trouble with his own, +And had no heart to speak. And yet 'twas keen; +It filled her to the putting down of pain +And hunger,--what could his do more? + He brought +The children to their home, and suddenly +Regained himself, and wondering at himself, +That he had borne, and yet been dumb so long, +The weary wailing of the girl: he paid +Money to buy her pardon; heard them say, +"Peace, we have feared for you; forget the milk, +It is no matter!" and went forth again +And waded in the snow, and quietly +Considered in his patience what to do +With all the dull remainder of his days. + +With dusk he was at home, and felt it good +To hear his kindred talking, for it broke +A mocking, endless echo in his soul, +"It is no matter!" and he could not choose +But mutter, though the weariness o'ercame +His spirit, "Peace, it is no matter; peace, +It is no matter!" For he felt that all +Was as it had been, and his father's heart +Was easy, knowing not how that same day +Hope with her tender colors and delight +(He should not care to have him know) were dead; +Yea, to all these, his nearest and most dear, +It was no matter. And he heard them talk +Of timber felled, of certain fruitful fields, +And profitable markets. + All for him +Their plans, and yet the echoes swarmed and swam +About his head, whenever there was pause; +"It is no matter!" And his greater self +Arose in him and fought. "It matters much, +It matters all to these, that not to-day +Nor ever they should know it. I will hide +The wound; ay, hide it with a sleepless care. +What! shall I make these three to drink of rue, +Because my cup is bitter?" And he thrust +Himself in thought away, and made his ears +Hearken, and caused his voice, that yet did seem +Another, to make answer, when they spoke, +As there had been no snowstorm, and no porch, +And no despair. + So this went on awhile +Until the snow had melted from the wold, +And he, one noonday, wandering up a lane, +Met on a turn the woman whom he loved. +Then, even to trembling he was moved: his speech +Faltered; but when the common kindly words +Of greeting were all said, and she passed on, +He could not bear her sweetness and his pain, +"Muriel!" he cried; and when she heard her name, +She turned. "You know I love you," he broke out: +She answered "Yes," and sighed. + "O pardon me. +Pardon me," quoth the lover; "let me rest +In certainty, and hear it from your mouth: +Is he with whom I saw you once of late +To call you wife?" "I hope so," she replied; +And over all her face the rose-bloom came, +As thinking on that other, unaware +Her eyes waxed tender. When he looked on her, +Standing to answer him, with lovely shame, +Submiss, and yet not his, a passionate, +A quickened sense of his great impotence +To drive away the doom got hold on him; +He set his teeth to force the unbearable +Misery back, his wide-awakened eyes +Flashed as with flame. + And she, all overawed +And mastered by his manhood, waited yet, +And trembled at the deep she could not sound; +A passionate nature in a storm; a heart +Wild with a mortal pain, and in the grasp +Of an immortal love. + "Farewell," he said, +Recovering words, and when she gave her hand, +"My thanks for your good candor; for I feel +That it has cost you something." Then, the blush +Yet on her face, she said: "It was your due: +But keep this matter from your friends and kin, +We would not have it known." Then cold and proud, +Because there leaped from under his straight lids, +And instantly was veiled, a keen surprise,-- +"He wills it, and I therefore think it well." +Thereon they parted; but from that time forth, +Whether they met on festal eve, in field, +Or at the church, she ever bore herself +Proudly, for she had felt a certain pain, +The disapproval hastily betrayed +And quickly hidden hurt her. "'T was a grace," +She thought, "to tell this man the thing he asked, +And he rewards me with surprise. I like +No one's surprise, and least of all bestowed +Where he bestowed it." + But the spring came on: +Looking to wed in April all her thoughts +Grew loving; she would fain the world had waxed +More happy with her happiness, and oft +Walking among the flowery woods she felt +Their loveliness reach down into her heart, +And knew with them the ecstasies of growth, +The rapture that was satisfied with light, +The pleasure of the leaf in exquisite +Expansion, through the lovely longed-for spring. + +And as for him,--(Some narrow hearts there are +That suffer blight when that they fed upon +As something to complete their being fails, +And they retire into their holds and pine, +And long restrained grow stern. But some there are, +That in a sacred want and hunger rise, +And draw the misery home and live with it, +And excellent in honor wait, and will +That somewhat good should yet be found in it, +Else wherefore were they born?),--and as for him, +He loved her, but his peace and welfare made +The sunshine of three lives. The cheerful grange +Threw open wide its hospitable doors +And drew in guests for him. The garden flowers, +Sweet budding wonders, all were set for him. +In him the eyes at home were satisfied, +And if he did but laugh the ear approved. +What then? He dwelt among them as of old, +And taught his mouth to smile. + And time went on, +Till on a morning, when the perfect spring +Rested among her leaves, he journeying home +After short sojourn in a neighboring town, +Stopped at the little station on the line +That ran between his woods; a lonely place +And quiet, and a woman and a child +Got out. He noted them, but walking on +Quickly, went back into the wood, impelled +By hope, for, passing, he had seen his love, +And she was sitting on a rustic seat +That overlooked the line, and he desired +With longing indescribable to look +Upon her face again. And he drew near. +She was right happy; she was waiting there. +He felt that she was waiting for her lord. +She cared no whit if Laurance went or stayed, +But answered when he spoke, and dropped her cheek +In her fair hand. + And he, not able yet +To force himself away, and never more +Behold her, gathered blossom, primrose flowers, +And wild anemone, for many a clump +Grew all about him, and the hazel rods +Were nodding with their catkins. But he heard +The stopping train, and felt that he must go; +His time was come. There was nought else to do +Or hope for. With the blossom he drew near +And would have had her take it from his hand; +But she, half lost in thought, held out her own, +And then remembering him and his long love, +She said, "I thank you; pray you now forget, +Forget me, Laurance," and her lovely eyes +Softened; but he was dumb, till through the trees +Suddenly broke upon their quietude +The woman and her child. And Muriel said, +"What will you?" She made answer quick and keen, +"Your name, my lady; 'tis your name I want, +Tell me your name." Not startled, not displeased, +But with a musing sweetness on her mouth, +As if considering in how short a while +It would be changed, she lifted up her face +And gave it, and the little child drew near +And pulled her gown, and prayed her for the flowers. +Then Laurance, not content to leave them so, +Nor yet to wait the coming lover, spoke,-- +"Your errand with this lady?"--"And your right +To ask it?" she broke out with sudden heat +And passion: "What is that to you! Poor child! +Madam!" And Muriel lifted up her face +And looked,--they looked into each other's eyes. + +"That man who comes," the clear-voiced woman cried, +"That man with whom you think to wed so soon, +You must not heed him. What! the world is full +Of men, and some are good, and most, God knows, +Better than he,--that I should say it!--far +Better." And down her face the large tears ran, +And Muriel's wild dilated eyes looked up, +Taking a terrible meaning from her words; +And Laurance stared about him half in doubt +If this were real, for all things were so blithe, +And soft air tossed the little flowers about; +The child was singing, and the blackbirds piped, +Glad in fair sunshine. And the women both +Were quiet, gazing in each other's eyes. + +He found his voice, and spoke: "This is not well, +Though whom you speak of should have done you wrong; +A man that could desert and plan to wed +Will not his purpose yield to God and right, +Only to law. You, whom I pity so much, +If you be come this day to urge a claim, +You will not tell me that your claim will hold; +'Tis only, if I read aright, the old, +Sorrowful, hateful story!" + Muriel sighed, +With a dull patience that he marvelled at, +"Be plain with me. I know not what to think, +Unless you are his wife. Are you his wife? +Be plain with me." And all too quietly, +With running down of tears, the answer came, +"Ay, madam, ay! the worse for him and me." +Then Muriel heard her lover's foot anear, +And cried upon him with a bitter cry, +Sharp and despairing. And those two stood back, +With such affright, and violent anger stirred +He broke from out the thicket to her side, +Not knowing. But, her hands before her face, +She sat; and, stepping close, that woman came +And faced him. Then said Muriel, "O my heart, +Herbert!"--and he was dumb, and ground his teeth, +And lifted up his hand and looked at it, +And at the woman; but a man was there +Who whirled her from her place, and thrust himself +Between them; he was strong,--a stalwart man: +And Herbert thinking on it, knew his name. +"What good," quoth he, "though you and I should strive +And wrestle all this April day? A word, +And not a blow, is what these women want: +Master yourself, and say it." But he, weak +With passion and great anguish, flung himself +Upon the seat and cried, "O lost, my love! +O Muriel, Muriel!" And the woman spoke, +"Sir, 'twas an evil day you wed with me; +And you were young; I know it, sir, right well. +Sir, I have worked; I have not troubled you, +Not for myself, nor for your child. I know +We are not equal." "Hold!" he cried; "have done; +Your still, tame words are worse than hate or scorn. +Get from me! Ay, my wife, my wife, indeed! +All's done. You hear it, Muriel; if you can, +O sweet, forgive me." + Then the woman moved +Slowly away: her little singing child +Went in her wake: and Muriel dropped her hands, +And sat before these two that loved her so, +Mute and unheeding. There were angry words, +She knew, but yet she could not hear the words; +And afterwards the man she loved stooped down +And kissed her forehead once, and then withdrew +To look at her, and with a gesture pray +Her pardon. And she tried to speak, but failed, +And presently, and soon, O,--he was gone. + +She heard him go, and Laurance, still as stone, +Remained beside her; and she put her hand +Before her face again, and afterward +She heard a voice, as if a long way off, +Some one entreated, but she could not heed. +Thereon he drew her hand away, and raised +Her passive from her seat. So then she knew +That he would have her go with him, go home,-- +It was not far to go,--a dreary home. +A crippled aunt, of birth and lineage high, +Had in her youth, and for a place and home, +Married the stern old rector; and the girl +Dwelt with them: she was orphaned,--had no kin +Nearer than they. And Laurance brought her in, +And spared to her the telling of this woe. +He sought her kindred where they sat apart, +And laid before them all the cruel thing, +As he had seen it. After, he retired: +And restless, and not master of himself, +He day and night haunted the rectory lanes; +And all things, even to the spreading out +Of leaves, their flickering shadows on the ground, +Or sailing of the slow, white cloud, or peace +And glory and great light on mountain heads,-- +All things were leagued against him,--ministered +By likeness or by contrast to his love. + +But what was that to Muriel, though her peace +He would have purchased for her with all prayers, +And costly, passionate, despairing tears? +O what to her that he should find it worse +To bear her life's undoing than his own? + +She let him see her, and she made no moan, +But talked full calmly of indifferent things, +Which when he heard, and marked the faded eyes +And lovely wasted cheek, he started up +With "This I cannot bear!" and shamed to feel +His manhood giving way, and utterly +Subdued by her sweet patience and his pain, +Made haste and from the window sprang, and paced, +Battling and chiding with himself, the maze. + +She suffered, and he could not make her well +For all his loving;--he was naught to her. +And now his passionate nature, set astir, +Fought with the pain that could not be endured; +And like a wild thing suddenly aware +That it is caged, which flings and bruises all +Its body at the bars, he rose, and raged +Against the misery: then he made all worse +With tears. But when he came to her again, +Willing to talk as they had talked before, +She sighed, and said, with that strange quietness, +"I know you have been crying": and she bent +Her own fair head and wept. + She felt the cold-- +The freezing cold that deadened all her life-- +Give way a little; for this passionate +Sorrow, and all for her, relieved her heart, +And brought some natural warmth, some natural tears. + + +III. + +And after that, though oft he sought her door, +He might not see her. First they said to him, +"She is not well"; and afterwards, "Her wish +Is ever to be quiet." Then in haste +They took her from the place, because so fast +She faded. As for him, though youth and strength +Can bear the weight as of a world, at last +The burden of it tells,--he heard it said, +When autumn came, "The poor sweet thing will die: +That shock was mortal." And he cared no more +To hide, if yet he could have hidden, the blight +That was laying waste his heart. He journeyed south +To Devon, where she dwelt with other kin, +Good, kindly women; and he wrote to them, +Praying that he might see her ere she died. + +So in her patience she permitted him +To be about her, for it eased his heart; +And as for her that was to die so soon, +What did it signify? She let him weep +Some passionate tears beside her couch, she spoke +Pitying words, and then they made him go, +It was enough they said, her time was short, +And he had seen her. He HAD seen, and felt +The bitterness of death; but he went home, +Being satisfied in that great longing now, +And able to endure what might befall. + + And Muriel lay, and faded with the year; +She lay at the door of death, that opened not +To take her in; for when the days once more +Began a little to increase, she felt,-- +And it was sweet to her, she was so young,-- +She felt a longing for the time of flowers, +And dreamed that she was walking in that wood +With her two feet among the primroses. + +Then when the violet opened, she rose up +And walked: the tender leaf and tender light +Did solace her; but she was white and wan, +The shadow of that Muriel, in the wood +Who listened to those deadly words. + And now +Empurpled seas began to blush and bloom, +Doves made sweet moaning, and the guelder rose +In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped, +Her wealth about her feet, and there it lay, +And drifted not at all. The lilac spread +Odorous essence round her; and full oft, +When Muriel felt the warmth her pulses cheer, +She, faded, sat among the Maytide bloom, +And with a reverent quiet in her soul, +Took back--it was His will--her time, and sat +Learning again to live. + Thus as she sat +Upon a day, she was aware of one +Who at a distance marked her. This again +Another day, and she was vexed, for yet +She longed for quiet; but she heard a foot +Pass once again, and beckoned through the trees. +"Laurance!" And all impatient of unrest +And strife, ay, even of the sight of them, +When he drew near, with tired, tired lips, +As if her soul upbraided him, she said, +"Why have you done this thing?" He answered her, +"I am not always master in the fight: +I could not help it." + "What!" she sighed, "not yet! +O, I am sorry"; and she talked to him +As one who looked to live, imploring him,-- +"Try to forget me. Let your fancy dwell +Elsewhere, nor me enrich with it so long; +It wearies me to think of this your love. +Forget me!" + + He made answer, "I will try: +The task will take me all my life to learn, +Or were it learned, I know not how to live; +This pain is part of life and being now,-- +It is myself; but yet--but I will try." +Then she spoke friendly to him,--of his home, +His father, and the old, brave, loving folk; +She bade him think of them. And not her words, +But having seen her, satisfied his heart. +He left her, and went home to live his life, +And all the summer heard it said of her, +"Yet, she grows stronger"; but when autumn came +Again she drooped. + + A bitter thing it is +To lose at once the lover and the love; +For who receiveth not may yet keep life +In the spirit with bestowal. But for her, +This Muriel, all was gone. The man she loved, +Not only from her present had withdrawn, +But from her past, and there was no such man, +There never had been. + + He was not as one +Who takes love in, like some sweet bird, and holds +The winged fluttering stranger to his breast, +Till, after transient stay, all unaware +It leaves him: it has flown. No; this may live +In memory,--loved till death. He was not vile; +For who by choice would part with that pure bird, +And lose the exaltation of its song? +He had not strength of will to keep it fast, +Nor warmth of heart to keep it warm, nor life +Of thought to make the echo sound for him +After the song was done. Pity that man: +His music is all flown, and he forgets +The sweetness of it, till at last he thinks +'Twas no great matter. But he was not vile, +Only a thing to pity most in man, +Weak,--only poor, and, if he knew it, undone. +But Herbert! When she mused on it, her soul +Would fain have hidden him forevermore, +Even from herself: so pure of speech, so frank, +So full of household kindness. Ah, so good +And true! A little, she had sometimes thought, +Despondent for himself, but strong of faith +In God, and faith in her, this man had seemed. + +Ay, he was gone! and she whom he had wed, +As Muriel learned, was sick, was poor, was sad. +And Muriel wrote to comfort her, and send, +From her small store, money to help her need, +With, "Pray you keep it secret." Then the whole +Of the cruel tale was told. + What more? She died. +Her kin, profuse of thanks, not bitterly, +Wrote of the end. "Our sister fain had seen +Her husband; prayed him sore to come. But no. +And then she prayed him that he would forgive, +Madam, her breaking of the truth to you. +Dear madam, he was angry, yet we think +He might have let her see, before she died, +The words she wanted, but he did not write +Till she was gone--'I neither can forgive, +Nor would I if I could.'" + "Patience, my heart! +And this, then, is the man I loved!" + But yet +He sought a lower level, for he wrote +Telling the story with a different hue, +Telling of freedom. He desired to come, +"For now," said he, "O love, may all be well." +And she rose up against it in her soul, +For she despised him. And with passionate tears +Of shame, she wrote, and only wrote these words,-- +"Herbert, I will not see you." + Then she drooped +Again; it is so bitter to despise; +And all her strength, when autumn leaves down dropped, +Fell from her. "Ah!" she thought, "I rose up once, +I cannot rise up now; here is the end." +And all her kinsfolk thought, "It is the end." + +But when that other heard, "It is the end," +His heart was sick, and he, as by a power +Far stronger than himself, was driven to her. +Reason rebelled against it, but his will +Required it of him with a craving strong +As life, and passionate though hopeless pain. + +She, when she saw his face, considered him +Full quietly, let all excuses pass +Not answered, and considered yet again. + +"He had heard that she was sick; what could he do +But come, and ask her pardon that he came?" +What could he do, indeed?--a weak white girl +Held all his heartstrings in her small white hand; +His youth, and power, and majesty were hers, +And not his own. + + She looked, and pitied him. +Then spoke: "He loves me with a love that lasts. +Ah, me! that I might get away from it, +Or, better, hear it said that love IS NOT, +And then I could have rest. My time is short, +I think, so short." And roused against himself +In stormy wrath, that it should be his doom +Her to disquiet whom he loved; ay, her +For whom he would have given all his rest, +If there were any left to give; he took +Her words up bravely, promising once more +Absence, and praying pardon; but some tears +Dropped quietly upon her cheek. + + "Remain," +She said, "for there is something to be told, +Some words that you must hear. + + "And first hear this: +God has been good to me; you must not think +That I despair. There is a quiet time +Like evening in my soul. I have no heart, +For cruel Herbert killed it long ago, +And death strides on. Sit, then, and give your mind +To listen, and your eyes to look at me. +Look at my face, Laurance, how white it is; +Look at my hand,--my beauty is all gone." +And Laurance lifted up his eyes; he looked, +But answered, from their deeps that held no doubt, +Far otherwise than she had willed,--they said, +"Lovelier than ever." + + Yet her words went on, +Cold and so quiet, "I have suffered much, +And I would fain that none who care for me +Should suffer a like pang that I can spare. +Therefore," said she, and not at all could blush, +"I have brought my mind of late to think of this: +That since your life is spoilt (not willingly, +My God, not willingly by me), 'twere well +To give you choice of griefs. + + "Were it not best +To weep for a dead love, and afterwards +Be comforted the sooner, that she died +Remote, and left not in your house and life +Aught to remind you? That indeed were best. +But were it best to weep for a dead wife, +And let the sorrow spend and satisfy +Itself with all expression, and so end? +I think not so; but if for you 'tis best, +Then,--do not answer with too sudden words: +It matters much to you; not much, not much +To me,--then truly I will die your wife; +I will marry you." + + What was he like to say, +But, overcome with love and tears, to choose +The keener sorrow,--take it to his heart, +Cherish it, make it part of him, and watch +Those eyes that were his light till they should close? + +He answered her with eager, faltering words, +"I choose,--my heart is yours,--die in my arms." + +But was it well? Truly, at first, for him +It was not well: he saw her fade, and cried, +"When may this be?" She answered, "When you will," +And cared not much, for very faint she grew, +Tired and cold. Oft in her soul she thought, +"If I could slip away before the ring +Is on my hand, it were a blessed lot +For both,--a blessed thing for him, and me." + +But it was not so; for the day had come,-- +Was over: days and months had come, and Death,-- +Within whose shadow she had lain, which made +Earth and its loves, and even its bitterness, +Indifferent,--Death withdrew himself, and life +Woke up, and found that it was folded fast, +Drawn to another life forevermore. +O, what a waking! After it there came +Great silence. She got up once more, in spring, +And walked, but not alone, among the flowers. +She thought within herself, "What have I done? +How shall I do the rest?" And he, who felt +Her inmost thought, was silent even as she. +"What have we done?" she thought. But as for him, +When she began to look him in the face, +Considering, "Thus and thus his features are," +For she had never thought on them before, +She read their grave repose aright. She knew +That in the stronghold of his heart, held back, +Hidden reserves of measureless content +Kept house with happy thought, for her sake mute. + +Most patient Muriel! when he brought her home, +She took the place they gave her,--strove to please +His kin, and did not fail; but yet thought on, +"What have I done? how shall I do the rest? +Ah! so contented, Laurance, with this wife +That loves you not, for all the stateliness +And grandeur of your manhood, and the deeps +In your blue eyes." And after that awhile +She rested from such thinking, put it by +And waited. She had thought on death before: +But no, this Muriel was not yet to die; +And when she saw her little tender babe, +She felt how much the happy days of life +Outweigh the sorrowful. A tiny thing, +Whom when it slept the lovely mother nursed +With reverent love, whom when it woke she fed +And wondered at, and lost herself in long +Rapture of watching, and contentment deep. + +Once while she sat, this babe upon her knee, +Her husband and his father standing nigh, +About to ride, the grandmother, all pride +And consequence, so deep in learned talk +Of infants, and their little ways and wiles, +Broke off to say, "I never saw a babe +So like its father." And the thought was new +To Muriel; she looked up, and when she looked, +Her husband smiled. And she, the lovely bloom +Flushing her face, would fain he had not known, +Nor noticed her surprise. But he did know; +Yet there was pleasure in his smile, and love +Tender and strong. He kissed her, kissed his babe, +With "Goody, you are left in charge, take care "-- +"As if I needed telling," quoth the dame; +And they were gone. + + Then Muriel, lost in thought, +Gazed; and the grandmother, with open pride, +Tended the lovely pair; till Muriel said, +"Is she so like? Dear granny, get me now +The picture that his father has"; and soon +The old woman put it in her hand. + + The wife, +Considering it with deep and strange delight, +Forgot for once her babe, and looked and learned. + + A mouth for mastery and manful work, +A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes, +A brow the harbor of grave thought, and hair +Saxon of hue. She conned; then blushed again, +Remembering now, when she had looked on him, +The sudden radiance of her husband's smile. + +But Muriel did not send the picture back; +She kept it; while her beauty and her babe +Flourished together, and in health and peace +She lived. + + Her husband never said to her, +"Love, are you happy?" never said to her, +"Sweet, do you love me?" and at first, whene'er +They rode together in the lanes, and paused, +Stopping their horses, when the day was hot, +In the shadow of a tree, to watch the clouds, +Ruffled in drifting on the jagged rocks +That topped the mountains,--when she sat by him, +Withdrawn at even while the summer stars +Came starting out of nothing, as new made, +She felt a little trouble, and a wish +That he would yet keep silence, and he did. +That one reserve he would not touch, but still +Respected. + + Muriel grew more brave in time, +And talked at ease, and felt disquietude +Fade. And another child was given to her. + +"Now we shall do," the old great-grandsire cried, +"For this is the right sort, a boy." "Fie, fie," +Quoth the good dame; "but never heed you, love, +He thinks them both as right as right can be." + +But Laurance went from home, ere yet the boy +Was three weeks old. It fretted him to go, +But still he said, "I must": and she was left +Much with the kindly dame, whose gentle care +Was like a mother's; and the two could talk +Sweetly, for all the difference in their years. + +But unaware, the wife betrayed a wish +That she had known why Laurance left her thus. +"Ay, love," the dame made answer; "for he said, +'Goody,' before he left, 'if Muriel ask +No question, tell her naught; but if she let +Any disquietude appear to you, +Say what you know.'" "What?" Muriel said, and laughed, +"I ask, then." + + "Child, it is that your old love, +Some two months past, was here. Nay, never start: +He's gone. He came, our Laurance met him near; +He said that he was going over seas, +'And might I see your wife this only once, +And get her pardon?'" + + "Mercy!" Muriel cried, +"But Laurance does not wish it?" + + "Nay, now, nay," +Quoth the good dame. + "I cannot," Muriel cried; +"He does not, surely, think I should." + + "Not he," +The kind old woman said, right soothingly. +"Does not he ever know, love, ever do +What you like best?" + + And Muriel, trembling yet, +Agreed. "I heard him say," the dame went on, +"For I was with him when they met that day, +'It would not be agreeable to my wife.'" + +Then Muriel, pondering,--"And he said no more? +You think he did not add, 'nor to myself?'" +And with her soft, calm, inward voice, the dame +Unruffled answered, "No, sweet heart, not he: +What need he care?" "And why not?" Muriel cried, +Longing to hear the answer. "O, he knows, +He knows, love, very well": with that she smiled. +"Bless your fair face, you have not really thought +He did not know you loved him?" + + Muriel said, +"He never told me, goody, that he knew." +"Well," quoth the dame, "but it may chance, my dear, +That he thinks best to let old troubles sleep: +Why need to rouse them? You are happy, sure? +But if one asks, 'Art happy?' why, it sets +The thoughts a-working. No, say I, let love, +Let peace and happy folk alone. + + "He said, +'It would not be agreeable to my wife.' +And he went on to add, in course of time +That he would ask you, when it suited you, +To write a few kind words." + + "Yes," Muriel said, +"I can do that." + + "So Laurance went, you see," +The soft voice added, "to take down that child. +Laurance had written oft about the child, +And now, at last, the father made it known +He could not take him. He has lost, they say, +His money, with much gambling; now he wants +To lead a good, true, working life. He wrote, +And let this so be seen, that Laurance went +And took the child, and took the money down +To pay." + + And Muriel found her talking sweet, +And asked once more, the rather that she longed +To speak again of Laurance, "And you think +He knows I love him?" + + "Ay, good sooth, he knows +No fear; but he is like his father, love. +His father never asked my pretty child +One prying question; took her as she was; +Trusted her; she has told me so: he knew +A woman's nature. Laurance is the same. +He knows you love him; but he will not speak; +No, never. Some men are such gentlemen!" + + + + +SONGS + +OF + +THE NIGHT WATCHES. + +[Illustration] + + + + +SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES, + +WITH AN INTRODUCTORY SONG OF EVENING, AND A +CONCLUDING SONG OF THE EARLY DAY. + + +INTRODUCTORY. + +(_Old English Manner._) + +APPRENTICED. + +Come out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet hoot, the owlet hoot; + Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim behind the tree, O! +The dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest lass, and sweetest + lass; + Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the croft with me, O!" + +"My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her reel, and drops her reel; + My father with his crony talks as gay as gay can be, O! +But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, ere light wax dim; + How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice lad, with +thee, O?" + +"And must ye bide, yet waiting's long, and love is strong, and love is + strong; + And O! had I but served the time, that takes so long to flee, O! +And thou, my lass, by morning's light wast all in white, wast all in + white, + And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me and thee, O." + + +THE FIRST WATCH. + +TIRED. + +I. + +O, I would tell you more, but I am tired; + For I have longed, and I have had my will; +I pleaded in my spirit, I desired: + "Ah! let me only see him, and be still +All my days after." + Rock, and rock, and rock, +Over the falling, rising watery world, + Sail, beautiful ship, along the leaping main; +The chirping land-birds follow flock on flock + To light on a warmer plain. +White as weaned lambs the little wavelets curled, + Fall over in harmless play, + As these do far away; +Sail, bird of doom, along the shimmering sea, +All under thy broad wings that overshadow thee. + +II. + + I am so tired, +If I would comfort me, I know not how, + For I have seen thee, lad, as I desired, +And I have nothing left to long for now. + + Nothing at all. And did I wait for thee, + Often and often, while the light grew dim, + And through the lilac branches I could see, + Under a saffron sky, the purple rim +O' the heaving moorland? Ay. And then would float +Up from behind as it were a golden boat, +Freighted with fancies, all o' the wonder of life, + Love--such a slender moon, going up and up, +Waxing so fast from night to night, +And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright, + Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup, +And hold to my two lips life's best of wine. + Most beautiful crescent moon, + Ship of the sky! + Across the unfurrowed reaches sailing high. + Methought that it would come my way full soon, +Laden with blessings that were all, all mine,-- + A golden ship, with balm and spiceries rife, + That ere its day was done should hear thee call me wife. + +III. + +All over! the celestial sign hath failed; +The orange flower-bud shuts; the ship hath sailed, + And sunk behind the long low-lying hills. +The love that fed on daily kisses dieth; +The love kept warm by nearness, lieth + Wounded and wan; + The love hope nourished bitter tears distils, + And faints with naught to feed upon. +Only there stirreth very deep below +The hidden beating slow, +And the blind yearning, and the long-drawn breath +Of the love that conquers death. + +IV. + +Had we not loved full long, and lost all fear, +My ever, my only dear? +Yes; and I saw thee start upon thy way, + So sure that we should meet + Upon our trysting-day. + And even absence then to me was sweet, + Because it brought me time to brood + Upon thy dearness in the solitude. + But ah! to stay, and stay, + And let that moon of April wane itself away, + And let the lovely May + Make ready all her buds for June; + And let the glossy finch forego her tune + That she brought with her in the spring, + And never more, I think, to me can sing; + And then to lead thee home another bride, + In the sultry summer tide, + And all forget me save for shame full sore, +That made thee pray me, absent, "See my face no more." + +V. + +O hard, most hard! But while my fretted heart + Shut out, shut down, and full of pain, + Sobbed to itself apart, + Ached to itself in vain, + One came who loveth me + As I love thee.... + And let my God remember him for this, + As I do hope He will forget thy kiss, + Nor visit on thy stately head +Aught that thy mouth hath sworn, or thy two eyes have said.... +He came, and it was dark. He came, and sighed +Because he knew the sorrow,--whispering low, +And fast, and thick, as one that speaks by rote: + "The vessel lieth in the river reach, + A mile above the beach, + And she will sail at the turning o' the tide." + He said, "I have a boat, + And were it good to go, + And unbeholden in the vessel's wake + Look on the man thou lovedst, and forgive, + As he embarks, a shamefaced fugitive. + Come, then, with me." + +VI. + + O, how he sighed! The little stars did wink, + And it was very dark. I gave my hand,-- + He led me out across the pasture land, + And through the narrow croft, + Down to the river's brink. +When thou wast full in spring, thou little sleepy thing, + The yellow flags that broidered thee would stand + Up to their chins in water, and full oft + WE pulled them and the other shining flowers, + That all are gone to-day: + WE two, that had so many things to say, + So many hopes to render clear: + And they are all gone after thee, my dear,-- + Gone after those sweet hours, + That tender light, that balmy rain; + Gone "as a wind that passeth away, + And cometh not again." + +VII. + + I only saw the stars,--I could not see + The river,--and they seemed to lie + As far below as the other stars were high. + I trembled like a thing about to die: + It was so awful 'neath the majesty + Of that great crystal height, that overhung + The blackness at our feet, + Unseen to fleet and fleet + The flocking stars among, + And only hear the dipping of the oar, +And the small wave's caressing of the darksome shore. + +VIII. + + Less real it was than any dream. +Ah me! to hear the bending willows shiver, +As we shot quickly from the silent river, + And felt the swaying and the flow +That bore us down the deeper, wider stream, + Whereto its nameless waters go: +O! I shall always, when I shut mine eyes, + See that weird sight again; + The lights from anchored vessels hung; + The phantom moon, that sprung +Suddenly up in dim and angry wise, + From the rim o' the moaning main, + And touched with elfin light + The two long oars whereby we made our flight, + Along the reaches of the night; + Then furrowed up a lowering cloud, + Went in, and left us darker than before, +To feel our way as the midnight watches wore, +And lie in HER lee, with mournful faces bowed, +That should receive and bear with her away +The brightest portion of my sunniest day,-- +The laughter of the land, the sweetness of the shore. + +IX. + +And I beheld thee: saw the lantern flash +Down on thy face, when thou didst climb the side. +And thou wert pale, pale as the patient bride + That followed; both a little sad, +Leaving of home and kin. Thy courage glad, + That once did bear thee on, +That brow of thine had lost; the fervor rash +Of unforeboding youth thou hadst foregone. +O, what a little moment, what a crumb +Of comfort for a heart to feed upon! + And that was all its sum; + A glimpse, and not a meeting,-- + A drawing near by night, +To sigh to thee an unacknowledged greeting, +And all between the flashing of a light + And its retreating. + +X. + +Then after, ere she spread her wafting wings, +The ship,--and weighed her anchor to depart, +We stole from her dark lee, like guilty things; + And there was silence in my heart, +And silence in the upper and the nether deep. + O sleep! O sleep! +Do not forget me. Sometimes come and sweep, +Now I have nothing left, thy healing hand +Over the lids that crave thy visits bland, + Thou kind, thou comforting one: + For I have seen his face, as I desired, + And all my story is done. + O, I am tired! + + +THE MIDDLE WATCH. + +I. + +I woke in the night, and the darkness was heavy and deep: + I had known it was dark in my sleep, + And I rose and looked out, +And the fathomless vault was all sparkling, set thick round about +With the ancient inhabiters silent, and wheeling too far +For man's heart, like a voyaging frigate, to sail, where remote + In the sheen of their glory they float, +Or man's soul, like a bird, to fly near, of their beams to partake, + And dazed in their wake, + Drink day that is born of a star. +I murmured, "Remoteness and greatness, how deep you are set, + How afar in the rim of the whole; +You know nothing of me, nor of man, nor of earth, O, nor yet + Of our light-bearer,--drawing the marvellous moons as they roll, + Of our regent, the sun." +I look on you trembling, and think, in the dark with my soul, +"How small is our place 'mid the kingdoms and nations of God: + These are greater than we, every one." +And there falls a great fear, and a dread cometh over, that cries, + "O my hope! Is there any mistake? +Did He speak? Did I hear? Did I listen aright, if He spake? +Did I answer Him duly? For surely I now am awake, + If never I woke until now." +And a light, baffling wind, that leads nowhither, plays on my brow. +As a sleep, I must think on my day, of my path as untrod, +Or trodden in dreams, in a dreamland whose coasts are a doubt; +Whose countries recede from my thoughts, as they grope round about, + And vanish, and tell me not how. +Be kind to our darkness, O Fashioner, dwelling in light, + And feeding the lamps of the sky; +Look down upon this one, and let it be sweet in Thy sight, + I pray Thee, to-night. +O watch whom Thou madest to dwell on its soil, Thou Most High! +For this is a world full of sorrow (there may be but one); +Keep watch o'er its dust, else Thy children for aye are undone, + For this is a world where we die. + +II. + +With that, a still voice in my spirit that moved and that yearned, + (There fell a great calm while it spake,) +I had heard it erewhile, but the noises of life are so loud, +That sometimes it dies in the cry of the street and the crowd: +To the simple it cometh,--the child, or asleep, or awake, +And they know not from whence; of its nature the wise never learned +By his wisdom; its secret the worker ne'er earned +By his toil; and the rich among men never bought with his gold; + Nor the times of its visiting monarchs controlled, + Nor the jester put down with his jeers + (For it moves where it will), nor its season the aged discerned + By thought, in the ripeness of years. + +O elder than reason, and stronger than will! + A voice, when the dark world is still: +Whence cometh it? Father Immortal, thou knowest! and we,-- +We are sure of that witness, that sense which is sent us of Thee; +For it moves, and it yearns in its fellowship mighty and dread, +And let down to our hearts it is touched by the tears that we shed; +It is more than all meanings, and over all strife; + On its tongue are the laws of our life, + And it counts up the times of the dead. + +III. + + I will fear you, O stars, never more. +I have felt it! Go on, while the world is asleep, + Golden islands, fast moored in God's infinite deep. +Hark, hark to the words of sweet fashion, the harpings of yore! +How they sang to Him, seer and saint, in the far away lands: + "The heavens are the work of Thy hands; + They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure; + Yea, they all shall wax old,-- +But Thy throne is established, O God, and Thy years are made sure; + They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure,-- + They shall pass like a tale that is told." + + Doth He answer, the Ancient of Days? + Will He speak in the tongue and the fashion of men? +(Hist! hist! while the heaven-hung multitudes shine in His praise, +His language of old.) Nay, He spoke with them first; it was then + They lifted their eyes to His throne; +"They shall call on Me, 'Thou art our Father, our God, Thou alone!' +For I made them, I led them in deserts and desolate ways; + I have found them a Ransom Divine; +I have loved them with love everlasting, the children of men; + I swear by Myself, they are Mine." + + +THE MORNING WATCH. + +THE COMING IN OF THE "MERMAIDEN." + +The moon is bleached as white as wool, + And just dropping under; +Every star is gone but three, + And they hang far asunder,-- +There's a sea-ghost all in gray, + A tall shape of wonder! + +I am not satisfied with sleep,-- + The night is not ended. +But look how the sea-ghost comes, + With wan skirts extended, +Stealing up in this weird hour, + When light and dark are blended. + +A vessel! To the old pier end + Her happy course she's keeping; +I heard them name her yesterday: + Some were pale with weeping; +Some with their heart-hunger sighed, + She's in,--and they are sleeping. + +O! now with fancied greetings blest, + They comfort their long aching: +The sea of sleep hath borne to them + What would not come with waking, +And the dreams shall most be true + In their blissful breaking. + +The stars are gone, the rose-bloom comes,-- + No blush of maid is sweeter; +The red sun, half way out of bed, + Shall be the first to greet her. +None tell the news, yet sleepers wake, + And rise, and run to meet her. + +Their lost they have, they hold; from pain + A keener bliss they borrow. +How natural is joy, my heart! + How easy after sorrow! +For once, the best is come that hope + Promised them "to-morrow." + + +CONCLUDING SONG OF DAWN. + +(_Old English Manner._) + +A MORN OF MAY. + +All the clouds about the sun lay up in golden creases, +(Merry rings the maiden's voice that sings at dawn of day;) +Lambkins woke and skipped around to dry their dewy fleeces, +So sweetly as she carolled, all on a morn of May. + +Quoth the Sergeant, "Here I'll halt; here's wine of joy for drinking; +To my heart she sets her hand, and in the strings doth play; +All among the daffodils, and fairer to my thinking, +And fresh as milk and roses, she sits this morn of May." + +Quoth the Sergeant, "Work is work, but any ye might make me, +If I worked for you, dear lass, I'd count my holiday. +I'm your slave for good and all, an' if ye will but take me, +So sweetly as ye carol upon this morn of May." + +"Medals count for worth," quoth she, "and scars are worn for honor; +But a slave an' if ye be, kind wooer, go your way." +All the nodding daffodils woke up and laughed upon her. +O! sweetly did she carol, all on that morn of May. + +Gladsome leaves upon the bough, they fluttered fast and faster, +Fretting brook, till he would speak, did chide the dull delay: +"Beauty! when I said a slave, I think I meant a master; +So sweetly as ye carol all on this morn of May. + +"Lass, I love you! Love is strong, and some men's hearts are tender." +Far she sought o'er wood and wold, but found not aught to say; +Mounting lark nor mantling cloud would any counsel render, +Though sweetly she had carolled upon that morn of May. + +Shy, she sought the wooer's face, and deemed the wooing mended; +Proper man he was, good sooth, and one would have his way: +So the lass was made a wife, and so the song was ended. +O! sweetly she did carol all on that morn of May. + + + + +CONTRASTED SONGS. + +[Illustration] + + + + +CONTRASTED SONGS. + + +SAILING BEYOND SEAS. + +(_Old Style._) + +Methought the stars were blinking bright, + And the old brig's sails unfurled; +I said, "I will sail to my love this night + At the other side of the world." +I stepped aboard,--we sailed so fast,-- + The sun shot up from the bourne; +But a dove that perched upon the mast + Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. + O fair dove! O fond dove! + And dove with the white breast, + Let me alone, the dream is my own, + And my heart is full of rest. + +My true love fares on this great hill, + Feeding his sheep for aye; +I looked in his hut, but all was still, + My love was gone away. +I went to gaze in the forest creek, + And the dove mourned on apace; +No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek + Rose up to show me his place. + O last love! O first love! + My love with the true heart, + To think I have come to this your home, + And yet--we are apart! + +My love! He stood at my right hand, + His eyes were grave and sweet. +Methought he said, "In this far land, + O, is it thus we meet! +Ah, maid most dear, I am not here; + I have no place,--no part,-- +No dwelling more by sea or shore, + But only in thy heart." + O fair dove! O fond dove! + Till night rose over the bourne, + The dove on the mast, as we sailed fast, + Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. + + +REMONSTRANCE. + +Daughters of Eve! your mother did not well: + She laid the apple in your father's hand, +And we have read, O wonder! what befell,-- + The man was not deceived, nor yet could stand: +He chose to lose, for love of her, his throne,-- + With her could die, but could not live alone. + +Daughters of Eve! he did not fall so low, + Nor fall so far, as that sweet woman fell; +For something better, than as gods to know, + That husband in that home left off to dwell: +For this, till love be reckoned less than lore, +Shall man be first and best for evermore. + +Daughters of Eve! it was for your dear sake + The world's first hero died an uncrowned king; +But God's great pity touched the grand mistake, + And made his married love a sacred thing: +For yet his nobler sons, if aught be true, +Find the lost Eden in their love to you. + + +SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF CHRIST'S RESURRECTION. + +(_A Humble Imitation._) + +"And birds of calm sit brooding on the charméd wave." + + It is the noon of night, + And the world's Great Light + Gone out, she widow-like doth carry her: + The moon hath veiled her face, + Nor looks on that dread place + Where He lieth dead in sealéd sepulchre; + And heaven and hades, emptied, lend +Their flocking multitudes to watch and wait the end. + + Tier above tier they rise, + Their wings new line the skies, + And shed out comforting light among the stars; + But they of the other place + The heavenly signs deface, + The gloomy brand of hell their brightness mars; + Yet high they sit in thronéd state,-- +It is the hour of darkness to them dedicate. + + And first and highest set, + Where the black shades are met, + The lord of night and hades leans him down; + His gleaming eyeballs show + More awful than the glow, + Which hangeth by the points of his dread crown; + And at his feet, where lightnings play, +The fatal sisters sit and weep, and curse their day. + + Lo! one, with eyes all wide, + As she were sight denied, + Sits blindly feeling at her distaff old; + One, as distraught with woe, + Letting the spindle go, + Her star y-sprinkled gown doth shivering fold; + And one right mournful hangs her head, +Complaining, "Woe is me! I may not cut the thread. + + "All men of every birth, + Yea, great ones of the earth, + Kings and their councillors, have I drawn down; + But I am held of Thee,-- + Why dost Thou trouble me, + To bring me up, dead King, that keep'st Thy crown? + Yet for all courtiers hast but ten +Lowly, unlettered, Galilean fishermen. + + "Olympian heights are bare + Of whom men worshipped there, + Immortal feet their snows may print no more; + Their stately powers below + Lie desolate, nor know + This thirty years Thessalian grove or shore; + But I am elder far than they;-- +Where is the sentence writ that I must pass away? + + "Art thou come up for this, + Dark regent, awful Dis? + And hast thou moved the deep to mark our ending? + And stirred the dens beneath, + To see us eat of death, + With all the scoffing heavens toward us bending? + Help! powers of ill, see not us die!" +But neither demon dares, nor angel deigns, reply. + + Her sisters, fallen on sleep, + Fade in the upper deep, + And their grim lord sits on, in doleful trance; + Till her black veil she rends, + And with her death-shriek bends + Downward the terrors of her countenance; + Then, whelmed in night and no more seen, +They leave the world a doubt if ever such have been. + + And the winged armies twain + Their awful watch maintain; + They mark the earth at rest with her Great Dead. + Behold, from antres wide, + Green Atlas heave his side; + His moving woods their scarlet clusters shed, + The swathing coif his front that cools, +And tawny lions lapping at his palm-edged pools. + + Then like a heap of snow, + Lying where grasses grow, + See glimmering, while the moony lustres creep, + Mild mannered Athens, dight + In dewy marbles white, + Among her goddesses and gods asleep; + And swaying on a purple sea, +The many moored galleys clustering at her quay. + + Also, 'neath palm-trees' shade, + Amid their camels laid, + The pastoral tribes with all their flocks at rest; + Like to those old-world folk, + With whom two angels broke + The bread of men at Abram's courteous 'quest, + When, listening as they prophesied, +His desert princess, being reproved, her laugh denied. + + Or from the Morians' land + See worshipped Nilus bland, + Taking the silver road he gave the world, + To wet his ancient shrine + With waters held divine, + And touch his temple steps with wavelets curled, + And list, ere darkness change to gray, +Old minstrel-throated Memnon chanting in the day. + + Moreover, Indian glades, + Where kneel the sun-swart maids, + On Gunga's flood their votive flowers to throw, + And launch i' the sultry night + Their burning cressets bright, + Most like a fleet of stars that southing go, + Till on her bosom prosperously +She floats them shining forth to sail the lulléd sea. + + Nor bend they not their eyne + Where the watch-fires shine, + By shepherds fed, on hills of Bethlehem: + They mark, in goodly wise, + The city of David rise, + The gates and towers of rare Jerusalem; + And hear the 'scapéd Kedron fret, +And night dews dropping from the leaves of Olivet. + + But now the setting moon + To curtained lands must soon, + In her obedient fashion, minister; + She first, as loath to go, + Lets her last silver flow + Upon her Master's sealéd sepulchre; + And trees that in the gardens spread, +She kisseth all for sake of His low-lying head, + + Then 'neath the rim goes down; + And night with darker frown + Sinks on the fateful garden watched long; + When some despairing eyes, + Far in the murky skies, + The unwishéd waking by their gloom foretell; + And blackness up the welkin swings, +And drinks the mild effulgence from celestial wings. + + Last, with amazéd cry, + The hosts asunder fly, + Leaving an empty gulf of blackest hue; + Whence straightway shooteth down, + By the Great Father thrown, + A mighty angel, strong and dread to view; + And at his fall the rocks are rent, +The waiting world doth quake with mortal tremblement; + + The regions far and near + Quail with a pause of fear, + More terrible than aught since time began; + The winds, that dare not fleet, + Drop at his awful feet, + And in its bed wails the wide oceán; + The flower of dawn forbears to blow, +And the oldest running river cannot skill to flow. + + At stand, by that dread place, + He lifts his radiant face, + And looks to heaven with reverent love and fear; + Then, while the welkin quakes, + The muttering thunder breaks, + And lightnings shoot and ominous meteors drear, + And all the daunted earth doth moan, +He from the doors of death rolls back the sealéd stone.-- + + --In regal quiet deep, + Lo, One new waked from sleep! + Behold, He standeth in the rock-hewn door! + Thy children shall not die,-- + Peace, peace, thy Lord is by! + He liveth!--they shall live for evermore. + Peace! lo, He lifts a priestly hand, +And blesseth all the sons of men in every land. + + Then, with great dread and wail, + Fall down, like storms of hail, + The legions of the lost in fearful wise; + And they whose blissful race + Peoples the better place, + Lift up their wings to cover their fair eyes, + And through the waxing saffron brede, +Till they are lost in light, recede, and yet recede. + + So while the fields are dim, + And the red sun his rim + First heaves, in token of his reign benign, + All stars the most admired, + Into their blue retired, + Lie hid,--the faded moon forgets to shine,-- + And, hurrying down the sphery way, +Night flies, and sweeps her shadows from the paths of day. + + But look! the Saviour blest, + Calm after solemn rest, + Stands in the garden 'neath His olive boughs; + The earliest smile of day + Doth on His vesture play, + And light the majesty of His still brows; + While angels hang with wings outspread, +Holding the new-won crown above His saintly head. + + +SONG OF MARGARET. + +Ay, I saw her, we have met,-- + Married eyes how sweet they be,-- +Are you happier, Margaret, + Than you might have been with me? +Silence! make no more ado! + Did she think I should forget? +Matters nothing, though I knew, + Margaret, Margaret. + +Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy, + Told a certain thing to mine; +What they told me I put by, + O, so careless of the sign. +Such an easy thing to take, + And I did not want it then; +Fool! I wish my heart would break, + Scorn is hard on hearts of men. + +Scorn of self is bitter work,-- + Each of us has felt it now: +Bluest skies she counted mirk, + Self-betrayed of eyes and brow; +As for me, I went my way, + And a better man drew nigh, +Fain to earn, with long essay, + What the winner's hand threw by. + +Matters not in deserts old, + What was born, and waxed, and yearned, +Year to year its meaning told, + I am come,--its deeps are learned,-- +Come, but there is naught to say,-- + Married eyes with mine have met. +Silence! O, I had my day, + Margaret, Margaret. + + +SONG OF THE GOING AWAY. + +"Old man, upon the green hillside, + With yellow flowers besprinkled o'er, +How long in silence wilt thou bide + At this low stone door? + +"I stoop: within 'tis dark and still; + But shadowy paths methinks there be, +And lead they far into the hill?" + "Traveller, come and see." + +"'Tis dark, 'tis cold, and hung with gloom; + I care not now within to stay; +For thee and me is scarcely room, + I will hence away." + +"Not so, not so, thou youthful guest, + Thy foot shall issue forth no more: +Behold the chamber of thy rest, + And the closing door!" + +"O, have I 'scaped the whistling ball, + And striven on smoky fields of fight, +And scaled the 'leaguered city's wall + In the dangerous night; + +"And borne my life unharméd still + Through foaming gulfs of yeasty spray, +To yield it on a grassy hill + At the noon of day?" + +"Peace! Say thy prayers, and go to sleep, + Till _some time_, ONE my seal shall break, +And deep shall answer unto deep, + When He crieth, 'AWAKE!'" + + +A LILY AND A LUTE. + +(_Song of the uncommunicated Ideal._) + +I. + +I opened the eyes of my soul. + And behold, +A white river-lily: a lily awake, and aware,-- +For she set her face upward,--aware how in scarlet and gold +A long wrinkled cloud, left behind of the wandering air, + Lay over with fold upon fold, + With fold upon fold. + +And the blushing sweet shame of the cloud made her also ashamed, +The white river-lily, that suddenly knew she was fair; +And over the far-away mountains that no man hath named, + And that no foot hath trod, +Flung down out of heavenly places, there fell, as it were, +A rose-bloom, a token of love, that should make them endure, +Withdrawn in snow silence forever, who keep themselves pure, + And look up to God. +Then I said, "In rosy air, +Cradled on thy reaches fair, +While the blushing early ray +Whitens into perfect day, +River-lily, sweetest known, +Art thou set for me alone? +Nay, but I will bear thee far, +Where yon clustering steeples are, +And the bells ring out o'erhead, +And the stated prayers are said; +And the busy farmers pace, +Trading in the market-place; +And the country lasses sit, +By their butter, praising it; +And the latest news is told, +While the fruit and cream are sold; +And the friendly gossips greet, +Up and down the sunny street. +For," I said, "I have not met, +White one, any folk as yet +Who would send no blessing up, +Looking on a face like thine; +For thou art as Joseph's cup, +And by thee might they divine. + +"Nay! but thou a spirit art; +Men shall take thee in the mart +For the ghost of their best thought, +Raised at noon, and near them brought; +Or the prayer they made last night, +Set before them all in white." + +And I put out my rash hand, +For I thought to draw to land +The white lily. Was it fit +Such a blossom should expand, +Fair enough for a world's wonder, +And no mortal gather it? +No. I strove, and it went under, +And I drew, but it went down; +And the waterweeds' long tresses, +And the overlapping cresses, +Sullied its admired crown. +Then along the river strand, +Trailing, wrecked, it came to land, +Of its beauty half despoiled, +And its snowy pureness soiled: +O! I took it in my hand,-- +You will never see it now, +White and golden as it grew: +No, I cannot show it you, +Nor the cheerful town endow +With the freshness of its brow. + +If a royal painter, great +With the colors dedicate +To a dove's neck, a sea-bight, +And the flickering over white +Mountain summits far away,-- +One content to give his mind +To the enrichment of mankind, +And the laying up of light +In men's houses,--on that day, +Could have passed in kingly mood, +Would he ever have endued +Canvas with the peerless thing, +In the grace that it did bring, +And the light that o'er it flowed, +With the pureness that it showed, +And the pureness that it meant? +Could he skill to make it seen +As he saw? For this, I ween, +He were likewise impotent. + +II. + +I opened the doors of my heart. + And behold, +There was music within and a song, +And echoes did feed on the sweetness, repeating it long. +I opened the doors of my heart: and behold, +There was music that played itself out in aeolian notes; +Then was heard, as a far-away bell at long intervals tolled, + That murmurs and floats, +And presently dieth, forgotten of forest and wold, +And comes in all passion again, and a tremblement soft, + That maketh the listener full oft +To whisper, "Ah! would I might hear it for ever and aye, + When I toil in the heat of the day, + When I walk in the cold." + + I opened the door of my heart. And behold, + There was music within, and a song. +But while I was hearkening, lo, blackness without, thick and strong, +Came up and came over, and all that sweet fluting was drowned, + I could hear it no more; +For the welkin was moaning, the waters were stirred on the shore, + And trees in the dark all around +Were shaken. It thundered. "Hark, hark! there is thunder to-night! +The sullen long wave rears her head, and comes down with a will; +The awful white tongues are let loose, and the stars are all dead;-- +There is thunder! it thunders! and ladders of light + Run up. There is thunder!" I said, +"Loud thunder! it thunders! and up in the dark overhead, +A down-pouring cloud, (there is thunder!) a down-pouring cloud +Hails out her fierce message, and quivers the deep in its bed, +And cowers the earth held at bay; and they mutter aloud, +And pause with an ominous tremble, till, great in their rage, +The heavens and earth come together, and meet with a crash; +And the fight is so fell as if Time had come down with the flash, + And the story of life was all read, + And the Giver had turned the last page. + + "Now their bar the pent water-floods lash, +And the forest trees give out their language austere with great age; + And there flieth o'er moor and o'er hill, + And there heaveth at intervals wide, +The long sob of nature's great passion as loath to subside, + Until quiet drop down on the tide, + And mad Echo had moaned herself still." + + Lo! or ever I was 'ware, + In the silence of the air, + Through my heart's wide-open door, + Music floated forth once more, + Floated to the world's dark rim, + And looked over with a hymn; + Then came home with flutings fine, + And discoursed in tones divine + Of a certain grief of mine; + And went downward and went in, +Glimpses of my soul to win, +And discovered such a deep +That I could not choose but weep, +For it lay, a land-locked sea, +Fathomless and dim to me. + +O, the song! it came and went, + Went and came. + I have not learned +Half the lore whereto it yearned, +Half the magic that it meant. +Water booming in a cave; +Or the swell of some long wave, +Setting in from unrevealed +Countries; or a foreign tongue, +Sweetly talked and deftly sung, +While the meaning is half sealed; +May be like it. You have heard +Also;--can you find a word +For the naming of such song? +No; a name would do it wrong. +You have heard it in the night, +In the dropping rain's despite, +In the midnight darkness deep, +When the children were asleep, +And the wife,--no, let that be; +SHE asleep! She knows right well +What the song to you and me, +While we breathe, can never tell; +She hath heard its faultless flow, +Where the roots of music grow. + +While I listened, like young birds, +Hints were fluttering; almost words,-- +Leaned and leaned, and nearer came;-- +Everything had changed its name. + +Sorrow was a ship, I found, +Wrecked with them that in her are, +On an island richer far +Than the port where they were bound. +Fear was but the awful boom +Of the old great bell of doom, +Tolling, far from earthly air, +For all worlds to go to prayer. +Pain, that to us mortal clings, +But the pushing of our wings, +That we have no use for yet, +And the uprooting of our feet +From the soil where they are set, +And the land we reckon sweet. +Love in growth, the grand deceit +Whereby men the perfect greet; +Love in wane, the blessing sent +To be (howsoe'er it went) +Never more with earth content. +O, full sweet, and O, full high, +Ran that music up the sky; +But I cannot sing it you, +More than I can make you view, +With my paintings labial, +Sitting up in awful row, +White old men majestical, +Mountains, in their gowns of snow, +Ghosts of kings; as my two eyes, +Looking over speckled skies, +See them now. About their knees, +Half in haze, there stands at ease +A great army of green hills, +Some bareheaded; and, behold, +Small green mosses creep on some. +Those be mighty forests old; +And white avalanches come +Through yon rents, where now distils +Sheeny silver, pouring down +To a tune of old renown, +Cutting narrow pathways through +Gentian belts of airy blue, +To a zone where starwort blows, +And long reaches of the rose. + +So, that haze all left behind, +Down the chestnut forests wind, +Past yon jagged spires, where yet +Foot of man was never set; +Past a castle yawning wide, +With a great breach in its side, +To a nest-like valley, where, +Like a sparrow's egg in hue, +Lie two lakes, and teach the true +Color of the sea-maid's hair. + +What beside? The world beside! +Drawing down and down, to greet +Cottage clusters at our feet,-- +Every scent of summer tide,-- +Flowery pastures all aglow +(Men and women mowing go +Up and down them); also soft +Floating of the film aloft, +Fluttering of the leaves alow. +Is this told? It is not told. +Where's the danger? where's the cold +Slippery danger up the steep? +Where yon shadow fallen asleep? +Chirping bird and tumbling spray, +Light, work, laughter, scent of hay, +Peace, and echo, where are they? + +Ah, they sleep, sleep all untold; +Memory must their grace enfold +Silently; and that high song +Of the heart, it doth belong +To the hearers. Not a whit, +Though a chief musician heard, +Could he make a tune for it. + +Though a bird of sweetest throat, +And some lute full clear of note, +Could have tried it,--O, the lute +For that wondrous song were mute, +And the bird would do her part, +Falter, fail, and break her heart,-- +Break her heart, and furl her wings, +On those unexpressive strings. + + + + +GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. + +(_On the Advantages of the Poetical Temperament_.) + +AN IMPERFECT FABLE WITH A DOUBTFUL MORAL. + + +O happy Gladys! I rejoice with her, +For Gladys saw the island. + It was thus: +They gave a day for pleasure in the school +Where Gladys taught; and all the other girls +Were taken out, to picnic in a wood. +But it was said, "We think it were not well +That little Gladys should acquire a taste +For pleasure, going about, and needless change. +It would not suit her station: discontent +Might come of it; and all her duties now +She does so pleasantly, that we were best +To keep her humble." So they said to her, +"Gladys, we shall not want you, all to-day. +Look, you are free; you need not sit at work: +No, you may take a long and pleasant walk +Over the sea-cliff, or upon the beach +Among the visitors." + Then Gladys blushed +For joy, and thanked them. What! a holiday, +A whole one, for herself! How good, how kind! +With that, the marshalled carriages drove off; +And Gladys, sobered with her weight of joy, +Stole out beyond the groups upon the beach-- +The children with their wooden spades, the band +That played for lovers, and the sunny stir +Of cheerful life and leisure--to the rocks, +For these she wanted most, and there was time +To mark them; how like ruined organs prone +They lay, or leaned their giant fluted pipes, +And let the great white-crested reckless wave +Beat out their booming melody. + The sea +Was filled with light; in clear blue caverns curled +The breakers, and they ran, and seemed to romp, +As playing at some rough and dangerous game, +While all the nearer waves rushed in to help, +And all the farther heaved their heads to peep, +And tossed the fishing boats. Then Gladys laughed, +And said, "O, happy tide, to be so lost +In sunshine, that one dare not look at it; +And lucky cliffs, to be so brown and warm; +And yet how lucky are the shadows, too, +That lurk beneath their ledges. It is strange, +That in remembrance though I lay them up, +They are forever, when I come to them, +Better than I had thought. O, something yet +I had forgotten. Oft I say, 'At least +This picture is imprinted; thus and thus, +The sharpened serried jags run up, run out, +Layer on layer.' And I look--up--up-- +High, higher up again, till far aloft +They cut into their ether,--brown, and clear, +And perfect. And I, saying, 'This is mine, +To keep,' retire; but shortly come again, +And they confound me with a glorious change. +The low sun out of rain-clouds stares at them; +They redden, and their edges drip with--what? +I know not, but 't is red. It leaves no stain, +For the next morning they stand up like ghosts +In a sea-shroud and fifty thousand mews +Sit there, in long white files, and chatter on, +Like silly school-girls in their silliest mood. + +"There is the boulder where we always turn. +O! I have longed to pass it; now I will. +What would THEY say? for one must slip and spring; +'Young ladies! Gladys! I am shocked. My dears, +Decorum, if you please: turn back at once. +Gladys, we blame you most; you should have looked +Before you.' Then they sigh,--how kind they are!-- +'What will become of you, if all your life +You look a long way off?--look anywhere, +And everywhere, instead of at your feet, +And where they carry you!' Ah, well, I know +It is a pity," Gladys said; "but then +We cannot all be wise: happy for me, +That other people are. + + "And yet I wish,-- +For sometimes very right and serious thoughts +Come to me,--I do wish that they would come +When they are wanted!--when I teach the sums +On rainy days, and when the practising +I count to, and the din goes on and on, +Still the same tune and still the same mistake, +Then I am wise enough: sometimes I feel +Quite old. I think that it will last, and say, +'Now my reflections do me credit! now +I am a woman!' and I wish they knew +How serious all my duties look to me. +And how, my heart hushed down and shaded lies, +Just like the sea when low, convenient clouds, +Come over, and drink all its sparkles up. +But does it last? Perhaps, that very day, +The front door opens: out we walk in pairs; +And I am so delighted with this world, +That suddenly has grown, being new washed, +To such a smiling, clean, and thankful world, +And with a tender face shining through tears, +Looks up into the sometime lowering sky, +That has been angry, but is reconciled, +And just forgiving her, that I,--that I,-- +O, I forget myself: what matters how! +And then I hear (but always kindly said) +Some words that pain me so,--but just, but true; +'For if your place in this establishment +Be but subordinate, and if your birth +Be lowly, it the more behooves,--well, well, +No more. We see that you are sorry.' Yes! +I am always sorry THEN; but now,--O, now, +Here is a bight more beautiful than all." + +"And did they scold her, then, my pretty one? +And did she want to be as wise as they, +To bear a bucklered heart and priggish mind? +Ay, you may crow; she did! but no, no, no, +The night-time will not let her, all the stars +Say nay to that,--the old sea laughs at her. +Why, Gladys is a child; she has not skill +To shut herself within her own small cell, +And build the door up, and to say, 'Poor me! +I am a prisoner'; then to take hewn stones, +And, having built the windows up, to say, +'O, it is dark! there is no sunshine here; +There never has been.'" + + Strange! how very strange! +A woman passing Gladys with a babe, +To whom she spoke these words, and only looked +Upon the babe, who crowed and pulled her curls, +And never looked at Gladys, never once. +"A simple child," she added, and went by, +"To want to change her greater for their less; +But Gladys shall not do it, no, not she; +We love her--don't we?--far too well for that." + +Then Gladys, flushed with shame and keen surprise, +"How could she be so near, and I not know? +And have I spoken out my thought aloud? +I must have done, forgetting. It is well +She walks so fast, for I am hungry now, +And here is water cantering down the cliff, +And here a shell to catch it with, and here +The round plump buns they gave me, and the fruit. +Now she is gone behind the rock. O, rare +To be alone!" So Gladys sat her down, +Unpacked her little basket, ate and drank, +Then pushed her hands into the warm dry sand, +And thought the earth was happy, and she too +Was going round with it in happiness, +That holiday. "What was it that she said?" +Quoth Gladys, cogitating; "they were kind, +The words that woman spoke. She does not know! +'Her greater for their less,'--it makes me laugh,-- +But yet," sighed Gladys, "though it must be good +To look and to admire, one should not wish +To steal THEIR virtues, and to put them on, +Like feathers from another wing; beside, +That calm, and that grave consciousness of worth, +When all is said, would little suit with me, +Who am not worthy. When our thoughts are born, +Though they be good and humble, one should mind +How they are reared, or some will go astray +And shame their mother. Cain and Abel both +Were only once removed from innocence. +Why did I envy them? That was not good; +Yet it began with my humility." + +But as she spake, lo, Gladys raised her eyes, +And right before her, on the horizon's edge, +Behold, an island! First, she looked away +Along the solid rocks and steadfast shore, +For she was all amazed, believing not, +And then she looked again, and there again +Behold, an island! And the tide had turned, +The milky sea had got a purple rim, +And from the rim that mountain island rose, +Purple, with two high peaks, the northern peak +The higher, and with fell and precipice, +It ran down steeply to the water's brink; +But all the southern line was long and soft, +Broken with tender curves, and, as she thought, +Covered with forest or with sward. But, look! +The sun was on the island; and he showed +On either peak a dazzling cap of snow. +Then Gladys held her breath; she said, "Indeed, +Indeed it is an island: how is this, +I never saw it till this fortunate +Rare holiday?" And while she strained her eyes, +She thought that it began to fade; but not +To change as clouds do, only to withdraw +And melt into its azure; and at last, +Little by little, from her hungry heart, +That longed to draw things marvellous to itself, +And yearned towards the riches and the great +Abundance of the beauty God hath made, +It passed away. Tears started in her eyes, +And when they dropt, the mountain isle was gone; +The careless sea had quite forgotten it, +And all was even as it had been before. + +And Gladys wept, but there was luxury +In her self-pity, while she softly sobbed, +"O, what a little while! I am afraid +I shall forget that purple mountain isle, +The lovely hollows atween her snow-clad peaks, +The grace of her upheaval where she lay +Well up against the open. O, my heart, +Now I remember how this holiday +Will soon be done, and now my life goes on +Not fed; and only in the noonday walk +Let to look silently at what it wants, +Without the power to wait or pause awhile, +And understand and draw within itself +The richness of the earth. A holiday! +How few I have! I spend the silent time +At work, while all THEIR pupils are gone home, +And feel myself remote. They shine apart; +They are great planets, I a little orb; +My little orbit far within their own +Turns, and approaches not. But yet, the more +I am alone when those I teach return; +For they, as planets of some other sun, +Not mine, have paths that can but meet my ring +Once in a cycle. O, how poor I am! +I have not got laid up in this blank heart +Any indulgent kisses given me +Because I had been good, or yet more sweet, +Because my childhood was itself a good +Attractive thing for kisses, tender praise, +And comforting. An orphan-school at best +Is a cold mother in the winter time +('Twas mostly winter when new orphans came), +An unregarded mother in the spring. + +"Yet once a year (I did mine wrong) we went +To gather cowslips. How we thought on it +Beforehand, pacing, pacing the dull street, +To that one tree, the only one we saw +From April,--if the cowslips were in bloom +So early; or if not, from opening May +Even to September. Then there came the feast +At Epping. If it rained that day, it rained +For a whole year to us; we could not think +Of fields and hawthorn hedges, and the leaves +Fluttering, but still it rained, and ever rained. + +"Ah, well, but I am here; but I have seen +The gay gorse bushes in their flowering time; +I know the scent of bean-fields; I have heard +The satisfying murmur of the main." + +The woman! She came round the rock again +With her fair baby, and she sat her down +By Gladys, murmuring, "Who forbade the grass +To grow by visitations of the dew? +Who said in ancient time to the desert pool, +'Thou shalt not wait for angel visitors +To trouble thy still water?' Must we bide +At home? The lore, beloved, shall fly to us +On a pair of sumptuous wings. Or may we breathe +Without? O, we shall draw to us the air +That times and mystery feed on. This shall lay +Unchidden hands upon the heart o' the world, +And feel it beating. Rivers shall run on, +Full of sweet language as a lover's mouth, +Delivering of a tune to make her youth +More beautiful than wheat when it is green. + +"What else?--(O, none shall envy her!) The rain +And the wild weather will be most her own, +And talk with her o' nights; and if the winds +Have seen aught wondrous, they will tell it her +In a mouthful of strange moans,--will bring from far, +Her ears being keen, the lowing and the mad +Masterful tramping of the bison herds, +Tearing down headlong with their bloodshot eyes, +In savage rifts of hair; the crack and creak +Of ice-floes in the frozen sea, the cry +Of the white bears, all in a dim blue world +Mumbling their meals by twilight; or the rock +And majesty of motion, when their heads +Primeval trees toss in a sunny storm, +And hail their nuts down on unweeded fields. +No holidays," quoth she; "drop, drop, O, drop, +Thou tirèd skylark, and go up no more; +You lime-trees, cover not your head with bees, +Nor give out your good smell. She will not look; +No, Gladys cannot draw your sweetness in, +For lack of holidays." So Gladys thought, +"A most strange woman, and she talks of me." +With that a girl ran up; "Mother," she said, +"Come out of this brown bight, I pray you now, +It smells of fairies." Gladys thereon thought, +"The mother will not speak to me, perhaps +The daughter may," and asked her courteously, +"What do the fairies smell of?" But the girl +With peevish pout replied, "You know, you know." +"Not I," said Gladys; then she answered her, +"Something like buttercups. But, mother, come, +And whisper up a porpoise from the foam, +Because I want to ride." + + Full slowly, then, +The mother rose, and ever kept her eyes +Upon her little child. "You freakish maid," +Said she, "now mark me, if I call you one, +You shall not scold nor make him take you far." + +"I only want,--you know I only want," +The girl replied, "to go and play awhile +Upon the sand by Lagos." Then she turned +And muttered low, "Mother, is this the girl +Who saw the island?" But the mother frowned. +"When may she go to it?" the daughter asked. +And Gladys, following them, gave all her mind +To hear the answer. "When she wills to go; +For yonder comes to shore the ferry boat." +Then Gladys turned to look, and even so +It was; a ferry boat, and far away +Reared in the offing, lo, the purple peaks +Of her loved island. + + Then she raised her arms, +And ran toward the boat, crying out, "O rare, +The island! fair befall the island; let +Me reach the island." And she sprang on board, +And after her stepped in the freakish maid +And the fair mother, brooding o'er her child; +And this one took the helm, and that let go +The sail, and off they flew, and furrowed up +A flaky hill before, and left behind +A sobbing snake-like tail of creamy foam; +And dancing hither, thither, sometimes shot +Toward the island; then, when Gladys looked, +Were leaving it to leeward. And the maid +Whistled a wind to come and rock the craft, +And would be leaning down her head to mew +At cat-fish, then lift out into her lap +And dandle baby-seals, which, having kissed, +She flung to their sleek mothers, till her own +Rebuked her in good English, after cried, +"Luff, luff, we shall be swamped." "I will not luff," +Sobbed the fair mischief; "you are cross to me." +"For shame!" the mother shrieked; "luff, luff, my dear; +Kiss and be friends, and thou shalt have the fish +With the curly tail to ride on." So she did, +And presently a dolphin bouncing up, +She sprang upon his slippery back,--"Farewell," +She laughed, was off, and all the sea grew calm. + +Then Gladys was much happier, and was 'ware +In the smooth weather that this woman talked +Like one in sleep, and murmured certain thoughts +Which seemed to be like echoes of her own. +She nodded, "Yes, the girl is going now +To her own island. Gladys poor? Not she! +Who thinks so? Once I met a man in white, +Who said to me, 'The thing that might have been +Is called, and questioned why it hath not been; +And can it give good reason, it is set +Beside the actual, and reckoned in +To fill the empty gaps of life.' Ah, so +The possible stands by us ever fresh, +Fairer than aught which any life hath owned, +And makes divine amends. Now this was set +Apart from kin, and not ordained a home; +An equal;--and not suffered to fence in +A little plot of earthly good, and say, +'Tis mine'; but in bereavement of the part, +O, yet to taste the whole,--to understand +The grandeur of the story, not to feel +Satiate with good possessed, but evermore +A healthful hunger for the great idea, +The beauty and the blessedness of life. + +"Lo, now, the shadow!" quoth she, breaking off, +"We are in the shadow." Then did Gladys turn, +And, O, the mountain with the purple peaks +Was close at hand. It cast a shadow out, +And they were in it: and she saw the snow, +And under that the rocks, and under that +The pines, and then the pasturage; and saw +Numerous dips, and undulations rare, +Running down seaward, all astir with lithe +Long canes, and lofty feathers; for the palms +And spice trees of the south, nay, every growth, +Meets in that island. + + So that woman ran +The boat ashore, and Gladys set her foot +Thereon. Then all at once much laughter rose; +Invisible folk set up exultant shouts, +"It all belongs to Gladys"; and she ran +And hid herself among the nearest trees +And panted, shedding tears. + + So she looked round, +And saw that she was in a banyan grove, +Full of wild peacocks,--pecking on the grass, +A flickering mass of eyes, blue, green, and gold, +Or reaching out their jewelled necks, where high +They sat in rows along the boughs. No tree +Cumbered with creepers let the sunshine through, +But it was caught in scarlet cups, and poured +From these on amber tufts of bloom, and dropped +Lower on azure stars. The air was still, +As if awaiting somewhat, or asleep, +And Gladys was the only thing that moved, +Excepting,--no, they were not birds,--what then? +Glorified rainbows with a living soul? +While they passed through a sunbeam they were seen, +Not otherwhere, but they were present yet +In shade. They were at work, pomegranate fruit +That lay about removing,--purple grapes, +That clustered in the path, clearing aside. +Through a small spot of light would pass and go, +The glorious happy mouth and two fair eyes +Of somewhat that made rustlings where it went; +But when a beam would strike the ground sheer down, +Behold them! they had wings, and they would pass +One after other with the sheeny fans, +Bearing them slowly, that their hues were seen, +Tender as russet crimson dropt on snows, +Or where they turned flashing with gold and dashed +With purple glooms. And they had feet, but these +Did barely touch the ground. And they took heed +Not to disturb the waiting quietness; +Nor rouse up fawns, that slept beside their dams; +Nor the fair leopard, with her sleek paws laid +Across her little drowsy cubs; nor swans, +That, floating, slept upon a glassy pool; +Nor rosy cranes, all slumbering in the reeds, +With heads beneath their wings. For this, you know, +Was Eden. She was passing through the trees +That made a ring about it, and she caught +A glimpse of glades beyond. All she had seen +Was nothing to them; but words are not made +To tell that tale. No wind was let to blow, +And all the doves were bidden to hold their peace. +Why? One was working in a valley near, +And none might look that way. It was understood +That He had nearly ended that His work; +For two shapes met, and one to other spake, +Accosting him with, "Prince, what worketh He?" +Who whispered, "Lo! He fashioneth red clay." +And all at once a little trembling stir +Was felt in the earth, and every creature woke, +And laid its head down, listening. It was known +Then that the work was done; the new-made king +Had risen, and set his feet upon his realm, +And it acknowledged him. + + But in her path +Came some one that withstood her, and he said, +"What doest thou here?" Then she did turn and flee, +Among those colored spirits, through the grove, +Trembling for haste; it was not well with her +Till she came forth of those thick banyan-trees, +And set her feet upon the common grass, +And felt the common wind. + + Yet once beyond, +She could not choose but cast a backward glance. +The lovely matted growth stood like a wall, +And means of entering were not evident,-- +The gap had closed. But Gladys laughed for joy: +She said, "Remoteness and a multitude +Of years are counted nothing here. Behold, +To-day I have been in Eden. O, it blooms +In my own island." + + And she wandered on, +Thinking, until she reached a place of palms, +And all the earth was sandy where she walked,-- +Sandy and dry,--strewed with papyrus leaves, +Old idols, rings and pottery, painted lids +Of mummies (for perhaps it was the way +That leads to dead old Egypt), and withal +Excellent sunshine cut out sharp and clear +The hot prone pillars, and the carven plinths,-- +Stone lotus cups, with petals dipped in sand, +And wicked gods, and sphinxes bland, who sat +And smiled upon the ruin. O how still! +Hot, blank, illuminated with the clear +Stare of an unveiled sky. The dry stiff leaves +Of palm-trees never rustled, and the soul +Of that dead ancientry was itself dead. +She was above her ankles in the sand, +When she beheld a rocky road, and, lo! +It bare in it the ruts of chariot wheels, +Which erst had carried to their pagan prayers +The brown old Pharaohs; for the ruts led on +To a great cliff, that either was a cliff +Or some dread shrine in ruins,--partly reared +In front of that same cliff, and partly hewn +Or excavate within its heart. Great heaps +Of sand and stones on either side there lay; +And, as the girl drew on, rose out from each, +As from a ghostly kennel, gods unblest, +Dog-headed, and behind them winged things +Like angels; and this carven multitude +Hedged in, to right and left, the rocky road. + +At last, the cliff,--and in the cliff a door +Yawning: and she looked in, as down the throat +Of some stupendous giant, and beheld +No floor, but wide, worn, flights of steps, that led +Into a dimness. When the eyes could bear +That change to gloom, she saw flight after flight, +Flight after flight, the worn long stair go down, +Smooth with the feet of nations dead and gone. +So she did enter; also she went down +Till it was dark, and yet again went down, +Till, gazing upward at that yawning door, +It seemed no larger, in its height remote, +Than a pin's head. But while, irresolute, +She doubted of the end, yet farther down +A slender ray of lamplight fell away +Along the stair, as from a door ajar: +To this again she felt her way, and stepped +Adown the hollow stair, and reached the light; +But fear fell on her, fear; and she forbore +Entrance, and listened. Ay! 'twas even so,-- +A sigh; the breathing as of one who slept +And was disturbed. So she drew back awhile, +And trembled; then her doubting hand she laid +Against the door, and pushed it; but the light +Waned, faded, sank; and as she came within-- +Hark, hark! A spirit was it, and asleep? +A spirit doth not breathe like clay. There hung +A cresset from the roof, and thence appeared +A flickering speck of light, and disappeared; +Then dropped along the floor its elfish flakes, +That fell on some one resting, in the gloom,-- +Somewhat, a spectral shadow, then a shape +That loomed. It was a heifer, ay, and white, +Breathing and languid through prolonged repose. + + Was it a heifer? all the marble floor +Was milk-white also, and the cresset paled, +And straight their whiteness grew confused and mixed. + + But when the cresset, taking heart, bloomed out,-- +The whiteness,--and asleep again! but now +It was a woman, robed, and with a face +Lovely and dim. And Gladys while she gazed +Murmured, "O terrible! I am afraid +To breathe among these intermittent lives, +That fluctuate in mystic solitude, +And change and fade. Lo! where the goddess sits +Dreaming on her dim throne; a crescent moon +She wears upon her forehead. Ah! her frown +Is mournful, and her slumber is not sweet. +What dost thou hold, Isis, to thy cold breast? +A baby god with finger on his lips, +Asleep, and dreaming of departed sway? +Thy son. Hush, hush; he knoweth all the lore +And sorcery of old Egypt; but his mouth +He shuts; the secret shall be lost with him, +He will not tell." + + The woman coming down! +"Child, what art doing here?" the woman said; +"What wilt thou of Dame Isis and her bairn?" +(_Ay, ay, we see thee breathing in thy shroud,-- +pretty shroud, all frilled and furbelowed._) +The air is dim with dust of spiced bones. +I mark a crypt down there. Tier upon tier +Of painted coffers fills it. What if we, +Passing, should slip, and crash into their midst,-- +Break the frail ancientry, and smothered lie, +Tumbled among the ribs of queens and kings, +And all the gear they took to bed with them! +Horrible! Let us hence. + + And Gladys said, +"O, they are rough to mount, those stairs"; but she +Took her and laughed, and up the mighty flight +Shot like a meteor with her. "There," said she; +"The light is sweet when one has smelled of graves, +Down in unholy heathen gloom; farewell." +She pointed to a gateway, strong and high, +Reared of hewn stones; but, look! in lieu of gate, +There was a glittering cobweb drawn across, +And on the lintel there were writ these words: +"Ho, every one that cometh, I divide +What hath been from what might be, and the line +Hangeth before thee as a spider's web; +Yet, wouldst thou enter thou must break the line, +Or else forbear the hill." + + The maiden said, +"So, cobweb, I will break thee." And she passed +Among some oak-trees on the farther side, +And waded through the bracken round their bolls, +Until she saw the open, and drew on +Toward the edge o' the wood, where it was mixed +With pines and heathery places wild and fresh. +Here she put up a creature, that ran on +Before her, crying, "Tint, tint, tint," and turned, +Sat up, and stared at her with elfish eyes, +Jabbering of gramarye, one Michael Scott, +The wizard that wonned somewhere underground, +With other talk enough to make one fear +To walk in lonely places. After passed +A man-at-arms, William of Deloraine; +He shook his head, "An' if I list to tell," +Quoth he, "I know, but how it matters not"; +Then crossed himself, and muttered of a clap +Of thunder, and a shape in amice gray, +But still it mouthed at him, and whimpered, "Tint, +Tint, tint." "There shall be wild work some day soon," +Quoth he, "thou limb of darkness: he will come, +Thy master, push a hand up, catch thee, imp, +And so good Christians shall have peace, perdie." + +Then Gladys was so frightened, that she ran, +And got away, towards a grassy down, +Where sheep and lambs were feeding, with a boy +To tend them. 'Twas the boy who wears that herb +Called heart's-ease in his bosom, and he sang +So sweetly to his flock, that she stole on +Nearer to listen. "O Content, Content, +Give me," sang he, "thy tender company. +I feed my flock among the myrtles; all +My lambs are twins, and they have laid them down +Along the slopes of Beulah. Come, fair love, +From the other side the river, where their harps +Thou hast been helping them to tune. O come, +And pitch thy tent by mine; let me behold +Thy mouth,--that even in slumber talks of peace,-- +Thy well-set locks, and dove-like countenance." + +And Gladys hearkened, couched upon the grass, +Till she had rested; then did ask the boy, +For it was afternoon, and she was fain +To reach the shore, "Which is the path, I pray, +That leads one to the water?" But he said, +"Dear lass, I only know the narrow way, +The path that leads one to the golden gate +Across the river." So she wandered on; +And presently her feet grew cool, the grass +Standing so high, and thyme being thick and soft. +The air was full of voices, and the scent +Of mountain blossom loaded all its wafts; +For she was on the slopes of a goodly mount, +And reared in such a sort that it looked down +Into the deepest valleys, darkest glades, +And richest plains o' the island. It was set +Midway between the snows majestical +And a wide level, such as men would choose +For growing wheat; and some one said to her, +"It is the hill Parnassus." So she walked +Yet on its lower slope, and she could hear +The calling of an unseen multitude +To some upon the mountain, "Give us more"; +And others said, "We are tired of this old world: +Make it look new again." Then there were some +Who answered lovingly--(the dead yet speak +From that high mountain, as the living do); +But others sang desponding, "We have kept +The vision for a chosen few: we love +Fit audience better than a rough huzza +From the unreasoning crowd." + + Then words came up: +"There was a time, you poets, was a time +When all the poetry was ours, and made +By some who climbed the mountain from our midst. +We loved it then, we sang it in our streets. +O, it grows obsolete! Be you as they: +Our heroes die and drop away from us; +Oblivion folds them 'neath her dusky wing, +Fair copies wasted to the hungering world. +Save them. We fall so low for lack of them, +That many of us think scorn of honest trade, +And take no pride in our own shops; who care +Only to quit a calling, will not make +The calling what it might be; who despise +Their work, Fate laughs at, and doth let the work +Dull, and degrade them." + + Then did Gladys smile: +"Heroes!" quoth she; "yet, now I think on it, +There was the jolly goldsmith, brave Sir Hugh, +Certes, a hero ready-made. Methinks +I see him burnishing of golden gear, +Tankard and charger, and a-muttering low, +'London is thirsty'--(then he weighs a chain): +''Tis an ill thing, my masters. I would give +The worth of this, and many such as this, +To bring it water.' + + "Ay, and after him +There came up Guy of London, lettered son +O' the honest lighterman. I'll think on him, +Leaning upon the bridge on summer eves, +After his shop was closed: a still, grave man, +With melancholy eyes. 'While these are hale,' +He saith, when he looks down and marks the crowd +Cheerily working; where the river marge +Is blocked with ships and boats; and all the wharves +Swarm, and the cranes swing in with merchandise,-- +'While these are hale, 'tis well, 'tis very well. +But, O good Lord,' saith he, 'when these are sick,-- +I fear me, Lord, this excellent workmanship +Of Thine is counted for a cumbrance then. +Ay, ay, my hearties! many a man of you, +Struck down, or maimed, or fevered, shrinks away, +And, mastered in that fight for lack of aid, +Creeps shivering to a corner, and there dies.' +Well, we have heard the rest. + + "Ah, next I think +Upon the merchant captain, stout of heart +To dare and to endure. 'Robert,' saith he, +(The navigator Knox to his manful son,) +'I sit a captive from the ship detained; +This heathenry doth let thee visit her. +Remember, son, if thou, alas! shouldst fail +To ransom thy poor father, they are free +As yet, the mariners; have wives at home, +As I have; ay, and liberty is sweet +To all men. For the ship, she is not ours, +Therefore, 'beseech thee, son, lay on the mate +This my command, to leave me, and set sail. +As for thyself--' 'Good father,' saith the son; +'I will not, father, ask your blessing now, +Because, for fair, or else for evil, fate +We two shall meet again.' And so they did. +The dusky men, peeling off cinnamon, +And beating nutmeg clusters from the tree, +Ransom and bribe contemned. The good ship sailed,-- +The son returned to share his father's cell. + +"O, there are many such. Would I had wit +Their worth to sing!" With that, she turned her feet, +"I am tired now," said Gladys, "of their talk +Around this hill Parnassus." And, behold, +A piteous sight--an old, blind, graybeard king +Led by a fool with bells. Now this was loved +Of the crowd below the hill; and when he called +For his lost kingdom, and bewailed his age, +And plained on his unkind daughters, they were known +To say, that if the best of gold and gear +Could have bought him back his kingdom, and made kind +The hard hearts which had broken his erewhile, +They would have gladly paid it from their store +Many times over. What is done is done, +No help. The ruined majesty passed on. +And look you! one who met her as she walked +Showed her a mountain nymph lovely as light +Her name Oenone; and she mourned and mourned, +"O Mother Ida," and she could not cease, +No, nor be comforted. + + And after this, +Soon there came by, arrayed in Norman cap +And kirtle, an Arcadian villager, +Who said, "I pray you, have you chanced to meet +One Gabriel?" and she sighed; but Gladys took +And kissed her hand: she could not answer her, +Because she guessed the end. + + With that it drew +To evening; and as Gladys wandered on +In the calm weather, she beheld the wave, +And she ran down to set her feet again +On the sea margin, which was covered thick +With white shell-skeletons. The sky was red +As wine. The water played among bare ribs +Of many wrecks, that lay half buried there +In the sand. She saw a cave, and moved thereto +To ask her way, and one so innocent +Came out to meet her, that, with marvelling mute, +She gazed and gazed into her sea-blue eyes, +For in them beamed the untaught ecstasy +Of childhood, that lives on though youth be come, +And love just born. + +She could not choose but name her shipwrecked prince, +All blushing. She told Gladys many things +That are not in the story,--things, in sooth, +That Prospero her father knew. But now +'Twas evening, and the sun drooped; purple stripes +In the sea were copied from some clouds that lay +Out in the west. And lo! the boat, and more, +The freakish thing to take fair Gladys home +She mowed at her, but Gladys took the helm: +"Peace, peace!" she said; "be good: you shall not steer, +For I am your liege lady." Then she sang +The sweetest songs she knew all the way home. + +So Gladys set her feet upon the sand; +While in the sunset glory died away +The peaks of that blest island. + + "Fare you well. +My country, my own kingdom," then she said, +"Till I go visit you again, farewell." + +She looked toward their house with whom she dwelt,-- +The carriages were coming. Hastening up, +She was in time to meet them at the door, +And lead the sleepy little ones within; +And some were cross and shivered, and her dames +Were weary and right hard to please; but she +Felt like a beggar suddenly endowed +With a warm cloak to 'fend her from the cold. +"For, come what will," she said, "I had _to-day_. +There is an island." + + _The Moral._ + +What is the moral? Let us think awhile, +Taking the editorial WE to help, +It sounds respectable. + + The moral; yes. +We always read, when any fable ends, +"Hence we may learn." A moral must be found. +What do you think of this? "Hence we may learn +That dolphins swim about the coast of Wales, +And Admiralty maps should now be drawn +By teacher-girls, because their sight is keen, +And they can spy out islands." Will that do? +No, that is far too plain,--too evident. + +Perhaps a general moralizing vein-- +(We know we have a happy knack that way. +We have observed, moreover, that young men +Are fond of good advice, and so are girls; +Especially of that meandering kind, +Which winding on so sweetly, treats of all +They ought to be and do and think and wear, +As one may say, from creeds to comforters. +Indeed, we much prefer that sort ourselves, +So soothing). Good, a moralizing vein; +That is the thing; but how to manage it? +"_Hence we may learn_," if we be so inclined, +That life goes best with those who take it best; +That wit can spin from work a golden robe +To queen it in; that who can paint at will +A private picture gallery, should not cry +For shillings that will let him in to look +At some by others painted. Furthermore, +Hence we may learn, you poets,--(_and we count +For poets all who ever felt that such +They were, and all who secretly have known +That such they could be; ay, moreover, all +Who wind the robes of ideality +About the bareness of their lives, and hang +Comforting curtains, knit of fancy's yarn, +Nightly betwixt them and the frosty world_),-- +Hence we may learn, you poets, that of all +We should be most content. The earth is given +To us: we reign by virtue of a sense +Which lets us hear the rhythm of that old verse, +The ring of that old tune whereto she spins. +Humanity is given to us: we reign +By virtue of a sense, which lets us in +To know its troubles ere they have been told, +And take them home and lull them into rest +With mournfullest music. Time is given to us,-- +Time past, time future. Who, good sooth, beside +Have seen it well, have walked this empty world +When she went steaming, and from pulpy hills +Have marked the spurting of their flamy crowns? + + Have we not seen the tabernacle pitched, +And peered between the linen curtains, blue, +Purple, and scarlet, at the dimness there, +And, frighted, have not dared to look again? +But, quaint antiquity! beheld, we thought, +A chest that might have held the manna pot +And Aaron's rod that budded. Ay, we leaned +Over the edge of Britain, while the fleet +Of Caesar loomed and neared; then, afterwards, +We saw fair Venice looking at herself +In the glass below her, while her Doge went forth +In all his bravery to the wedding. + + This, +However, counts for nothing to the grace +We wot of in time future:--therefore add, +And afterwards have done: "_Hence we may learn_," +That though it be a grand and comely thing +To be unhappy,--(and we think it is, +Because so many grand and clever folk +Have found out reasons for unhappiness, +And talked about uncomfortable things,-- +Low motives, bores, and shams, and hollowness, +The hollowness o' the world, till we at last +Have scarcely dared to jump or stamp, for fear, +Being so hollow, it should break some day, +And let us in),--yet, since we are not grand, +O, not at all, and as for cleverness, +That may be or may not be,--it is well +For us to be as happy as we can! + +Agreed: and with a word to the noble sex, +As thus: we pray you carry not your guns +On the full-cock; we pray you set your pride +In its proper place, and never be ashamed +Of any honest calling,--let us add, +And end; for all the rest, hold up your heads +And mind your English. + + +Note to "GLADYS AND HER ISLAND." + + +The woman is Imagination; she is brooding over what she brought forth. + +The two purple peaks represent the domains of Poetry and of History. + +The girl is Fancy. + + + + +SONGS WITH PRELUDES. + +[Illustration] + + + + +SONGS WITH PRELUDES. + + +WEDLOCK. + +The sun was streaming in: I woke, and said, +"Where is my wife,--that has been made my wife +Only this year?" The casement stood ajar: +I did but lift my head: The pear-tree dropped, +The great white pear-tree dropped with dew from leaves +And blossom, under heavens of happy blue. + +My wife had wakened first, and had gone down +Into the orchard. All the air was calm; +Audible humming filled it. At the roots +Of peony bushes lay in rose-red heaps, +Or snowy, fallen bloom. The crag-like hills +Were tossing down their silver messengers, +And two brown foreigners, called cuckoo-birds, +Gave them good answer; all things else were mute; +An idle world lay listening to their talk, +They had it to themselves. + What ails my wife? +I know not if aught ails her; though her step +Tell of a conscious quiet, lest I wake. +She moves atween the almond boughs, and bends +One thick with bloom to look on it. "O love! +A little while thou hast withdrawn thyself, +At unaware to think thy thoughts alone: +How sweet, and yet pathetic to my heart +The reason. Ah! thou art no more thine own. +Mine, mine, O love! Tears gather 'neath my lids,-- +Sorrowful tears for thy lost liberty, +Because it was so sweet. Thy liberty, +That yet, O love, thou wouldst not have again. +No; all is right. But who can give, or bless, +Or take a blessing, but there comes withal +Some pain?" + She walks beside the lily bed, +And holds apart her gown; she would not hurt +The leaf-enfolded buds, that have not looked +Yet on the daylight. O, thy locks are brown,-- +Fairest of colors!--and a darker brown +The beautiful, dear, veiled, modest eyes. +A bloom as of blush roses covers her +Forehead, and throat, and cheek. Health breathes with her, +And graceful vigor. Fair and wondrous soul! +To think that thou art mine! + My wife came in, +And moved into the chamber. As for me, +I heard, but lay as one that nothing hears, +And feigned to be asleep. + +I. + +The racing river leaped, and sang + Full blithely in the perfect weather, +All round the mountain echoes rang, + For blue and green were glad together. + +II. + +This rained out light from every part, + And that with songs of joy was thrilling; +But, in the hollow of my heart, + There ached a place that wanted filling. + +III. + +Before the road and river meet, + And stepping-stones are wet and glisten, +I heard a sound of laughter sweet, + And paused to like it, and to listen. + +IV. + +I heard the chanting waters flow, + The cushat's note, the bee's low humming,-- +Then turned the hedge, and did not know,-- + How could I?--that my time was coming. + +V. + +A girl upon the nighest stone, + Half doubtful of the deed, was standing, +So far the shallow flood had flown + Beyond the 'customed leap of landing. + +VI. + +She knew not any need of me, + Yet me she waited all unweeting; +We thought not I had crossed the sea, + And half the sphere to give her meeting. + +VII. + +I waded out, her eyes I met, + I wished the moment had been hours; +I took her in my arms, and set + Her dainty feet among the flowers. + +VIII. + +Her fellow maids in copse and lane, + Ah! still, methinks, I hear them calling; +The wind's soft whisper in the plain, + The cushat's coo, the water's falling. + +IX. + +But now it is a year ago, + But now possession crowns endeavor; +I took her in my heart, to grow + And fill the hollow place forever. + + +REGRET. + +O that word REGRET! +There have been nights and morns when we have sighed, +"Let us alone, Regret! We are content +To throw thee all our past, so thou wilt sleep +For aye." But it is patient, and it wakes; +It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep, +But plaineth on the bed that it is hard. + +We did amiss when we did wish it gone +And over: sorrows humanize our race; +Tears are the showers that fertilize this world; +And memory of things precious keepeth warm +The heart that once did hold them. + They are poor +That have lost nothing; they are poorer far +Who, losing, have forgotten; they most poor +Of all, who lose and wish they MIGHT forget. + +For life is one, and in its warp and woof +There runs a thread of gold that glitters fair, +And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet +Where there are sombre colors. It is true +That we have wept. But O! this thread of gold, +We would not have it tarnish; let us turn +Oft and look back upon the wondrous web, +And when it shineth sometimes we shall know +That memory is possession. + +I. + +When I remember something which I had, + But which is gone, and I must do without, +I sometimes wonder how I can be glad, + Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout; +It makes me sigh to think on it,--but yet +My days will not be better days, should I forget. + +II. + +When I remember something promised me, + But which I never had, nor can have now, +Because the promiser we no more see + In countries that accord with mortal vow; +When I remember this, I mourn,--but yet +My happier days are not the days when I forget. + + +LAMENTATION. + +I read upon that book, +Which down the golden gulf doth let us look +On the sweet days of pastoral majesty; + I read upon that book + How, when the Shepherd Prince did flee + (Red Esau's twin), he desolate took +The stone for a pillow: then he fell on sleep. +And lo! there was a ladder. Lo! there hung +A ladder from the star-place, and it clung +To the earth: it tied her so to heaven; and O! + There fluttered wings; +Then were ascending and descending things + That stepped to him where he lay low; +Then up the ladder would a-drifting go +(This feathered brood of heaven), and show +Small as white flakes in winter that are blown +Together, underneath the great white throne. + + When I had shut the book, I said, +"Now, as for me, my dreams upon my bed + Are not like Jacob's dream; +Yet I have got it in my life; yes, I, +And many more: it doth not us beseem, + Therefore, to sigh. +Is there not hung a ladder in our sky? +Yea; and, moreover, all the way up on high +Is thickly peopled with the prayers of men. + We have no dream! What then? +Like wingéd wayfarers the height they scale +(By Him that offers them they shall prevail),-- + The prayers of men. + But where is found a prayer for me; + How should I pray? + My heart is sick, and full of strife. +I heard one whisper with departing breath, +'Suffer us not, for any pains of death, + To fall from Thee.' +But O, the pains of life! the pains of life! + There is no comfort now, and naught to win, + But yet,--I will begin." + +I. + +"Preserve to me my wealth," I do not say, + For that is wasted away; +And much of it was cankered ere it went. +"Preserve to me my health." I cannot say, + For that, upon a day, +Went after other delights to banishment. + +II. + +What can I pray? "Give me forgetfulness"? + No, I would still possess +Past away smiles, though present fronts be stern. +"Give me again my kindred?" Nay; not so, + Not idle prayers. We know +They that have crossed the river cannot return. + +III. + +I do not pray, "Comfort me! comfort me!" + For how should comfort be? +O,--O that cooing mouth,--that little white head! +No; but I pray, "If it be not too late, + Open to me the gate, +That I may find my babe when I am dead. + +IV. + +"Show me the path. I had forgotten Thee + When I was happy and free, +Walking down here in the gladsome light o' the sun; +But now I come and mourn; O set my feet + In the road to Thy blest seat, +And for the rest, O God, Thy will be done." + + +DOMINION. + +When found the rose delight in her fair hue? +Color is nothing to this world; 'tis I +That see it. Farther, I have found, my soul, +That trees are nothing to their fellow trees; +It is but I that love their stateliness, +And I that, comforting my heart, do sit +At noon beneath their shadow. I will step +On the ledges of this world, for it is mine; +But the other world ye wot of, shall go too; +I will carry it in my bosom. O my world, +That was not built with clay! + Consider it +(This outer world we tread on) as a harp,-- +A gracious instrument on whose fair strings +We learn those airs we shall be set to play +When mortal hours are ended. Let the wings, +Man, of thy spirit move on it as wind, +And draw forth melody. Why shouldst thou yet +Lie grovelling? More is won than e'er was lost: +Inherit. Let thy day be to thy night +A teller of good tidings. Let thy praise +Go up as birds go up that, when they wake, +Shake off the dew and soar. + So take Joy home, +And make a place in thy great heart for her, +And give her time to grow, and cherish her; +Then will she come, and oft will sing to thee, +When thou art working in the furrows; ay, +Or weeding in the sacred hour of dawn. +It is a comely fashion to be glad,-- +Joy is the grace we say to God. + Art tired? +There is a rest remaining. Hast thou sinned? +There is a Sacrifice. Lift up thy head, +The lovely world, and the over-world alike, +Ring with a song eterne, a happy rede, +"THY FATHER LOVES THEE." + +I. + +Yon mooréd mackerel fleet + Hangs thick as a swarm of bees, +Or a clustering village street + Foundationless built on the seas. + +II. + +The mariners ply their craft, + Each set in his castle frail; +His care is all for the draught, + And he dries the rain-beaten sail. + +III. + +For rain came down in the night, + And thunder muttered full oft, +But now the azure is bright. + And hawks are wheeling aloft. + +IV. + +I take the land to my breast, + In her coat with daisies fine; +For me are the hills in their best, + And all that's made is mine. + +V. + +Sing high! "Though the red sun dip, + There yet is a day for me; +Nor youth I count for a ship + That long ago foundered at sea. + +VI. + +"Did the lost love die and depart? + Many times since we have met; +For I hold the years in my heart, + And all that was--is yet. + +VII. + +"I grant to the king his reign; + Let us yield him homage due; +But over the lands there are twain, + O king, I must rule as you. + +VIII. + +"I grant to the wise his meed, + But his yoke I will not brook, +For God taught ME to read,-- + He lent me the world for a book." + + +FRIENDSHIP. + +ON A SUN-PORTRAIT OF HER HUSBAND, SENT BY HIS +WIFE TO THEIR FRIEND. + +Beautiful eyes,--and shall I see no more +The living thought when it would leap from them, +And play in all its sweetness 'neath their lids? + +Here was a man familiar with fair heights +That poets climb. Upon his peace the tears +And troubles of our race deep inroads made, +Yet life was sweet to him; he kept his heart +At home. Who saw his wife might well have thought,-- +"God loves this man. He chose a wife for him,-- +The true one!" O sweet eyes, that seem to live, +I know so much of you, tell me the rest! +Eyes full of fatherhood and tender care +For small, young children. Is a message here +That you would fain have sent, but had not time? +If such there be, I promise, by long love +And perfect friendship, by all trust that comes +Of understanding, that I will not fail, +No, nor delay to find it. + O, my heart +Will often pain me as for some strange fault,-- +Some grave defect in nature,--when I think +How I, delighted, 'neath those olive-trees, +Moved to the music of the tideless main, +While, with sore weeping, in an island home +They laid that much-loved head beneath the sod, +And I did not know. + +I. + +I stand on the bridge where last we stood + When young leaves played at their best. +The children called us from yonder wood, + And rock-doves crooned on the nest. + +II. + +Ah, yet you call,--in your gladness call,-- + And I hear your pattering feet; +It does not matter, matter at all, + You fatherless children sweet,-- + +III. + +It does not matter at all to you, + Young hearts that pleasure besets; +The father sleeps, but the world is new, + The child of his love forgets. + +IV. + +I too, it may be, before they drop, + The leaves that flicker to-day, +Ere bountiful gleams make ripe the crop, + Shall pass from my place away: + +V. + +Ere yon gray cygnet puts on her white, + Or snow lies soft on the wold, +Shall shut these eyes on the lovely light, + And leave the story untold. + +VI. + +Shall I tell it there? Ah, let that be, + For the warm pulse beats so high; +To love to-day, and to breathe and see,-- + To-morrow perhaps to die,-- + +VII. + +Leave it with God. But this I have known, + That sorrow is over soon; +Some in dark nights, sore weeping alone, + Forget by full of the moon. + +VIII. + +But if all loved, as the few can love, + This world would seldom be well; +And who need wish, if he dwells above, + For a deep, a long death knell. + +IX. + +There are four or five, who, passing this place, + While they live will name me yet; +And when I am gone will think on my face, + And feel a kind of regret. + + + + +WINSTANLEY. + + +_THE APOLOGY._ + +_Quoth the cedar to the reeds and rushes, + "Water-grass, you know not what I do; +Know not of my storms, nor of my hushes. + And--I know not you." + +Quoth the reeds and rushes, "Wind! O waken! + Breathe, O wind, and set our answer free, +For we have no voice, of you forsaken, + For the cedar-tree." + +Quoth the earth at midnight to the ocean, + "Wilderness of water, lost to view, +Naught you are to me but sounds of motion; + I am naught to you." + +Quoth the ocean, "Dawn! O fairest, clearest, + Touch me with thy golden fingers bland; +For I have no smile till thou appearest + For the lovely land."_ + +_Quoth the hero dying, whelmed in glory + "Many blame me, few have understood; +Ah, my folk, to you I leave a story,-- + Make its meaning good." + +Quoth the folk, "Sing, poet! teach us, prove us + Surely we shall learn the meaning then; +Wound us with a pain divine, O move us, + For this man of men."_ + + * * * * * + +Winstanley's deed, you kindly folk, + With it I fill my lay, +And a nobler man ne'er walked the world, + Let his name be what it may. + +The good ship "Snowdrop" tarried long, + Up at the vane looked he; +"Belike," he said, for the wind had dropped, + "She lieth becalmed at sea." + +The lovely ladies flocked within, + And still would each one say, +"Good mercer, be the ships come up?" + But still he answered "Nay." + +Then stepped two mariners down the street, + With looks of grief and fear: +"Now, if Winstanley be your name, + We bring you evil cheer! + +"For the good ship 'Snowdrop' struck,--she struck + On the rock,--the Eddystone, +And down she went with threescore men, + We two being left alone. + +"Down in the deep, with freight and crew, + Past any help she lies, +And never a bale has come to shore + Of all thy merchandise." + +"For cloth o' gold and comely frieze," + Winstanley said, and sighed, +"For velvet coif, or costly coat, + They fathoms deep may bide. + +"O thou brave skipper, blithe and kind, + O mariners, bold and true, +Sorry at heart, right sorry am I, + A-thinking of yours and you. + +"Many long days Winstanley's breast + Shall feel a weight within, +For a waft of wind he shall be 'feared + And trading count but sin. + +"To him no more it shall be joy + To pace the cheerful town, +And see the lovely ladies gay + Step on in velvet gown." + +The "Snowdrop" sank at Lammas tide, + All under the yeasty spray; +On Christmas Eve the brig "Content" + Was also cast away. + +He little thought o' New Year's night, + So jolly as he sat then, +While drank the toast and praised the roast + The round-faced Aldermen,-- + +While serving lads ran to and fro, + Pouring the ruby wine, +And jellies trembled on the board, + And towering pasties fine,-- + +While loud huzzas ran up the roof + Till the lamps did rock o'erhead, +And holly-boughs from rafters hung + Dropped down their berries red,-- + +He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, + With every rising tide, +How the wave washed in his sailor lads, + And laid them side by side. + +There stepped a stranger to the board: + "Now, stranger, who be ye?" +He looked to right, he looked to left, + And "Rest you merry," quoth he; + +"For you did not see the brig go down, + Or ever a storm had blown; +For you did not see the white wave rear + At the rock,--the Eddystone. + +"She drave at the rock with sternsails set; + Crash went the masts in twain; +She staggered back with her mortal blow, + Then leaped at it again. + +"There rose a great cry, bitter and strong, + The misty moon looked out! +And the water swarmed with seamen's heads, + And the wreck was strewed about. + +"I saw her mainsail lash the sea + As I clung to the rock alone; +Then she heeled over, and down she went, + And sank like any stone. + +"She was a fair ship, but all's one! + For naught could bide the shock." +"I will take horse," Winstanley said, + "And see this deadly rock." + +"For never again shall bark o' mine + Sail over the windy sea, +Unless, by the blessing of God, for this + Be found a remedy." + +Winstanley rode to Plymouth town + All in the sleet and the snow, +And he looked around on shore and sound + As he stood on Plymouth Hoe. + +Till a pillar of spray rose far away, + And shot up its stately head, +Reared and fell over, and reared again: + "'Tis the rock! the rock!" he said. + +Straight to the Mayor he took his way, + "Good Master Mayor," quoth he, +"I am a mercer of London town, + And owner of vessels three,-- + +"But for your rock of dark renown, + I had five to track the main." +"You are one of many," the old Mayor said, + "That on the rock complain. + +"An ill rock, mercer! your words ring right, + Well with my thoughts they chime, +For my two sons to the world to come + It sent before their time." + +"Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor, + And a score of shipwrights free, +For I think to raise a lantern tower + On this rock o' destiny." + +The old Mayor laughed, but sighed alsó; + "Ah, youth," quoth he, "is rash; +Sooner, young man, thou'lt root it out + From the sea that doth it lash. + +"Who sails too near its jagged teeth, + He shall have evil lot; +For the calmest seas that tumble there + Froth like a boiling pot. + +"And the heavier seas few look on nigh, + But straight they lay him in dead; +A seventy-gun-ship, sir!--they'll shoot + Higher than her mast-head. + +"O, beacons sighted in the dark, + They are right welcome things, +And pitchpots flaming on the shore + Show fair as angel wings. + +"Hast gold in hand? then light the land, + It 'longs to thee and me; +But let alone the deadly rock + In God Almighty's sea." + +Yet said he, "Nay,--I must away, + On the rock to set my feet; +My debts are paid, my will I made, + Or ever I did thee greet. + +"If I must die, then let me die + By the rock and not elsewhere; +If I may live, O let me live + To mount my lighthouse stair." + +The old Mayor looked him in the face, + And answered, "Have thy way; +Thy heart is stout, as if round about + It was braced with an iron stay: + +"Have thy will, mercer! choose thy men, + Put off from the storm-rid shore; +God with thee be, or I shall see + Thy face and theirs no more." + +Heavily plunged the breaking wave, + And foam flew up the lea, +Morning and even the drifted snow + Fell into the dark gray sea. + +Winstanley chose him men and gear; + He said, "My time I waste," +For the seas ran seething up the shore, + And the wrack drave on in haste. + +But twenty days he waited and more, + Pacing the strand alone, +Or ever he sat his manly foot + On the rock,--the Eddystone. + +Then he and the sea began their strife, + And worked with power and might: +Whatever the man reared up by day + The sea broke down by night. + +He wrought at ebb with bar and beam, + He sailed to shore at flow; +And at his side, by that same tide, + Came bar and beam alsó. + +"Give in, give in," the old Mayor cried, + "Or thou wilt rue the day." +"Yonder he goes," the townsfolk sighed, + "But the rock will have its way. + +"For all his looks that are so stout, + And his speeches brave and fair, +He may wait on the wind, wait on the wave, + But he'll build no lighthouse there." + +In fine weather and foul weather + The rock his arts did flout, +Through the long days and the short days, + Till all that year ran out. + +With fine weather and foul weather + Another year came in; +"To take his wage," the workmen said, + "We almost count a sin." + +Now March was gone, came April in, + And a sea-fog settled down, +And forth sailed he on a glassy sea, + He sailed from Plymouth town. + +With men and stores he put to sea, + As he was wont to do; +They showed in the fog like ghosts full faint,-- + A ghostly craft and crew. + +And the sea-fog lay and waxed alway, + For a long eight days and more; +"God help our men," quoth the women then; + "For they bide long from shore." + +They paced the Hoe in doubt and dread: + "Where may our mariners be?" +But the brooding fog lay soft as down + Over the quiet sea. + +A Scottish schooner made the port, + The thirteenth day at e'en; +"As I am a man," the captain cried, + "A strange sight I have seen: + +"And a strange sound heard, my masters all, + At sea, in the fog and the rain, +Like shipwrights' hammers tapping low, + Then loud, then low again. + +"And a stately house one instant showed, + Through a rift, on the vessel's lee; +What manner of creatures may be those + That build upon the sea?" + +Then sighed the folk, "The Lord be praised!" + And they flocked to the shore amain; +All over the Hoe that livelong night, + Many stood out in the rain. + +It ceased, and the red sun reared his head, + And the rolling fog did flee; +And, lo! in the offing faint and far + Winstanley's house at sea! + +In fair weather with mirth and cheer + The stately tower uprose; +In foul weather, with hunger and cold, + They were content to close; + +Till up the stair Winstanley went, + To fire the wick afar; +And Plymouth in the silent night + Looked out, and saw her star. + +Winstanley set his foot ashore; + Said he, "My work is done; +I hold it strong to last as long + As aught beneath the sun. + +"But if it fail, as fail it may, + Borne down with ruin and rout, +Another than I shall rear it high, + And brace the girders stout. + +"A better than I shall rear it high, + For now the way is plain, +And tho' I were dead," Winstanley said, + "The light would shine again. + +"Yet, were I fain still to remain, + Watch in my tower to keep, +And tend my light in the stormiest night + That ever did move the deep; + +"And if it stood, why then 'twere good, + Amid their tremulous stirs, +To count each stroke when the mad waves broke, + For cheers of mariners. + +"But if it fell, then this were well, + That I should with it fall; +Since, for my part, I have built my heart + In the courses of its wall. + +"Ay! I were fain, long to remain, + Watch in my tower to keep, +And tend my light in the stormiest night + That ever did move the deep." + +With that Winstanley went his way, + And left the rock renowned, +And summer and winter his pilot star + Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound. + +But it fell out, fell out at last, + That he would put to sea, +To scan once more his lighthouse tower + On the rock o' destiny. + +And the winds woke, and the storm broke, + And wrecks came plunging in; +None in the town that night lay down + Or sleep or rest to win. + +The great mad waves were rolling graves, + And each flung up its dead; +The seething flow was white below, + And black the sky o'erhead. + +And when the dawn, the dull, gray dawn,-- + Broke on the trembling town, +And men looked south to the harbor mouth, + The lighthouse tower was down. + +Down in the deep where he doth sleep, + Who made it shine afar, +And then in the night that drowned its light, + Set, with his pilot star. + +_Many fair tombs in the glorious glooms + At Westminster they show; +The brave and the great lie there in state: + Winstanley lieth low._ + +[Illustration] + + + + +END OF VOL. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume I. + +Author: Jean Ingelow + +Release Date: August 19, 2004 [EBook #13223] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS BY JEAN INGELOW, I. *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland and PG Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + +POEMS + +BY + +JEAN INGELOW + +_IN TWO VOLUMES_ + + + + +VOL. I. + + + + +BOSTON + +ROBERTS BROTHERS + +1896 + + +AUTHOR'S COMPLETE EDITION + + + + +_DEDICATION_ + + +TO + +GEORGE KILGOUR INGELOW + + +YOUR LOVING SISTER + +OFFERS YOU THESE POEMS, PARTLY AS + +AN EXPRESSION OF HER AFFECTION, PARTLY FOR THE + +PLEASURE OF CONNECTING HER EFFORTS + +WITH YOUR NAME + + + +KENSINGTON: _June_, 1863 + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. I. + + +DIVIDED +HONORS.--PART I. +HONORS.--PART II. +REQUIESCAT IN PACE +SUPPER AT THE MILL +SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER +THE STAR'S MONUMENT +A DEAD YEAR +REFLECTIONS +THE LETTER L +THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE (1571) +AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE +SONGS OF SEVEN +A COTTAGE IN A CHINE +PERSEPHONE +A SEA SONG +BROTHERS, AND A SERMON +A WEDDING SONG +THE FOUR BRIDGES +A MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD +STRIFE AND PEACE + +THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE + +SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. + INTRODUCTION.--CHILD AND BOATMAN + THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD BY THE UNSATISFIED HEART + SAND MARTINS + A POET IN HIS YOUTH AND THE CUCKOO-BIRD + A RAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE + THE WARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS + SEA-MEWS IN WINTER-TIME + +LAURANCE + +SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. + INTRODUCTORY.--EVENING + THE FIRST WATCH.--TIRED + THE MIDDLE WATCH + THE MORNING WATCH + CONCLUDING.--EARLY DAWN + +CONTRASTED SONGS. + SAILING BEYOND SEAS + REMONSTRANCE + SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF CHRIST'S RESURRECTION + SONG OF MARGARET + SONG OF THE GOING AWAY + A LILY AND A LUTE + +GLADYS AND HER ISLAND + +SONGS WITH PRELUDES. + WEDLOCK + REGRET + LAMENTATION + DOMINION + FRIENDSHIP + +WINSTANLEY + + + + +DIVIDED. + + +I. + +An empty sky, a world of heather, + Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom; +We two among them wading together, + Shaking out honey, treading perfume. + +Crowds of bees are giddy with clover, + Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet, +Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, + Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. + +Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, + Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, +'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver, + Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. + +We two walk till the purple dieth + And short dry grass under foot is brown. +But one little streak at a distance lieth + Green like a ribbon to prank the down. + + +II. + +Over the grass we stepped unto it, + And God He knoweth how blithe we were! +Never a voice to bid us eschew it: + Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair! + +Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it, + We parted the grasses dewy and sheen; +Drop over drop there filtered and slided + A tiny bright beck that trickled between. + +Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sang to us, + Light was our talk as of faery bells-- +Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us + Down in their fortunate parallels. + +Hand in hand, while the sun peered over, + We lapped the grass on that youngling spring; +Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover, + And said, "Let us follow it westering." + + +III. + +A dappled sky, a world of meadows, + Circling above us the black rooks fly +Forward, backward; lo, their dark shadows + Flit on the blossoming tapestry-- + +Flit on the beck, for her long grass parteth + As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back; +And, lo, the sun like a lover darteth + His flattering smile on her wayward track. + +Sing on! we sing in the glorious weather + Till one steps over the tiny strand, +So narrow, in sooth, that still together + On either brink we go hand in hand. + +The beck grows wider, the hands must sever. + On either margin, our songs all done, +We move apart, while she singeth ever, + Taking the course of the stooping sun. + +He prays, "Come over"--I may not follow; + I cry, "Return"--but he cannot come: +We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow; + Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb. + + +IV. + +A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, + A little talking of outward things +The careless beck is a merry dancer, + Keeping sweet time to the air she sings. + +A little pain when the beck grows wider; + "Cross to me now--for her wavelets swell." +"I may not cross,"--and the voice beside her + Faintly reacheth, though heeded well. + +No backward path; ah! no returning; + No second crossing that ripple's flow: +"Come to me now, for the west is burning; + Come ere it darkens;"--"Ah, no! ah, no!" + +Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching-- + The beck grows wider and swift and deep: +Passionate words as of one beseeching-- + The loud beck drowns them; we walk, and weep. + + +V. + +A yellow moon in splendor drooping, + A tired queen with her state oppressed, +Low by rushes and swordgrass stooping, + Lies she soft on the waves at rest. + +The desert heavens have felt her sadness; + Her earth will weep her some dewy tears; +The wild beck ends her tune of gladness, + And goeth stilly as soul that fears. + +We two walk on in our grassy places + On either marge of the moonlit flood, +With the moon's own sadness in our faces, + Where joy is withered, blossom and bud. + + +VI. + +A shady freshness, chafers whirring, + A little piping of leaf-hid birds; +A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring, + A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds. + +Bare grassy slopes, where kids are tethered + Round valleys like nests all ferny-lined; +Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, + Swell high in their freckled robes behind. + +A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver, + When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide; +A flashing edge for the milk-white river, + The beck, a river--with still sleek tide. + +Broad and white, and polished as silver, + On she goes under fruit-laden trees; +Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver, + And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties. + +Glitters the dew and shines the river, + Up comes the lily and dries her bell; +But two are walking apart forever, + And wave their hands for a mute farewell. + + +VII. + +A braver swell, a swifter sliding; + The river hasteth, her banks recede: +Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding + Bear down the lily and drown the reed. + +Stately prows are rising and bowing + (Shouts of mariners winnow the air), +And level sands for banks endowing + The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. + +While, O my heart! as white sails shiver, + And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide +How hard to follow, with lips that quiver, + That moving speck on the far-off side! + +Farther, farther--I see it--know it-- + My eyes brim over, it melts away: +Only my heart to my heart shall show it + As I walk desolate day by day. + + +VII. + +And yet I know past all doubting, truly-- + A knowledge greater than grief can dim-- +I know, as he loved, he will love me duly-- + Yea better--e'en better than I love him. + +And as I walk by the vast calm river, + The awful river so dread to see, +I say, "Thy breadth and thy depth forever + Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me." + + + + +HONORS.--PART I. + +(_A Scholar is musing on his want of success._) + + +To strive--and fail. Yes, I did strive and fail; + I set mine eyes upon a certain night +To find a certain star--and could not hail + With them its deep-set light. + +Fool that I was! I will rehearse my fault: + I, wingless, thought myself on high to lift +Among the winged--I set these feet that halt + To run against the swift. + +And yet this man, that loved me so, can write-- + That loves me, I would say, can let me see; +Or fain would have me think he counts but light + These Honors lost to me. + + (_The letter of his friend._) +"What are they? that old house of yours which gave + Such welcome oft to me, the sunbeams fall +Yet, down the squares of blue and white which pave + Its hospitable hall. + +"A brave old house! a garden full of bees, + Large dropping poppies, and Queen hollyhocks, +With butterflies for crowns--tree peonies + And pinks and goldilocks. + +"Go, when the shadow of your house is long + Upon the garden--when some new-waked bird. +Pecking and fluttering, chirps a sudden song, + And not a leaf is stirred; + +"But every one drops dew from either edge + Upon its fellow, while an amber ray +Slants up among the tree-tops like a wedge + Of liquid gold--to play + +"Over and under them, and so to fall + Upon that lane of water lying below-- +That piece of sky let in, that you do call + A pond, but which I know + +"To be a deep and wondrous world; for I + Have seen the trees within it--marvellous things +So thick no bird betwixt their leaves could fly + But she would smite her wings;-- + +"Go there, I say; stand at the water's brink, + And shoals of spotted barbel you shall see +Basking between the shadows--look, and think + 'This beauty is for me; + +"'For me this freshness in the morning hours, + For me the water's clear tranquillity; +For me the soft descent of chestnut flowers; + The cushat's cry for me. + +"'The lovely laughter of the wind-swayed wheat + The easy slope of yonder pastoral hill; +The sedgy brook whereby the red kine meet + And wade and drink their fill.' + +"Then saunter down that terrace whence the sea + All fair with wing-like sails you may discern; +Be glad, and say 'This beauty is for me-- + A thing to love and learn. + +"'For me the bounding in of tides; for me + The laying bare of sands when they retreat; +The purple flush of calms, the sparkling glee + When waves and sunshine meet.' + +"So, after gazing, homeward turn, and mount + To that long chamber in the roof; there tell +Your heart the laid-up lore it holds to count + And prize and ponder well. + +"The lookings onward of the race before + It had a past to make it look behind; +Its reverent wonder, and its doubting sore, + Its adoration blind. + +"The thunder of its war-songs, and the glow + Of chants to freedom by the old world sung; +The sweet love cadences that long ago + Dropped from the old-world tongue. + +"And then this new-world lore that takes account + Of tangled star-dust; maps the triple whirl +Of blue and red and argent worlds that mount + And greet the IRISH EARL; + +"Or float across the tube that HERSCHEL sways, + Like pale-rose chaplets, or like sapphire mist; +Or hang or droop along the heavenly ways, + Like scarves of amethyst. + +"O strange it is and wide the new-world lore, + For next it treateth of our native dust! +Must dig out buried monsters, and explore + The green earth's fruitful crust; + +"Must write the story of her seething youth-- + How lizards paddled in her lukewarm seas; +Must show the cones she ripened, and forsooth + Count seasons on her trees; + +"Must know her weight, and pry into her age, + Count her old beach lines by their tidal swell; +Her sunken mountains name, her craters gauge, + Her cold volcanoes tell; + +"And treat her as a ball, that one might pass + From this hand to the other--such a ball +As he could measure with a blade of grass, + And say it was but small! + +"Honors! O friend, I pray you bear with me: + The grass hath time to grow in meadow lands, +And leisurely the opal murmuring sea + Breaks on her yellow sands; + +"And leisurely the ring-dove on her nest + Broods till her tender chick will peck the shell +And leisurely down fall from ferny crest + The dew-drops on the well; + +"And leisurely your life and spirit grew, + With yet the time to grow and ripen free: +No judgment past withdraws that boon from you, + Nor granteth it to me. + +"Still must I plod, and still in cities moil; + From precious leisure, learned leisure far, +Dull my best self with handling common soil; + Yet mine those honors are. + +"Mine they are called; they are a name which means, + 'This man had steady pulses, tranquil nerves: +Here, as in other fields, the most he gleans + Who works and never swerves. + +"We measure not his mind; we cannot tell + What lieth under, over, or beside +The test we put him to; he doth excel, + We know, where he is tried; + +"But, if he boast some farther excellence-- + Mind to create as well as to attain; +To sway his peers by golden eloquence, + As wind doth shift a fane; + +"'To sing among the poets--we are nought: + We cannot drop a line into that sea +And read its fathoms off, nor gauge a thought, + Nor map a simile. + +"'It may be of all voices sublunar + The only one he echoes we did try; +We may have come upon the only star + That twinkles in his sky,' + +"And so it was with me." + O false my friend! + False, false, a random charge, a blame undue; +Wrest not fair reasoning to a crooked end: + False, false, as you are true! + +But I read on: "And so it was with me; + Your golden constellations lying apart +They neither hailed nor greeted heartily, + Nor noted on their chart. + +"And yet to you and not to me belong + Those finer instincts that, like second sight +And hearing, catch creation's undersong, + And see by inner light. + +"You are a well, whereon I, gazing, see + Reflections of the upper heavens--a well +From whence come deep, deep echoes up to me-- + Some underwave's low swell. + +"I cannot soar into the heights you show, + Nor dive among the deeps that you reveal; +But it is much that high things ARE to know, + That deep things ARE to feel. + +"'Tis yours, not mine, to pluck out of your breast + Some human truth, whose workings recondite +Were unattired in words, and manifest + And hold it forth to light + +"And cry, 'Behold this thing that I have found,' + And though they knew not of it till that day, +Nor should have done with no man to expound + Its meaning, yet they say, + +"'We do accept it: lower than the shoals + We skim, this diver went, nor did create, +But find it for us deeper in our souls + Than we can penetrate.' + +"You were to me the world's interpreter, + The man that taught me Nature's unknown tongue, +And to the notes of her wild dulcimer + First set sweet words, and sung. + +"And what am I to you? A steady hand + To hold, a steadfast heart to trust withal; +Merely a man that loves you, and will stand + By you, whatever befall. + +"But need we praise his tendance tutelar + Who feeds a flame that warms him? Yet 'tis true +I love you for the sake of what you are, + And not of what you do:-- + +"As heaven's high twins, whereof in Tyrian blue + The one revolveth: through his course immense +Might love his fellow of the damask hue, + For like, and difference. + +"For different pathways evermore decreed + To intersect, but not to interfere; +For common goal, two aspects, and one speed, + One centre and one year; + +"For deep affinities, for drawings strong, + That by their nature each must needs exert; +For loved alliance, and for union long, + That stands before desert. + +"And yet desert makes brighter not the less, + For nearest his own star he shall not fail +To think those rays unmatched for nobleness, + That distance counts but pale. + +"Be pale afar, since still to me you shine, + And must while Nature's eldest law shall hold;"-- +Ah, there's the thought which makes his random line + Dear as refined gold! + +Then shall I drink this draft of oxymel, + Part sweet, part sharp? Myself o'erprized to know +Is sharp; the cause is sweet, and truth to tell + Few would that cause forego, + +Which is, that this of all the men on earth + Doth love me well enough to count me great-- +To think my soul and his of equal girth-- + O liberal estimate! + +And yet it is so; he is bound to me, + For human love makes aliens near of kin; +By it I rise, there is equality: + I rise to thee, my twin. + +"Take courage"--courage! ay, my purple peer + I will take courage; for thy Tyrian rays +Refresh me to the heart, and strangely dear + And healing is thy praise. + +"Take courage," quoth he, "and respect the mind + Your Maker gave, for good your fate fulfil; +The fate round many hearts your own to wind." + Twin soul, I will! I will! + +[Illustration] + + + + +HONORS.--PART II. + +(_The Answer._) + + +As one who, journeying, checks the rein in haste + Because a chasm doth yawn across his way +Too wide for leaping, and too steeply faced + For climber to essay-- + +As such an one, being brought to sudden stand, + Doubts all his foregone path if 'twere the true, +And turns to this and then to the other hand + As knowing not what to do,-- + +So I, being checked, am with my path at strife + Which led to such a chasm, and there doth end. +False path! it cost me priceless years of life, + My well-beloved friend. + +There fell a flute when Ganymede went up-- + The flute that he was wont to play upon: +It dropped beside the jonquil's milk-white cup, + And freckled cowslips wan-- + +Dropped from his heedless hand when, dazed and mute, + He sailed upon the eagle's quivering wing, +Aspiring, panting--aye, it dropped--the flute + Erewhile a cherished thing. + +Among the delicate grasses and the bells + Of crocuses that spotted a rill side, +I picked up such a flute, and its clear swells + To my young lips replied. + +I played thereon, and its response was sweet; + But lo, they took from me that solacing reed. +"O shame!" they said; "such music is not meet; + Go up like Ganymede. + +"Go up, despise these humble grassy things, + Sit on the golden edge of yonder cloud." +Alas! though ne'er for me those eagle wings + Stooped from their eyry proud. + +My flute! and flung away its echoes sleep; + But as for me, my life-pulse beateth low; +And like a last-year's leaf enshrouded deep + Under the drifting snow, + +Or like some vessel wrecked upon the sand + Of torrid swamps, with all her merchandise, +And left to rot betwixt the sea and land, + My helpless spirit lies. + +Rueing, I think for what then was I made; + What end appointed for--what use designed? +Now let me right this heart that was bewrayed-- + Unveil these eyes gone blind. + +My well-beloved friend, at noon to-day + Over our cliffs a white mist lay unfurled, +So thick, one standing on their brink might say, + Lo, here doth end the world. + +A white abyss beneath, and nought beside; + Yet, hark! a cropping sound not ten feet down: +Soon I could trace some browsing lambs that hied + Through rock-paths cleft and brown. + +And here and there green tufts of grass peered through, + Salt lavender, and sea thrift; then behold +The mist, subsiding ever, bared to view + A beast of giant mould. + +She seemed a great sea-monster lying content + With all her cubs about her: but deep--deep-- +The subtle mist went floating; its descent + Showed the world's end was steep. + +It shook, it melted, shaking more, till, lo, + The sprawling monster was a rock; her brood +Were boulders, whereon sea-mews white as snow + Sat watching for their food. + +Then once again it sank, its day was done: + Part rolled away, part vanished utterly, +And glimmering softly under the white sun, + Behold! a great white sea. + +O that the mist which veileth my To-come + Would so dissolve and yield unto mine eyes +A worthy path! I'd count not wearisome + Long toil, nor enterprise, + +But strain to reach it; ay, with wrestlings stout + And hopes that even in the dark will grow +(Like plants in dungeons, reaching feelers out), + And ploddings wary and slow. + +Is there such path already made to fit + The measure of my foot? It shall atone +For much, if I at length may light on it + And know it for mine own. + +But is there none? why, then, 'tis more than well: + And glad at heart myself will hew one out, +Let me he only sure; for, sooth to tell, + The sorest dole is doubt-- + +Doubt, a blank twilight of the heart, which mars + All sweetest colors in its dimness same; +A soul-mist, through whose rifts familiar stare + Beholding, we misname. + +A ripple on the inner sea, which shakes + Those images that on its breast reposed; +A fold upon a wind-swayed flag, that breaks + The motto it disclosed. + +O doubt! O doubt! I know my destiny; + I feel thee fluttering bird-like in my breast; +I cannot loose, but I will sing to thee, + And flatter thee to rest. + +There is no certainty, "my bosom's guest," + No proving for the things whereof ye wot; +For, like the dead to sight unmanifest, + They are, and they are not. + +But surely as they are, for God is truth, + And as they are not, for we saw them die, +So surely from the heaven drops light for youth, + If youth will walk thereby. + +And can I see this light? It may be so; + "But see it thus and thus," my fathers said. +The living do not rule this world; ah no! + It is the dead, the dead. + +Shall I be slave to every noble soul, + Study the dead, and to their spirits bend; +Or learn to read my own heart's folded scroll, + And make self-rule my end? + +Thought from _without_--O shall I take on trust, + And life from others modelled steal or win; +Or shall I heave to light, and clear of rust + My true life from _within_? + +O, let me be myself! But where, O where, + Under this heap of precedent, this mound +Of customs, modes, and maxims, cumbrance rare, + Shall the Myself be found? + +O thou _Myself_, thy fathers thee debarred + None of their wisdom, but their folly came +Therewith; they smoothed thy path, but made it hard + For thee to quit the same. + +With glosses they obscured God's natural truth, + And with tradition tarnished His revealed; +With vain protections they endangered youth, + With layings bare they sealed. + +What aileth thee, myself? Alas! thy hands + Are tied with old opinions--heir and son, +Thou hast inherited thy father's lands + And all his debts thereon. + +O that some power would give me Adam's eyes! + O for the straight simplicity of Eve! +For I see nought, or grow, poor fool, too wise + With seeing to believe. + +Exemplars may be heaped until they hide + The rules that they were made to render plain; +Love may be watched, her nature to decide, + Until love's self doth wane. + +Ah me! and when forgotten and foregone + We leave the learning of departed days, +And cease the generations past to con, + Their wisdom and their ways,-- + +When fain to learn we lean into the dark, + And grope to feel the floor of the abyss, +Or find the secret boundary lines which mark + Where soul and matter kiss-- + +Fair world! these puzzled souls of ours grow weak + With beating their bruised wings against the rim +That bounds their utmost flying, when they seek + The distant and the dim. + +We pant, we strain like birds against their wires; + Are sick to reach the vast and the beyond;-- +And what avails, if still to our desires + Those far-off gulfs respond? + +Contentment comes not therefore; still there lies + An outer distance when the first is hailed, +And still forever yawns before our eyes + An UTMOST--that is veiled. + +Searching those edges of the universe, + We leave the central fields a fallow part; +To feed the eye more precious things amerce, + And starve the darkened heart. + +Then all goes wrong: the old foundations rock; + One scorns at him of old who gazed unshod; +One striking with a pickaxe thinks the shock + Shall move the seat of God. + +A little way, a very little way + (Life is so short), they dig into the rind, +And they are very sorry, so they say,-- + Sorry for what they find. + +But truth is sacred--ay, and must be told: + There is a story long beloved of man; +We must forego it, for it will not hold-- + Nature had no such plan. + +And then, if "God hath said it," some should cry, + We have the story from the fountain-head: +Why, then, what better than the old reply, + The first "Yea, HATH God said?" + +The garden, O the garden, must it go, + Source of our hope and our most dear regret? +The ancient story, must it no more show + How man may win it yet? + +And all upon the Titan child's decree, + The baby science, born but yesterday, +That in its rash unlearned infancy + With shells and stones at play, + +And delving in the outworks of this world, + And little crevices that it could reach, +Discovered certain bones laid up, and furled + Under an ancient beach, + +And other waifs that lay to its young mind + Some fathoms lower than they ought to lie, +By gain whereof it could not fail to find + Much proof of ancientry, + +Hints at a Pedigree withdrawn and vast, + Terrible deeps, and old obscurities, +Or soulless origin, and twilight passed + In the primeval seas, + +Whereof it tells, as thinking it hath been + Of truth not meant for man inheritor; +As if this knowledge Heaven had ne'er foreseen + And not provided for! + +Knowledge ordained to live! although the fate + Of much that went before it was--to die, +And be called ignorance by such as wait + Till the next drift comes by. + +O marvellous credulity of man! + If God indeed kept secret, couldst thou know +Or follow up the mighty Artisan + Unless He willed it so? + +And canst thou of the Maker think in sooth + That of the Made He shall be found at fault, +And dream of wresting from Him hidden truth + By force or by assault? + +But if He keeps not secret--if thine eyes + He openeth to His wondrous work of late-- +Think how in soberness thy wisdom lies, + And have the grace to wait. + +Wait, nor against the half-learned lesson fret, + Nor chide at old belief as if it erred, +Because thou canst not reconcile as yet + The Worker and the word. + +Either the Worker did in ancient days + Give us the word, His tale of love and might; +(And if in truth He gave it us, who says + He did not give it right?) + +Or else He gave it not, and then indeed + We know not if HE is--by whom our years +Are portioned, who the orphan moons doth lead, + And the unfathered spheres. + +We sit unowned upon our burial sod + And know not whence we come or whose we be, +Comfortless mourners for the mount of God, + The rocks of Calvary: + +Bereft of heaven, and of the long-loved page + Wrought us by some who thought with death to cope. +Despairing comforters, from age to age + Sowing the seeds of hope: + +Gracious deceivers, who have lifted us + Out of the slough where passed our unknown youth. +Beneficent liars, who have gifted us + With sacred love of truth! + +Farewell to them: yet pause ere thou unmoor + And set thine ark adrift on unknown seas; +How wert thou bettered so, or more secure + Thou, and thy destinies? + +And if thou searchest, and art made to fear + Facing of unread riddles dark and hard, +And mastering not their majesty austere, + Their meaning locked and barred: + +How would it make the weight and wonder less, + If, lifted from immortal shoulders down, +The worlds were cast on seas of emptiness + In realms without a crown. + +And (if there were no God) were left to rue + Dominion of the air and of the fire? +Then if there be a God, "Let God be true, + And every man a liar." + +But as for me, I do not speak as one + That is exempt: I am with life at feud: +My heart reproacheth me, as there were none + Of so small gratitude. + +Wherewith shall I console thee, heart o' mine. + And still thy yearning and resolve thy doubt? +That which I know, and that which I divine, + Alas! have left thee out. + +I have aspired to know the might of God, + As if the story of His love was furled, +Nor sacred foot the grasses e'er had trod + Of this redeemed world:-- + +Have sunk my thoughts as lead into the deep, + To grope for that abyss whence evil grew, +And spirits of ill, with eyes that cannot weep, + Hungry and desolate flew; + +As if their legions did not one day crowd + The death-pangs of the Conquering Good to see! +As if a sacred head had never bowed + In death for man--for me; + +Nor ransomed back the souls beloved, the sons + Of men, from thraldom with the nether kings +In that dark country where those evil ones + Trail their unhallowed wings. + +And didst Thou love the race that loved not Thee, + And didst Thou take to heaven a human brow? +Dost plead with man's voice by the marvellous sea? + Art Thou his kinsman now? + +O God, O kinsman loved, but not enough! + O man, with eyes majestic after death, +Whose feet have toiled along our pathways rough, + Whose lips drawn human breath! + +By that one likeness which is ours and Thine, + By that one nature which doth hold us kin, +By that high heaven where, sinless, Thou dost shine + To draw us sinners in, + +By Thy last silence in the judgment-hall, + By long foreknowledge of the deadly tree, +By darkness, by the wormwood and the gall, + I pray Thee visit me. + +Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away, + Die ere the guest adored she entertain-- +Lest eyes which never saw Thine earthly day + Should miss Thy heavenly reign. + +Come, weary-eyed from seeking in the night + Thy wanderers strayed upon the pathless wold, +Who wounded, dying, cry to Thee for light, + And cannot find their fold. + +And deign, O Watcher, with the sleepless brow, + Pathetic in its yearning--deign reply: +Is there, O is there aught that such as Thou + Wouldst take from such as I? + +Are there no briers across Thy pathway thrust? + Are there no thorns that compass it about? +Nor any stones that Thou wilt deign to trust + My hands to gather out? + +O if Thou wilt, and if such bliss might be, + It were a cure for doubt, regret, delay-- +Let my lost pathway go--what aileth me?-- + There is a better way. + +What though unmarked the happy workman toil, + And break unthanked of man the stubborn clod? +It is enough, for sacred is the soil, + Dear are the hills of God. + +Far better in its place the lowliest bird + Should sing aright to Him the lowliest song, +Than that a seraph strayed should take the word + And sing His glory wrong. + +Friend, it is time to work. I say to thee, + Thou dost all earthly good by much excel; +Thou and God's blessing are enough for me: + My work, my work--farewell! + + + + +REQUIESCAT IN PACE! + + +My heart is sick awishing and awaiting: + The lad took up his knapsack, he went, he went his way; +And I looked on for his coming, as a prisoner through the grating + Looks and longs and longs and wishes for its opening day. + +On the wild purple mountains, all alone with no other, + The strong terrible mountains he longed, he longed to be; +And he stooped to kiss his father, and he stooped to kiss his mother, + And till I said, "Adieu, sweet Sir," he quite forgot me. + +He wrote of their white raiment, the ghostly capes that screen them, + Of the storm winds that beat them, their thunder-rents and scars, +And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes atween them, + And fields, where grow God's gentian bells, and His crocus stars. + +He wrote of frail gauzy clouds, that drop on them like fleeces, + And make green their fir forests, and feed their mosses hoar; +Or come sailing up the valleys, and get wrecked and go to pieces, + Like sloops against their cruel strength: then he wrote no more. + +O the silence that came next, the patience and long aching! + They never said so much as "He was a dear loved son;" +Not the father to the mother moaned, that dreary stillness breaking: + "Ah! wherefore did he leave us so--this, our only one." + +They sat within, as waiting, until the neighbors prayed them, + At Cromer, by the sea-coast, 'twere peace and change to be; +And to Cromer, in their patience, or that urgency affrayed them, + Or because the tidings tarried, they came, and took me. + +It was three months and over since the dear lad had started: + On the green downs at Cromer I sat to see the view; +On an open space of herbage, where the ling and fern had parted, + Betwixt the tall white lighthouse towers, the old and the new. + +Below me lay the wide sea, the scarlet sun was stooping, + And he dyed the waste water, as with a scarlet dye; +And he dyed the lighthouse towers; every bird with white wing swooping + Took his colors, and the cliffs did, and the yawning sky. + +Over grass came that strange flush, and over ling and heather, + Over flocks of sheep and lambs, and over Cromer town; +And each filmy cloudlet crossing drifted like a scarlet feather + Torn from the folded wings of clouds, while he settled down. + +When I looked, I dared not sigh:--In the light of God's splendor, + With His daily blue and gold, who am I? what am I? +But that passion and outpouring seemed an awful sign and tender, + Like the blood of the Redeemer, shown on earth and sky. + +O for comfort, O the waste of a long doubt and trouble! + On that sultry August eve trouble had made me meek; +I was tired of my sorrow--O so faint, for it was double + In the weight of its oppression, that I could not speak! + +And a little comfort grew, while the dimmed eyes were feeding, + And the dull ears with murmur of water satisfied; +But a dream came slowly nigh me, all my thoughts and fancy leading + Across the bounds of waking life to the other side. + +And I dreamt that I looked out, to the waste waters turning, + And saw the flakes of scarlet from wave to wave tossed on; +And the scarlet mix with azure, where a heap of gold lay burning + On the clear remote sea reaches; for the sun was gone. + +Then I thought a far-off shout dropped across the still water-- + A question as I took it, for soon an answer came +From the tall white ruined lighthouse: "If it be the old man's daughter + That we wot of," ran the answer, "what then--who's to blame?" + +I looked up at the lighthouse all roofless and storm-broken: + A great white bird sat on it, with neck stretched out to sea; +Unto somewhat which was sailing in a skiff the bird had spoken, + And a trembling seized my spirit, for they talked of me. + +I was the old man's daughter, the bird went on to name him; + "He loved to count the starlings as he sat in the sun; +Long ago he served with Nelson, and his story did not shame him: + Ay, the old man was a good man--and his work was done." + +The skiff was like a crescent, ghost of some moon departed, + Frail, white, she rocked and curtseyed as the red wave she crossed, +And the thing within sat paddling, and the crescent dipped and darted, + Flying on, again was shouting, but the words were lost. + +I said, "That thing is hooded; I could hear but that floweth + The great hood below its mouth:" then the bird made reply. +"If they know not, more's the pity, for the little shrew-mouse knoweth, + And the kite knows, and the eagle, and the glead and pye." + +And he stooped to whet his beak on the stones of the coping; + And when once more the shout came, in querulous tones he spake, +"What I said was 'more's the pity;' if the heart be long past hoping, + Let it say of death, 'I know it,' or doubt on and break. + +"Men must die--one dies by day, and near him moans his mother, + They dig his grave, tread it down, and go from it full loth: +And one dies about the midnight, and the wind moans, and no other, + And the snows give him a burial--and God loves them both. + +"The first hath no advantage--it shall not soothe his slumber + That a lock of his brown hair his father aye shall keep; +For the last, he nothing grudgeth, it shall nought his quiet cumber, + That in a golden mesh of HIS callow eaglets sleep. + +"Men must die when all is said, e'en the kite and glead know it, + And the lad's father knew it, and the lad, the lad too; +It was never kept a secret, waters bring it and winds blow it, + And he met it on the mountain--why then make ado?" + +With that he spread his white wings, and swept across the water, + Lit upon the hooded head, and it and all went down; +And they laughed as they went under, and I woke, "the old man's daughter." + And looked across the slope of grass, and at Cromer town. + +And I said, "Is that the sky, all gray and silver-suited?" + And I thought, "Is that the sea that lies so white and wan? +I have dreamed as I remember: give me time--I was reputed + Once to have a steady courage--O, I fear 'tis gone!" + +And I said, "Is this my heart? if it be, low 'tis beating + So he lies on the mountain, hard by the eagles' brood; +I have had a dream this evening, while the white and gold were fleeting, + But I need not, need not tell it--where would be the good? + +"Where would be the good to them, his father and his mother? + For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth to them still. +While a lonely watch-fire smoulders, who its dying red would smother, + That gives what little light there is to a darksome hill?" + +I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor falter, + But slowly in the twilight I came to Cromer town. +What can wringing of the hands do that which is ordained to alter? + He had climbed, had climbed the mountain, he would ne'er come down. + +But, O my first, O my best, I could not choose but love thee: + O, to be a wild white bird, and seek thy rocky bed! +From my breast I'd give thee burial, pluck the down and spread above thee; + I would sit and sing thy requiem on the mountain head. + +Fare thee well, my love of loves! would I had died before thee! + O, to be at least a cloud, that near thee I might flow, +Solemnly approach the mountain, weep away my being o'er thee, + And veil thy breast with icicles, and thy brow with snow! + + + + +SUPPER AT THE MILL. + + +_Mother._ +Well, Frances. + +_Frances._ +Well, good mother, how are you? + + _M._ I'm hearty, lass, but warm; the weather's warm: +I think 'tis mostly warm on market days. +I met with George behind the mill: said he, +"Mother, go in and rest awhile." + + _F._ Ay, do, +And stay to supper; put your basket down. + + _M._ Why, now, it is not heavy? + + _F._ Willie, man, +Get up and kiss your Granny. Heavy, no! +Some call good churning luck; but, luck or skill, +Your butter mostly comes as firm and sweet +As if 'twas Christmas. So you sold it all? + + _M._ All but this pat that I put by for George; +He always loved my butter. + + _F._ That he did. + + _M._ And has your speckled hen brought off her brood? + + _F._ Not yet; but that old duck I told you of, +She hatched eleven out of twelve to-day. + + _Child._ And, Granny, they're so yellow. + + _M._ Ay, my lad, +Yellow as gold--yellow as Willie's hair. + + _C._ They're all mine, Granny, father says they're mine. + + _M._ To think of that! + + _F._ Yes, Granny, only think! +Why, father means to sell them when they're fat. +And put the money in the savings-bank, +And all against our Willie goes to school: +But Willie would not touch them--no, not he; +He knows that father would be angry else. + + _C._ But I want one to play with--O, I want +A little yellow duck to take to bed! + + _M._ What! would ye rob the poor old mother, then? + + _F._ Now, Granny, if you'll hold the babe awhile; +'Tis time I took up Willie to his crib. + _[Exit FRANCES._ + +[_Mother sings to the infant_.] + + Playing on the virginals, + Who but I? Sae glad, sae free, + Smelling for all cordials, + The green mint and marjorie; + Set among the budding broom, + Kingcup and daffodilly; + By my side I made him room: + O love my Willie! + + "Like me, love me, girl o' gowd," + Sang he to my nimble strain; + Sweet his ruddy lips o'erflowed + Till my heartstrings rang again: + By the broom, the bonny broom, + Kingcup and daffodilly, + In my heart I made him room: + O love my Willie! + + "Pipe and play, dear heart," sang he, + "I must go, yet pipe and play; + Soon I'll come and ask of thee + For an answer yea or nay;" + And I waited till the flocks + Panted in yon waters stilly, + And the corn stood in the shocks: + O love my Willie! + + I thought first when thou didst come + I would wear the ring for thee, + But the year told out its sum, + Ere again thou sat'st by me; + Thou hadst nought to ask that day + By kingcup and daffodilly; + I said neither yea nor nay: + O love my Willie! + +_Enter_ GEORGE. + + _George_. Well, mother, 'tis a fortnight now, or more, +Since I set eyes on you. + + _M._ Ay, George, my dear, +I reckon you've been busy: so have we. + + _G._ And how does father? + + _M._ He gets through his work. +But he grows stiff, a little stiff, my dear; +He's not so young, you know, by twenty years +As I am--not so young by twenty years, +And I'm past sixty. + + _G._ Yet he's hale and stout, +And seems to take a pleasure in his pipe; +And seems to take a pleasure in his cows, +And a pride, too. + + _M._ And well he may, my dear. + + _G._ Give me the little one, he tires your arm, +He's such a kicking, crowing, wakeful rogue, +He almost wears our lives out with his noise +Just at day-dawning, when we wish to sleep. +What! you young villain, would you clench your fist +In father's curls? a dusty father, sure, +And you're as clean as wax. + Ay, you may laugh; +But if you live a seven years more or so, +These hands of yours will all be brown and scratched +With climbing after nest-eggs. They'll go down +As many rat-holes as are round the mere; +And you'll love mud, all manner of mud and dirt, +As your father did afore you, and you'll wade +After young water-birds; and you'll get bogged +Setting of eel-traps, and you'll spoil your clothes, +And come home torn and dripping: then, you know, +You'll feel the stick--you'll feel the stick, my lad! + +_Enter FRANCES._ + + _F._ You should not talk so to the blessed babe-- +How can you, George? why, he may be in heaven +Before the time you tell of. + + _M._ Look at him: +So earnest, such an eager pair of eyes! +He thrives, my dear. + + _F._ Yes, that he does, thank God +My children are all strong. + + _M._ 'Tis much to say; +Sick children fret their mother's hearts to shreds, +And do no credit to their keep nor care. +Where is your little lass? + + _F._ Your daughter came +And begged her of us for a week or so. + + _M._ Well, well, she might be wiser, that she might, +For she can sit at ease and pay her way; +A sober husband, too--a cheerful man-- +Honest as ever stepped, and fond of her; +Yet she is never easy, never glad, +Because she has not children. Well-a-day! +If she could know how hard her mother worked, +And what ado I had, and what a moil +With my half-dozen! Children, ay, forsooth, +They bring their own love with them when they come, +But if they come not there is peace and rest; +The pretty lambs! and yet she cries for more: +Why the world's full of them, and so is heaven-- +They are not rare. + +_G._ No, mother, not at all; +But Hannah must not keep our Fanny long-- +She spoils her. + + _M._ Ah! folks spoil their children now; +When I was a young woman 'twas not so; +We made our children fear us, made them work, +Kept them in order. + + _G._ Were not proud of them-- +Eh, mother? + + _M._ I set store by mine, 'tis true, +But then I had good cause. + + _G._ My lad, d'ye hear? +Your Granny was not proud, by no means proud! +She never spoilt your father--no, not she, +Nor ever made him sing at harvest-home, +Nor at the forge, nor at the baker's shop, +Nor to the doctor while she lay abed +Sick, and he crept upstairs to share her broth. + + _M._ Well, well, you were my youngest, and, what's more +Your father loved to hear you sing--he did, +Although, good man, he could not tell one tune +From the other. + + _F._ No, he got his voice from you: +Do use it, George, and send the child to sleep. + + _G._ What must I sing? + + _F._ The ballad of the man +That is so shy he cannot speak his mind. + + _G._ Ay, of the purple grapes and crimson leaves; +But, mother, put your shawl and bonnet off. +And, Frances, lass, I brought some cresses in: +Just wash them, toast the bacon, break some eggs, +And let's to supper shortly. + +[_Sings._] + + My neighbor White--we met to-day-- + He always had a cheerful way, + As if he breathed at ease; + My neighbor White lives down the glade, + And I live higher, in the shade + Of my old walnut-trees. + + So many lads and lasses small, + To feed them all, to clothe them all, + Must surely tax his wit; + I see his thatch when I look out, + His branching roses creep about, + And vines half smother it. + + There white-haired urchins climb his eaves, + And little watch-fires heap with leaves, + And milky filberts hoard; + And there his oldest daughter stands + With downcast eyes and skilful hands + Before her ironing-board. + + She comforts all her mother's days, + And with her sweet obedient ways + She makes her labor light; + So sweet to hear, so fair to see! + O, she is much too good for me, + That lovely Lettice White! + + 'Tis hard to feel one's self a fool! + With that same lass I went to school-- + I then was great and wise; + She read upon an easier book, + And I--I never cared to look + Into her shy blue eyes. + + And now I know they must be there + Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair + That will not raise their rim: + If maids be shy, he cures who can; + But if a man be shy--a man-- + Why then the worse for him! + + My mother cries, "For such a lad + A wife is easy to be had + And always to be found; + A finer scholar scarce can be, + And for a foot and leg," says she, + "He beats the country round! + + "My handsome boy must stoop his head + To clear her door whom he would wed." + Weak praise, but fondly sung! + "O mother! scholars sometimes fail-- + And what can foot and leg avail + To him that wants a tongue?" + + When by her ironing-board I sit, + Her little sisters round me flit, + And bring me forth their store; + Dark cluster grapes of dusty blue, + And small sweet apples bright of hue + And crimson to the core. + + But she abideth silent, fair, + All shaded by her flaxen hair + The blushes come and go; + I look, and I no more can speak + Than the red sun that on her cheek + Smiles as he lieth low. + + Sometimes the roses by the latch + Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch + Come sailing down like birds; + When from their drifts her board I clear, + She thanks me, but I scarce can hear + The shyly uttered words. + + Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White + By daylight and by candlelight + When we two were apart. + Some better day come on apace, + And let me tell her face to face, + "Maiden, thou hast my heart." + + How gently rock yon poplars high + Against the reach of primrose sky + With heaven's pale candles stored! + She sees them all, sweet Lettice White; + I'll e'en go sit again to-night + Beside her ironing-board! + +Why, you young rascal! who would think it, now? +No sooner do I stop than you look up. +What would you have your poor old father do? +'Twas a brave song, long-winded, and not loud. + + _M._ He heard the bacon sputter on the fork, +And heard his mother's step across the floor. +Where did you get that song?--'tis new to me. + + _G._ I bought it of a peddler. + + _M._ Did you so? +Well, you were always for the love-songs, George. + + _F._ My dear, just lay his head upon your arm. +And if you'll pace and sing two minutes more +He needs must sleep--his eyes are full of sleep. + + _G._ Do you sing, mother. + + _F._ Ay, good mother, do; +'Tis long since we have heard you. + + _M._ Like enough; +I'm an old woman, and the girls and lads +I used to sing to sleep o'ertop me now. +What should I sing for? + + _G._ Why, to pleasure us. +Sing in the chimney corner, where you sit, +And I'll pace gently with the little one. + +[_Mother sings._] + + When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, + My old sorrow wakes and cries, + For I know there is dawn in the far, far north, + And a scarlet sun doth rise; + Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, + And the icy founts run free, + And the bergs begin to bow their heads, + And plunge, and sail in the sea. + + O my lost love, and my own, own love, + And my love that loved me so! + Is there never a chink in the world above + Where they listen for words from below? + Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore, + I remember all that I said, + And now thou wilt hear me no more--no more + Till the sea gives up her dead. + + Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail + To the ice-fields and the snow; + Thou wert sad, for thy love did not avail, + And the end I could not know; + How could I tell I should love thee to-day, + Whom that day I held not dear? + How could I know I should love thee away + When I did not love thee anear? + + We shall walk no more through the sodden plain + With the faded bents o'erspread, + We shall stand no more by the seething main + While the dark wrack drives overhead; + We shall part no more in the wind and the rain, + Where thy last farewell was said; + But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again + When the sea gives up her dead. + + _F._ Asleep at last, and time he was, indeed. +Turn back the cradle-quilt, and lay him in; +And, mother, will you please to draw your chair?-- +The supper's ready. + + + + +SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. + + +While ripening corn grew thick and deep, +And here and there men stood to reap, +One morn I put my heart to sleep, + And to the lanes I took my way. +The goldfinch on a thistle-head +Stood scattering seedlets while she fed; +The wrens their pretty gossip spread, + Or joined a random roundelay. + +On hanging cobwebs shone the dew, +And thick the wayside clovers grew; +The feeding bee had much to do, + So fast did honey-drops exude: +She sucked and murmured, and was gone, +And lit on other blooms anon, +The while I learned a lesson on + The source and sense of quietude. + +For sheep-bells chiming from a wold, +Or bleat of lamb within its fold, +Or cooing of love-legends old + To dove-wives make not quiet less; +Ecstatic chirp of winged thing, +Or bubbling of the water-spring, +Are sounds that more than silence bring + Itself and its delightsomeness. + +While thus I went to gladness fain, +I had but walked a mile or twain +Before my heart woke up again, + As dreaming she had slept too late; +The morning freshness that she viewed +With her own meanings she endued, +And touched with her solicitude + The natures she did meditate. + +"If quiet is, for it I wait; +To it, ah! let me wed my fate, +And, like a sad wife, supplicate + My roving lord no more to flee; +If leisure is--but, ah! 'tis not-- +'Tis long past praying for, God wot; +The fashion of it men forgot, + About the age of chivalry. + +"Sweet is the leisure of the bird; +She craves no time for work deferred; +Her wings are not to aching stirred + Providing for her helpless ones. +Fair is the leisure of the wheat; +All night the damps about it fleet; +All day it basketh in the heat, + And grows, and whispers orisons. + +"Grand is the leisure of the earth; +She gives her happy myriads birth, +And after harvest fears not dearth, + But goes to sleep in snow-wreaths dim. +Dread is the leisure up above +The while He sits whose name is Love, +And waits, as Noah did, for the dove, + To wit if she would fly to him. + +"He waits for us, while, houseless things, +We beat about with bruised wings +On the dark floods and water-springs, + The ruined world, the desolate sea; +With open windows from the prime +All night, all day, He waits sublime, +Until the fulness of the time + Decreed from His eternity. + +"Where is OUR leisure?--give us rest. +Where is the quiet we possessed? +We must have had it once--were blest + With peace whose phantoms yet entice. +Sorely the mother of mankind +Longed for the garden left behind; +For we prove yet some yearnings blind + Inherited from Paradise." + +"Hold, heart!" I cried; "for trouble sleeps; +I hear no sound of aught that weeps; +I will not look into thy deeps-- + I am afraid, I am afraid!" +"Afraid!" she saith; "and yet 'tis true +That what man dreads he still should view-- +Should do the thing he fears to do, + And storm the ghosts in ambuscade." + +"What good?" I sigh. "Was reason meant +To straighten branches that are bent, +Or soothe an ancient discontent, + The instinct of a race dethroned? +Ah! doubly should that instinct go +Must the four rivers cease to flow, +Nor yield those rumors sweet and low + Wherewith man's life is undertoned." + +"Yet had I but the past," she cries, +"And it was lost, I would arise +And comfort me some other wise. + But more than loss about me clings: +I am but restless with my race; +The whispers from a heavenly place, +Once dropped among us, seem to chase + Rest with their prophet-visitings. + +"The race is like a child, as yet +Too young for all things to be set +Plainly before him with no let + Or hindrance meet for his degree; +But nevertheless by much too old +Not to perceive that men withhold +More of the story than is told, + And so infer a mystery. + +"If the Celestials daily fly +With messages on missions high, +And float, our masts and turrets nigh, + Conversing on Heaven's great intents; +What wonder hints of coming things, +Whereto man's hope and yearning clings, +Should drop like feathers from their wings + And give us vague presentiments? + +"And as the waxing moon can take +The tidal waters in her wake, +And lead them round and round to break + Obedient to her drawings dim; +So may the movements of His mind, +The first Great Father of mankind, +Affect with answering movements blind, + And draw the souls that breathe by Him. + +"We had a message long ago +That like a river peace should flow, +And Eden bloom again below. + We heard, and we began to wait: +Full soon that message men forgot; +Yet waiting is their destined lot, +And waiting for they know not what + They strive with yearnings passionate. + +"Regret and faith alike enchain; +There was a loss, there comes a gain; +We stand at fault betwixt the twain, + And that is veiled for which we pant. +Our lives are short, our ten times seven; +We think the councils held in heaven +Sit long, ere yet that blissful leaven + Work peace amongst the militant. + +"Then we blame God that sin should be; +Adam began it at the tree, +'The woman whom THOU gavest me; + And we adopt his dark device. +O long Thou tarriest! come and reign, +And bring forgiveness in Thy train, +And give us in our hands again + The apples of Thy Paradise." + +"Far-seeing heart! if that be all +The happy things that did not fall," +I sighed, "from every coppice call + They never from that garden went. +Behold their joy, so comfort thee, +Behold the blossom and the bee, +For they are yet as good and free + As when poor Eve was innocent + +"But reason thus: 'If we sank low, +If the lost garden we forego, +Each in his day, nor ever know + But in our poet souls its face; +Yet we may rise until we reach +A height untold of in its speech-- +A lesson that it could not teach + Learn in this darker dwelling-place. + +"And reason on: 'We take the spoil; +Loss made us poets, and the soil +Taught us great patience in our toil, + And life is kin to God through death. +Christ were not One with us but so, +And if bereft of Him we go; +Dearer the heavenly mansions grow, + HIS home, to man that wandereth.' + +"Content thee so, and ease thy smart." +With that she slept again, my heart, +And I admired and took my part + With crowds of happy things the while: +With open velvet butterflies +That swung and spread their peacock eyes, +As if they cared no more to rise + From off their beds of camomile. + +The blackcaps in an orchard met, +Praising the berries while they ate: +The finch that flew her beak to whet + Before she joined them on the tree; +The water mouse among the reeds-- +His bright eyes glancing black as beads, +So happy with a bunch of seeds-- + I felt their gladness heartily. + +But I came on, I smelt the hay, +And up the hills I took my way, +And down them still made holiday, + And walked, and wearied not a whit; +But ever with the lane I went +Until it dropped with steep descent, +Cut deep into the rock, a tent + Of maple branches roofing it. + +Adown the rock small runlets wept, +And reckless ivies leaned and crept, +And little spots of sunshine slept + On its brown steeps and made them fair; +And broader beams athwart it shot, +Where martins cheeped in many a knot, +For they had ta'en a sandy plot + And scooped another Petra there. + +And deeper down, hemmed in and hid +From upper light and life amid +The swallows gossiping, I thrid + Its mazes, till the dipping land +Sank to the level of my lane. +That was the last hill of the chain, +And fair below I saw the plain + That seemed cold cheer to reprimand. + +Half-drowned in sleepy peace it lay, +As satiate with the boundless play +Of sunshine in its green array. + And clear-cut hills of gloomy blue, +To keep it safe rose up behind, +As with a charmed ring to bind +The grassy sea, where clouds might find + A place to bring their shadows to. + +I said, and blest that pastoral grace, +"How sweet thou art, thou sunny place! +Thy God approves thy smiling face:" + But straight my heart put in her word; +She said, "Albeit thy face I bless, +There have been times, sweet wilderness, +When I have wished to love thee less, + Such pangs thy smile administered." + +But, lo! I reached a field of wheat, +And by its gate full clear and sweet +A workman sang, while at his feet + Played a young child, all life and stir-- +A three years' child, with rosy lip, +Who in the song had partnership, +Made happy with each falling chip + Dropped by the busy carpenter. + +This, reared a new gate for the old, +And loud the tuneful measure rolled, +But stopped as I came up to hold + Some kindly talk of passing things. +Brave were his eyes, and frank his mien; +Of all men's faces, calm or keen, +A better I have never seen + In all my lonely wanderings. + +And how it was I scarce can tell, +We seemed to please each other well; +I lingered till a noonday bell + Had sounded, and his task was done. +An oak had screened us from the heat; +And 'neath it in the standing wheat, +A cradle and a fair retreat, + Full sweetly slept the little one. + +The workman rested from his stroke, +And manly were the words he spoke, +Until the smiling babe awoke + And prayed to him for milk and food. +Then to a runlet forth he went, +And brought a wallet from the bent, +And bade me to the meal, intent + I should not quit his neighborhood. + +"For here," said he, "are bread and beer, +And meat enough to make good cheer; +Sir, eat with me, and have no fear, + For none upon my work depend, +Saving this child; and I may say +That I am rich, for every day +I put by somewhat; therefore stay, + And to such eating condescend." + +We ate. The child--child fair to see-- +Began to cling about his knee, +And he down leaning fatherly + Received some softly-prattled prayer; +He smiled as if to list were balm, +And with his labor-hardened palm +Pushed from the baby-forehead calm + Those shining locks that clustered there. + +The rosy mouth made fresh essay-- +"O would he sing, or would he play?" +I looked, my thought would make its way-- + "Fair is your child of face and limb, +The round blue eyes full sweetly shine." +He answered me with glance benign-- +"Ay, Sir; but he is none of mine. + Although I set great store by him." + +With that, as if his heart was fain +To open--nathless not complain-- +He let my quiet questions gain + His story: "Not of kin to me," +Repeating; "but asleep, awake, +For worse, for better, him I take, +To cherish for my dead wife's sake, + And count him as her legacy. + +"I married with the sweetest lass +That ever stepped on meadow grass; +That ever at her looking-glass + Some pleasure took, some natural care; +That ever swept a cottage floor +And worked all day, nor e'er gave o'er +Till eve, then watched beside the door + Till her good man should meet her there. + +"But I lost all in its fresh prime; +My wife fell ill before her time-- +Just as the bells began to chime + One Sunday morn. By next day's light +Her little babe was born and dead, +And she, unconscious what she said, +With feeble hands about her spread, + Sought it with yearnings infinite. + +"With mother-longing still beguiled, +And lost in fever-fancies wild, +She piteously bemoaned her child + That we had stolen, she said, away. +And ten sad days she sighed to me, +'I cannot rest until I see +My pretty one! I think that he + Smiled in my face but yesterday.' + +"Then she would change, and faintly try +To sing some tender lullaby; +And 'Ah!' would moan, 'if I should die, + Who, sweetest babe, would cherish thee?' +Then weep, 'My pretty boy is grown; +With tender feet on the cold stone +He stands, for he can stand alone, + And no one leads him motherly.' + +"Then she with dying movements slow +Would seem to knit, or seem to sew: +'His feet are bare, he must not go + Unshod:' and as her death drew on, +'O little baby,' she would sigh; +'My little child, I cannot die +Till I have you to slumber nigh-- + You, you to set mine eyes upon.' + +"When she spake thus, and moaning lay, +They said, 'She cannot pass away, +So sore she longs:' and as the day + Broke on the hills, I left her side. +Mourning along this lane I went; +Some travelling folk had pitched their tent +Up yonder: there a woman, bent + With age, sat meanly canopied. + +"A twelvemonths' child was at her side: +'Whose infant may that be?' I cried. +'His that will own him,' she replied; + 'His mother's dead, no worse could be.' +'Since you can give--or else I erred-- +See, you are taken at your word,' +Quoth I; 'That child is mine; I heard, + And own him! Rise, and give him me.' + +"She rose amazed, but cursed me too; +She could not hold such luck for true, +But gave him soon, with small ado. + I laid him by my Lucy's side: +Close to her face that baby crept, +And stroked it, and the sweet soul wept; +Then, while upon her arm he slept, + She passed, for she was satisfied. + +"I loved her well, I wept her sore, +And when her funeral left my door +I thought that I should never more + Feel any pleasure near me glow; +But I have learned, though this I had, +'Tis sometimes natural to be glad, +And no man can be always sad + Unless he wills to have it so. + +"Oh, I had heavy nights at first, +And daily wakening was the worst: +For then my grief arose, and burst + Like something fresh upon my head; +Yet when less keen it seemed to grow, +I was not pleased--I wished to go +Mourning adown this vale of woe, + For all my life uncomforted. + +"I grudged myself the lightsome air, +That makes man cheerful unaware; +When comfort came, I did not care + To take it in, to feel it stir: +And yet God took with me his plan, +And now for my appointed span +I think I am a happier man + For having wed and wept for her. + +"Because no natural tie remains, +On this small thing I spend my gains; +God makes me love him for my pains, + And binds me so to wholesome care +I would not lose from my past life +That happy year, that happy wife! +Yet now I wage no useless strife + With feelings blithe and debonair. + +"I have the courage to be gay, +Although she lieth lapped away +Under the daisies, for I say, + 'Thou wouldst be glad if thou couldst see': +My constant thought makes manifest +I have not what I love the best, +But I must thank God for the rest + While I hold heaven a verity." + +He rose, upon his shoulder set +The child, and while with vague regret +We parted, pleased that we had met, + My heart did with herself confer; +With wholesome shame she did repent +Her reasonings idly eloquent, +And said, "I might be more content: + But God go with the carpenter." + + + + +THE STAR'S MONUMENT. + +IN THE CONCLUDING PART OF A DISCOURSE ON FAME. + + +(_He thinks._) + +If there be memory in the world to come, + If thought recur to SOME THINGS silenced here, +Then shall the deep heart be no longer dumb, + But find expression in that happier sphere; +It shall not be denied their utmost sum + Of love, to speak without or fault or fear, +But utter to the harp with changes sweet +Words that, forbidden still, then heaven were incomplete. + +(_He speaks._) + +Now let us talk about the ancient days, + And things which happened long before our birth: +It is a pity to lament that praise + Should be no shadow in the train of worth. +What is it, Madam, that your heart dismays? + Why murmur at the course of this vast earth? +Think rather of the work than of the praise; +Come, we will talk about the ancient days. + +There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he); + I will relate his story to you now. +While through the branches of this apple-tree + Some spots of sunshine flicker on your brow; +While every flower hath on its breast a bee, + And every bird in stirring doth endow +The grass with falling blooms that smoothly glide, +As ships drop down a river with the tide. + +For telling of his tale no fitter place + Then this old orchard, sloping to the west; +Through its pink dome of blossom I can trace + Some overlying azure; for the rest, +These flowery branches round us interlace; + The ground is hollowed like a mossy nest: +Who talks of fame while the religious Spring +Offers the incense of her blossoming? + +There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he), + Who, while he walked at sundown in a lane, +Took to his heart the hope that destiny + Had singled him this guerdon to obtain, +That by the power of his sweet minstrelsy + Some hearts for truth and goodness he should gain. +And charm some grovellers to uplift their eyes +And suddenly wax conscious of the skies. + +"Master, good e'en to ye!" a woodman said, + Who the low hedge was trimming with his shears. +"This hour is fine"--the Poet bowed his head. + "More fine," he thought, "O friend! to me appears +The sunset than to you; finer the spread + Of orange lustre through these azure spheres, +Where little clouds lie still, like flocks of sheep, +Or vessels sailing in God's other deep. + +"O finer far! What work so high as mine, + Interpreter betwixt the world and man, +Nature's ungathered pearls to set and shrine, + The mystery she wraps her in to scan; +Her unsyllabic voices to combine, + And serve her with such love as poets can; +With mortal words, her chant of praise to bind, +Then die, and leave the poem to mankind? + +"O fair, O fine, O lot to be desired! + Early and late my heart appeals to me, +And says, 'O work, O will--Thou man, be fired + To earn this lot,'--she says, 'I would not be +A worker for mine OWN bread, or one hired + For mine OWN profit. O, I would be free +To work for others; love so earned of them +Should be my wages and my diadem. + +"'Then when I died I should not fall,' says she, + 'Like dropping flowers that no man noticeth, +But like a great branch of some stately tree + Rent in a tempest, and flung down to death, +Thick with green leafage--so that piteously + Each passer by that ruin shuddereth, +And saith, The gap this branch hath left is wide; +The loss thereof can never be supplied.'" + +But, Madam, while the Poet pondered so, + Toward the leafy hedge he turned his eye, +And saw two slender branches that did grow, + And from it rising spring and flourish high: +Their tops were twined together fast, and, lo, + Their shadow crossed the path as he went by-- +The shadow of a wild rose and a brier, +And it was shaped in semblance like a lyre. + +In sooth, a lyre! and as the soft air played, + Those branches stirred, but did not disunite. +"O emblem meet for me!" the Poet said; + "Ay, I accept and own thee for my right; +The shadowy lyre across my feet is laid, + Distinct though frail, and clear with crimson light, +Fast is it twined to bear the windy strain, +And, supple, it will bend and rise again. + +"This lyre is cast across the dusty way, + The common path that common men pursue, +I crave like blessing for my shadowy lay, + Life's trodden paths with beauty to renew, +And cheer the eve of many a toil-stained day. + Light it, old sun, wet it, thou common dew, +That 'neath men's feet its image still may be +While yet it waves above them, living lyre, like thee!" + +But even as the Poet spoke, behold + He lifted up his face toward the sky; +The ruddy sun dipt under the gray wold, + His shadowy lyre was gone; and, passing by, +The woodman lifting up his shears, was bold + Their temper on those branches twain to try, +And all their loveliness and leafage sweet +Fell in the pathway, at the Poet's feet. + +"Ah! my fair emblem that I chose," quoth he, + "That for myself I coveted but now, +Too soon, methinks, them hast been false to me; + The lyre from pathway fades, the light from brow." +Then straightway turned he from it hastily, +As dream that waking sense will disallow; +And while the highway heavenward paled apace, +He went on westward to his dwelling-place. + +He went on steadily, while far and fast + The summer darkness dropped upon the world, +A gentle air among the cloudlets passed + And fanned away their crimson; then it curled +The yellow poppies in the field, and cast + A dimness on the grasses, for it furled +Their daisies, and swept out the purple stain +That eve had left upon the pastoral plain. + +He reached his city. Lo! the darkened street + Where he abode was full of gazing crowds; +He heard the muffled tread of many feet; + A multitude stood gazing at the clouds. +"What mark ye there," said he, "and wherefore meet? + Only a passing mist the heaven o'ershrouds; +It breaks, it parts, it drifts like scattered spars-- +What lies behind it but the nightly stars?" + +Then did the gazing crowd to him aver + They sought a lamp in heaven whose light was hid: +For that in sooth an old Astronomer + Down from his roof had rushed into their mid, +Frighted, and fain with others to confer, + That he had cried, "O sirs!"--and upward bid +Them gaze--"O sirs, a light is quenched afar; +Look up, my masters, we have lost a star!" + +The people pointed, and the Poet's eyes + Flew upward, where a gleaming sisterhood +Swam in the dewy heaven. The very skies + Were mutable; for all-amazed he stood +To see that truly not in any wise + He could behold them as of old, nor could +His eyes receive the whole whereof he wot, +But when he told them over, one WAS NOT. + +While yet he gazed and pondered reverently, + The fickle folk began to move away. +"It is but one star less for us to see; + And what does one star signify?" quoth they: +"The heavens are full of them." "But, ah!" said he, + "That star was bright while yet she lasted." "Ay!" +They answered: "Praise her, Poet, an' ye will: +Some are now shining that are brighter still." + +"Poor star! to be disparaged so soon + On her withdrawal," thus the Poet sighed; +"That men should miss, and straight deny her noon + Its brightness!" But the people in their pride +Said, "How are we beholden? 'twas no boon + She gave. Her nature 'twas to shine so wide: +She could not choose but shine, nor could we know +Such star had ever dwelt in heaven but so." + +The Poet answered sadly, "That is true!" + And then he thought upon unthankfulness; +While some went homeward; and the residue, + Reflecting that the stars are numberless, +Mourned that man's daylight hours should be so few, + So short the shining that his path may bless: +To nearer themes then tuned their willing lips, +And thought no more upon the star's eclipse. + +But he, the Poet, could not rest content + Till he had found that old Astronomer; +Therefore at midnight to his house he went + And prayed him be his tale's interpreter. +And yet upon the heaven his eyes he bent, + Hearing the marvel; yet he sought for her +That was a wanting, in the hope her face +Once more might fill its reft abiding-place. + +Then said the old Astronomer: "My son. + I sat alone upon my roof to-night; +I saw the stars come forth, and scarcely shun + To fringe the edges of the western light; +I marked those ancient clusters one by one, + The same that blessed our old forefather's sight +For God alone is older--none but He +Can charge the stars with mutability: + +"The elders of the night, the steadfast stars, + The old, old stars which God has let us see, +That they might be our soul's auxiliars, + And help us to the truth how young we be-- +God's youngest, latest born, as if, some spars + And a little clay being over of them--He +Had made our world and us thereof, yet given, +To humble us, the sight of His great heaven. + +"But ah! my son, to-night mine eyes have seen + The death of light, the end of old renown; +A shrinking back of glory that had been, + A dread eclipse before the Eternal's frown. +How soon a little grass will grow between + These eyes and those appointed to look down +Upon a world that was not made on high +Till the last scenes of their long empiry! + +"To-night that shining cluster now despoiled + Lay in day's wake a perfect sisterhood; +Sweet was its light to me that long had toiled, + It gleamed and trembled o'er the distant wood, +Blown in a pile the clouds from it recoiled, + Cool twilight up the sky her way made good; +I saw, but not believed--it was so strange-- +That one of those same stars had suffered change. + +"The darkness gathered, and methought she spread, + Wrapped in a reddish haze that waxed and waned; +But notwithstanding to myself I said-- + 'The stars are changeless; sure some mote hath stained +Mine eyes, and her fair glory minished.' + Of age and failing vision I complained, +And I bought 'some vapor in the heavens doth swim, +That makes her look so large and yet so dim.' + +"But I gazed round, and all her lustrous peers + In her red presence showed but wan and white +For like a living coal beheld through tears + She glowed and quivered with a gloomy light: +Methought she trembled, as all sick through fears, + Helpless, appalled, appealing to the night; +Like one who throws his arms up to the sky +And bows down suffering, hopeless of reply. + +"At length, as if an everlasting Hand + Had taken hold upon her in her place, +And swiftly, like a golden grain of sand, + Through all the deep infinitudes of space +Was drawing her--God's truth as here I stand-- + Backward and inward to itself; her face +Fast lessened, lessened, till it looked no more +Than smallest atom on a boundless shore. + +"And she that was so fair, I saw her lie, + The smallest thing in God's great firmament, +Till night was lit the darkest, and on high + Her sisters glittered, though her light was spent; +I strained, to follow her, each aching eye, + So swiftly at her Maker's will she went; +I looked again--I looked--the star was gone, +And nothing marked in heaven where she had shone." + +"Gone!" said the Poet, "and about to be + Forgotten: O, how sad a fate is hers!" +"How is it sad, my son?" all reverently + The old man answered; "though she ministers +No longer with her lamp to me and thee, + She has fulfilled her mission. God transfers +Or dims her ray; yet was she blest as bright, +For all her life was spent in giving light." + +"Her mission she fulfilled assuredly," + The Poet cried; "but, O unhappy star! +None praise and few will bear in memory + The name she went by. O, from far, from far +Comes down, methinks, her mournful voice to me, + Full of regrets that men so thankless are." +So said, he told that old Astronomer +All that the gazing crowd had said of her. + +And he went on to speak in bitter wise, + As one who seems to tell another's fate, +But feels that nearer meaning underlies, + And points its sadness to his own estate: +"If such be the reward," he said with sighs, + "Envy to earn for love, for goodness hate-- +If such be thy reward, hard case is thine! +It had been better for thee not to shine. + +"If to reflect a light that is divine + Makes that which doth reflect it better seen, +And if to see is to contemn the shrine, + 'Twere surely better it had never been: +It had been better for her NOT TO SHINE, + And for me NOT TO SING. Better, I ween, +For us to yield no more that radiance bright, +For them, to lack the light than scorn the light." + +Strange words were those from Poet lips (said he); + And then he paused and sighed, and turned to look +Upon the lady's downcast eyes, and see + How fast the honey-bees in settling shook +Those apple blossoms on her from the tree: + He watched her busy lingers as they took +And slipped the knotted thread, and thought how much +He would have given that hand to hold--to touch. + +At length, as suddenly become aware + Of this long pause, she lifted up her face, +And he withdrew his eyes--she looked so fair + And cold, he thought, in her unconscious grace. +"Ah! little dreams she of the restless care," + He thought, "that makes my heart to throb apace: +Though we this morning part, the knowledge sends +No thrill to her calm pulse--we are but FRIENDS." + +Ah! turret clock (he thought), I would thy hand + Were hid behind yon towering maple-trees! +Ah! tell-tale shadow, but one moment stand-- + Dark shadow--fast advancing to my knees; +Ah! foolish heart (he thought), that vainly planned + By feigning gladness to arrive at ease; +Ah! painful hour, yet pain to think it ends; +I must remember that we are but friends. + +And while the knotted thread moved to and fro, + In sweet regretful tones that lady said: +"It seemeth that the fame you would forego + The Poet whom you tell of coveted; +But I would fain, methinks, his story know. + And was he loved?" said she, "or was he wed? +And had he friends?" "One friend, perhaps," said he, +"But for the rest, I pray you let it be." + +Ah! little bird (he thought), most patient bird, + Breasting thy speckled eggs the long day through, +By so much as my reason is preferred + Above thine instinct, I my work would do +Better than thou dost thine. Thou hast not stirred + This hour thy wing. Ah! russet bird, I sue +For a like patience to wear through these hours-- +Bird on thy nest among the apple-flowers. + +I will not speak--I will not speak to thee, + My star! and soon to be my lost, lost star. +The sweetest, first, that ever shone on me, + So high above me and beyond so far; +I can forego thee, but not bear to see + My love, like rising mist, thy lustre mar: +That were a base return for thy sweet light. +Shine, though I never more-shall see that thou art bright. + +Never! 'Tis certain that no hope is--none! + No hope for me, and yet for thee no fear. +The hardest part of my hard task is done; + Thy calm assures me that I am not dear; +Though far and fast the rapid moments run, + Thy bosom heaveth not, thine eyes are clear; +Silent, perhaps a little sad at heart +She is. I am her friend, and I depart. + +Silent she had been, but she raised her face; + "And will you end," said she, "this half-told tale?" +"Yes, it were best," he answered her. "The place + Where I left off was where he felt to fail +His courage, Madam, through the fancy base + That they who love, endure, or work, may rail +And cease--if all their love, the works they wrought, +And their endurance, men have set at nought." + +"It had been better for me NOT to sing," + My Poet said, "and for her NOT to shine;" +But him the old man answered, sorrowing, + "My son, did God who made her, the Divine +Lighter of suns, when down to yon bright ring + He cast her, like some gleaming almandine, +And set her in her place, begirt with rays, +Say unto her 'Give light,' or say 'Earn praise?'" + +The Poet said, "He made her to give light." + "My son," the old man answered, "Blest are such; +A blessed lot is theirs; but if each night + Mankind had praised her radiance, inasmuch +As praise had never made it wax more bright, + And cannot now rekindle with its touch +Her lost effulgence, it is nought. I wot +That praise was not her blessing nor her lot." + +"Ay," said the Poet, "I my words abjure, + And I repent me that I uttered them; +But by her light and by its forfeiture + She shall not pass without her requiem. +Though my name perish, yet shall hers endure; + Though I should be forgotten, she, lost gem, +Shall be remembered; though she sought not fame, +It shall be busy with her beauteous name. + +"For I will raise in her bright memory, + Lost now on earth, a lasting monument, +And graven on it shall recorded be + That all her rays to light mankind were spent; +And I will sing albeit none heedeth me, + On her exemplar being still intent: +While in men's sight shall stand the record thus-- +'So long as she did last she lighted us.'" + +So said, he raised, according to his vow, + On the green grass where oft his townsfolk met, +Under the shadow of a leafy bough + That leaned toward a singing rivulet, +One pure white stone, whereon, like crown on brow, + The image of the vanished star was set; +And this was graven on the pure white stone +In golden letters--"WHILE SHE LIVED SHE SHONE." + +Madam, I cannot give this story well-- + My heart is beating to another chime; +My voice must needs a different cadence swell; + It is yon singing bird, which all the time +Wooeth his nested mate, that doth dispel + My thoughts. What, deem you, could a lover's rhyme +The sweetness of that passionate lay excel? +O soft, O low her voice--"I cannot tell." + +(_He thinks_.) + +The old man--ay, he spoke, he was not hard; + "She was his joy," he said, "his comforter, +But he would trust me. I was not debarred + Whate'er my heart approved to say to her." +Approved! O torn and tempted and ill-starred + And breaking heart, approve not nor demur; +It is the serpent that beguileth thee +With "God doth know" beneath this apple-tree. + +Yea, God DOTH know, and only God doth know. + Have pity, God, my spirit groans to Thee! +I bear Thy curse primeval, and I go; + But heavier than on Adam falls on me +My tillage of the wilderness; for lo, + I leave behind the woman, and I see +As 'twere the gates of Eden closing o'er +To hide her from my sight for evermore. + +(_He speaks_.) + +I am a fool, with sudden start he cried, + To let the song-bird work me such unrest: +If I break off again, I pray you chide, + For morning neeteth, with my tale at best +Half told. That white stone, Madam, gleamed beside + The little rivulet, and all men pressed +To read the lost one's story traced thereon, +The golden legend--"While she lived she shone." + +And, Madam, when the Poet heard them read, + And children spell the letters softly through, +It may be that he felt at heart some need, + Some craving to be thus remembered too; +It may be that he wondered if indeed + He must die wholly when he passed from view; +It may be, wished when death his eyes made dim, +That some kind hand would raise such stone for him. + +But shortly, as there comes to most of us, + There came to him the need to quit his home: +To tell you why were simply hazardous. + What said I, Madam?--men were made to roam +My meaning is. It hath been always thus: + They are athirst for mountains and sea-foam; +Heirs of this world, what wonder if perchance +They long to see their grand inheritance? + +He left his city, and went forth to teach + Mankind, his peers, the hidden harmony +That underlies God's discords, and to reach + And touch the master-string that like a sigh +Thrills in their souls, as if it would beseech + Some hand to sound it, and to satisfy +Its yearning for expression: but no word +Till poet touch it hath to make its music heard. + +(_He thinks_.) + +I know that God is good, though evil dwells + Among us, and doth all things holiest share; +That there is joy in heaven, while yet our knells + Sound for the souls which He has summoned there: +That painful love unsatisfied hath spells + Earned by its smart to soothe its fellows care: +But yet this atom cannot in the whole +Forget itself--it aches a separate soul. + +(_He speaks._) + +But, Madam, to my Poet I return. + With his sweet cadences of woven words +He made their rude untutored hearts to burn + And melt like gold refined. No brooding birds +Sing better of the love that doth sojourn + Hid in the nest of home, which softly girds +The beating heart of life; and, strait though it be, +Is straitness better than wide liberty. + +He taught them, and they learned, but not the less + Remained unconscious whence that lore they drew, +But dreamed that of their native nobleness + Some lofty thoughts, that he had planted, grew; +His glorious maxims in a lowly dress + Like seed sown broadcast sprung in all men's view. +The sower, passing onward, was not known, +And all men reaped the harvest as their own. + +It may be, Madam, that those ballads sweet, + Whose rhythmic words we sang but yesterday, +Which time and changes make not obsolete, + But (as a river blossoms bears away +That on it drop) take with them while they fleet-- + It may be his they are, from him bear sway: +But who can tell, since work surviveth fame?-- +The rhyme is left, but lost the Poet's name. + +He worked, and bravely he fulfilled his trust-- + So long he wandered sowing worthy seed, +Watering of wayside buds that were adust, + And touching for the common ear his reed-- +So long to wear away the cankering rust + That dulls the gold of life--so long to plead +With sweetest music for all souls oppressed, +That he was old ere he had thought of rest. + +Old and gray-headed, leaning on a staff, + To that great city of his birth he came, +And at its gates he paused with wondering laugh + To think how changed were all his thoughts of fame +Since first he carved the golden epitaph + To keep in memory a worthy name, +And thought forgetfulness had been its doom +But for a few bright letters on a tomb. + +The old Astronomer had long since died; + The friends of youth were gone and far dispersed, +Strange were the domes that rose on every side; + Strange fountains on his wondering vision burst; +The men of yesterday their business plied; + No face was left that he had known at first; +And in the city gardens, lo, he sees +The saplings that he set are stately trees. + +Upon the grass beneath their welcome shade, + Behold! he marks the fair white monument, +And on its face the golden words displayed, + For sixty years their lustre have not spent; +He sitteth by it and is not afraid, + But in its shadow he is well content; +And envies not, though bright their gleamings are, +The golden letters of the vanished star. + +He gazeth up; exceeding bright appears + That golden legend to his aged eyes, +For they are dazzled till they fill with tears, + And his lost Youth doth like a vision rise; +She saith to him, "In all these toilsome years, + What hast thou won by work or enterprise? +What hast thou won to make amends to thee, +As thou didst swear to do, for loss of me? + +"O man! O white-haired man!" the vision said + "Since we two sat beside this monument +Life's clearest hues are all evanished; + The golden wealth thou hadst of me is spent; +The wind hath swept thy flowers, their leaves are shed + The music is played out that with thee went." +"Peace, peace!" he cried, "I lost thee, but, in truth, +There are worse losses than the loss of youth." + +He said not what those losses were--but I-- + But I must leave them, for the time draws near. +Some lose not ONLY joy, but memory + Of how it felt: not love that was so dear +Lose only, but the steadfast certainty + That once they had it; doubt comes on, then fear, +And after that despondency. I wis +The Poet must have meant such loss as this. + +But while he sat and pondered on his youth, + He said, "It did one deed that doth remain, +For it preserved the memory and the truth + Of her that now doth neither set nor wane, +But shine in all men's thought; nor sink forsooth, + And be forgotten like the summer rain. +O, it is good that man should not forget +Or benefits foregone or brightness set!" + +He spoke and said, "My lot contented: me; + I am right glad for this her worthy fame; +That which was good and great I fain would see + Drawn with a halo round what rests--its name." +This while the Poet said, behold there came + A workman with his tools anear the tree, +And when he read the words he paused awhile +And pondered on them with a wondering smile. + +And then he said, "I pray you, Sir, what mean + The golden letters of this monument?" +In wonder quoth the Poet, "Hast thou been + A dweller near at hand, and their intent +Hast neither heard by voice of fame, nor seen + The marble earlier?" "Ay," said he, and leant +Upon his spade to hear the tale, then sigh, +And say it was a marvel, and pass by. + +Then said the Poet, "This is strange to me." + But as he mused, with trouble in his mind, +A band of maids approached him leisurely, + Like vessels sailing with a favoring wind; +And of their rosy lips requested he, + As one that for a doubt would solving find, +The tale, if tale there were, of that white stone, +And those fair letters--"While she lived she shone." + +Then like a fleet that floats becalmed they stay. + "O, Sir," saith one, "this monument is old; +But we have heard our virtuous mothers say + That by their mothers thus the tale was told: +A Poet made it; journeying then away, + He left us; and though some the meaning hold +For other than the ancient one, yet we +Receive this legend for a certainty:-- + +"There was a lily once, most purely white, + Beneath the shadow of these boughs it grew; +Its starry blossom it unclosed by night, + And a young Poet loved its shape and hue. +He watched it nightly, 'twas so fair a sight, + Until a stormy wind arose and blew, +And when he came once more his flower to greet +Its fallen petals drifted to his feet. + +"And for his beautiful white lily's sake, + That she might be remembered where her scent +Had been right sweet, he said that he would make + In her dear memory a monument: +For she was purer than a driven flake + Of snow, and in her grace most excellent; +The loveliest life that death did ever mar, +As beautiful to gaze on as a star." + +"I thank you, maid," the Poet answered her. + "And I am glad that I have heard your tale." +With that they passed; and as an inlander, + Having heard breakers raging in a gale, +And falling down in thunder, will aver + That still, when far away in grassy vale, +He seems to hear those seething waters bound, +So in his ears the maiden's voice did sound. + +He leaned his face upon his hand, and thought, + And thought, until a youth came by that way; +And once again of him the Poet sought + The story of the star. But, well-a-day! +He said, "The meaning with much doubt is fraught, + The sense thereof can no man surely say; +For still tradition sways the common ear, +That of a truth a star DID DISAPPEAR. + +"But they who look beneath the outer shell + That wraps the 'kernel of the people's lore,' +Hold THAT for superstition; and they tell + That seven lovely sisters dwelt of yore +In this old city, where it so befell + That one a Poet loved; that, furthermore, +As stars above us she was pure and good, +And fairest of that beauteous sisterhood. + +"So beautiful they were, those virgins seven, + That all men called them clustered stars in song, +Forgetful that the stars abide in heaven: + But woman bideth not beneath it long; +For O, alas! alas! one fated even + When stars their azure deeps began to throng, +That virgin's eyes of Poet loved waxed dim, +And all their lustrous shining waned to him. + +"In summer dusk she drooped her head and sighed + Until what time the evening star went down, +And all the other stars did shining bide + Clear in the lustre of their old renown. +And then--the virgin laid her down and died: + Forgot her youth, forgot her beauty's crown, +Forgot the sisters whom she loved before, +And broke her Poet's heart for evermore." + +"A mournful tale, in sooth," the lady saith: + "But did he truly grieve for evermore?" +"It may be you forget," he answereth, + "That this is but a fable at the core +O' the other fable." "Though it be but breath," + She asketh, "was it true?"--then he, "This lore, +Since it is fable, either way may go; +Then, if it please you, think it might be so." + +"Nay, but," she saith, "if I had told your tale, + The virgin should have lived his home to bless, +Or, must she die, I would have made to fail + His useless love." "I tell you not the less," +He sighs, "because it was of no avail: + His heart the Poet would not dispossess +Thereof. But let us leave the fable now. +My Poet heard it with an aching brow." + +And he made answer thus: "I thank thee, youth; + Strange is thy story to these aged ears, +But I bethink me thou hast told a truth + Under the guise of fable. If my tears, +Thou lost beloved star, lost now, forsooth, + Indeed could bring thee back among thy peers, +So new thou should'st be deemed as newly seen, +For men forget that thou hast ever been. + +"There was a morning when I longed for fame, + There was a noontide when I passed it by, +There is an evening when I think not shame + Its substance and its being to deny; +For if men bear in mind great deeds, the name + Of him that wrought them shall they leave to die; +Or if his name they shall have deathless writ, +They change the deeds that first ennobled it. + +"O golden letters of this monument! + O words to celebrate a loved renown +Lost now or wrested! and to fancies lent, + Or on a fabled forehead set for crown, +For my departed star, I am content, + Though legends dim and years her memory drown: +For nought were fame to her, compared and set +By this great truth which ye make lustrous yet." + +"Adieu!" the Poet said, "my vanished star, + Thy duty and thy happiness were one. +Work is heaven's best; its fame is sublunar: + The fame thou dost not need--the work is done. +For thee I am content that these things are; + More than content were I, my race being run, +Might it be true of me, though none thereon +Should muse regretful--'While he lived he shone.'" + +So said, the Poet rose and went his way, + And that same lot he proved whereof he spake. +Madam, my story is told out; the day + Draws out her shadows, time doth overtake +The morning. That which endeth call a lay, + Sung after pause--a motto in the break +Between two chapters of a tale not new, +Nor joyful--but a common tale. Adieu! + +And that same God who made your face so fair, + And gave your woman's heart its tenderness, +So shield the blessing He implanted there, + That it may never turn to your distress, +And never cost you trouble or despair, + Nor granted leave the granter comfortless; +But like a river blest where'er it flows, +Be still receiving while it still bestows. + +Adieu, he said, and paused, while she sat mute + In the soft shadow of the apple-tree; +The skylark's song rang like a joyous flute, + The brook went prattling past her restlessly: +She let their tongues be her tongue's substitute; + It was the wind that sighed, it was not she: +And what the lark, the brook, the wind, had said, +We cannot tell, for none interpreted. + +Their counsels might be hard to reconcile, + They might not suit the moment or the spot. +She rose, and laid her work aside the while + Down in the sunshine of that grassy plot; +She looked upon him with an almost smile, + And held to him a hand that faltered not. +One moment--bird and brook went warbling on, +And the wind sighed again--and he was gone. + +So quietly, as if she heard no more + Or skylark in the azure overhead, +Or water slipping past the cressy shore, + Or wind that rose in sighs, and sighing fled-- +So quietly, until the alders hoar + Took him beneath them; till the downward spread +Of planes engulfed him in their leafy seas-- +She stood beneath her rose-flushed apple-trees. + +And then she stooped toward the mossy grass, + And gathered up her work and went her way; +Straight to that ancient turret she did pass, + And startle back some fawns that were at play. +She did not sigh, she never said "Alas!" + Although he was her friend: but still that day, +Where elm and hornbeam spread a towering dome, +She crossed the dells to her ancestral home. + +And did she love him?--what if she did not? + Then home was still the home of happiest years +Nor thought was exiled to partake his lot, + Nor heart lost courage through forboding fears; +Nor echo did against her secret plot, + Nor music her betray to painful tears; +Nor life become a dream, and sunshine dim, +And riches poverty, because of him. + +But did she love him?--what and if she did? + Love cannot cool the burning Austral sand, +Nor show the secret waters that lie hid + In arid valleys of that desert land. +Love has no spells can scorching winds forbid, + Or bring the help which tarries near to hand, +Or spread a cloud for curtaining faded eyes +That gaze up dying into alien skies. + + + + +A DEAD YEAR. + + +I took a year out of my life and story-- + A dead year, and said, "I will hew thee a tomb! + 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory;' +Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom; +Swathed in linen, and precious unguents old; +Painted with cinnabar, and rich with gold. + + "Silent they rest, in solemn salvatory, +Sealed from the moth and the owl and the flitter-mouse-- + Each with his name on his brow. + 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory, +Every one in his own house:' + Then why not thou? + + "Year," I said, "thou shalt not lack + Bribes to bar thy coming back; + Doth old Egypt wear her best + In the chambers of her rest? + Doth she take to her last bed + Beaten gold, and glorious red? + Envy not! for thou wilt wear + In the dark a shroud as fair; + Golden with the sunny ray + Thou withdrawest from my day; + Wrought upon with colors fine, + Stolen from this life of mine; + Like the dusty Lybian kings, + Lie with two wide open wings + On thy breast, as if to say, + On these wings hope flew away; + And so housed, and thus adorned, + Not forgotten, but not scorned, + Let the dark for evermore + Close thee when I close the door; + And the dust for ages fall + In the creases of thy pall; + And no voice nor visit rude + Break thy sealed solitude." + + I took the year out of my life and story, +The dead year, and said, "I have hewed thee a tomb + 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory,' +Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom; +But for the sword, and the sceptre, and diadem, +Sure thou didst reign like them." +So I laid her with those tyrants old and hoary, + According to my vow; +For I said, "The kings of the nations lie in glory, + And so shalt thou!" + + "Rock," I said, "thy ribs are strong. + That I bring thee guard it long; + Hide the light from buried eyes-- + Hide it, lest the dead arise." + "Year," I said, and turned away, + "I am free of thee this day; + All that we two only know, + I forgive and I forego, + So thy face no more I meet, + In the field or in the street." + + Thus we parted, she and I; + Life hid death, and put it by: + Life hid death, and said, "Be free + I have no more need of thee." + No more need! O mad mistake, + With repentance in its wake! + Ignorant, and rash, and blind, + Life had left the grave behind; + But had locked within its hold + With the spices and the gold, + All she had to keep her warm + In the raging of the storm. + + Scarce the sunset bloom was gone, + And the little stars outshone, + Ere the dead year, stiff and stark, + Drew me to her in the dark; + Death drew life to come to her, + Beating at her sepulchre, + Crying out, "How can I part + With the best share of my heart? + Lo, it lies upon the bier, + Captive, with the buried year. + O my heart!" And I fell prone, + Weeping at the sealed stone; + "Year among the shades," I said, + "Since I live, and thou art dead, + Let my captive heart be free, + Like a bird to fly to me." + And I stayed some voice to win, + But none answered from within; + And I kissed the door--and night + Deepened till the stars waxed bright + And I saw them set and wane, + And the world turn green again. + + "So," I whispered, "open door, + I must tread this palace floor-- + Sealed palace, rich and dim. + Let a narrow sunbeam swim + After me, and on me spread + While I look upon my dead; + Let a little warmth be free + To come after; let me see + Through the doorway, when I sit + Looking out, the swallows flit, + Settling not till daylight goes; + Let me smell the wild white rose, + Smell the woodbine and the may; + Mark, upon a sunny day, + Sated from their blossoms rise, + Honey-bees and butterflies. + Let me hear, O! let me hear, + Sitting by my buried year, + Finches chirping to their young, + And the little noises flung + Out of clefts where rabbits play, + Or from falling water-spray; + And the gracious echoes woke + By man's work: the woodman's stroke, + Shout of shepherd, whistlings blithe. + And the whetting of the scythe; + Let this be, lest shut and furled + From the well-beloved world, + I forget her yearnings old, + And her troubles manifold, + Strivings sore, submissions meet, + And my pulse no longer beat, + Keeping time and bearing part + With the pulse of her great heart. + + "So; swing open door, and shade + Take me; I am not afraid, + For the time will not be long; + Soon I shall have waxen strong-- + Strong enough my own to win + From the grave it lies within." + And I entered. On her bier + Quiet lay the buried year; + I sat down where I could see + Life without and sunshine free, + Death within. And I between, + Waited my own heart to wean + From the shroud that shaded her + In the rock-hewn sepulchre-- + Waited till the dead should say, + "Heart, be free of me this day"-- + Waited with a patient will-- + AND I WAIT BETWEEN THEM STILL. + + I take the year back to my life and story, +The dead year, and say, "I will share in thy tomb. + 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory;' +Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom! +They reigned in their lifetime with sceptre and diadem, + But thou excellest them; +For life doth make thy grave her oratory, + And the crown is still on thy brow; +'All the kings of the nations lie in glory,' + And so dost thou." + + + + +REFLECTIONS. + +LOOKING OVER A GATE AT A POOL IN A FIELD. + + +What change has made the pastures sweet +And reached the daisies at my feet, + And cloud that wears a golden hem? +This lovely world, the hills, the sward-- +They all look fresh, as if our Lord + But yesterday had finished them. + +And here's the field with light aglow; +How fresh its boundary lime-trees show, + And how its wet leaves trembling shine! +Between their trunks come through to me +The morning sparkles of the sea + Below the level browsing line + +I see the pool more clear by half +Than pools where other waters laugh + Up at the breasts of coot and rail. +There, as she passed it on her way, +I saw reflected yesterday + A maiden with a milking-pail. + +There, neither slowly nor in haste, +One hand upon her slender waist, + The other lifted to her pail, +She, rosy in the morning light, +Among the water-daisies white, + Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. + +Against her ankles as she trod +The lucky buttercups did nod. + I leaned upon the gate to see: +The sweet thing looked, but did not speak; +A dimple came in either cheek, + And all my heart was gone from me. + +Then, as I lingered on the gate, +And she came up like coming fate, + I saw my picture in her eyes-- +Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes, +Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows + Among white-headed majesties. + +I said, "A tale was made of old +That I would fain to thee unfold; + Ah! let me--let me tell the tale." +But high she held her comely head; +"I cannot heed it now," she said, + "For carrying of the milking-pail." + +She laughed. What good to make ado? +I held the gate, and she came through, + And took her homeward path anon. +From the clear pool her face had fled; +It rested on my heart instead, + Reflected when the maid was gone. + +With happy youth, and work content, +So sweet and stately on she went, + Right careless of the untold tale. +Each step she took I loved her more, +And followed to her dairy door + The maiden with the milking-pail. + + +II. + +For hearts where wakened love doth lurk, +How fine, how blest a thing is work! + For work does good when reasons fail-- +Good; yet the axe at every stroke +The echo of a name awoke-- + Her name is Mary Martindale. + +I'm glad that echo was not heard +Aright by other men: a bird + Knows doubtless what his own notes tell; +And I know not, but I can say +I felt as shame-faced all that day + As if folks heard her name right well. + +And when the west began to glow +I went--I could not choose but go-- + To that same dairy on the hill; +And while sweet Mary moved about +Within, I came to her without. + And leaned upon the window-sill. + +The garden border where I stood +Was sweet with pinks and southernwood. + I spoke--her answer seemed to fail: +I smelt the pinks--I could not see; +The dusk came down and sheltered me, + And in the dusk she heard my tale. + +And what is left that I should tell? +I begged a kiss, I pleaded well: + The rosebud lips did long decline; +But yet I think, I think 'tis true, +That, leaned at last into the dew, + One little instant they were mine. + +O life! how dear thou hast become: +She laughed at dawn and I was dumb, + But evening counsels best prevail. +Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads, +Green be the pastures where she treads, + The maiden with the milking-pail! + + + + +THE LETTER L. + + +ABSENT. + +We sat on grassy slopes that meet + With sudden dip the level strand; +The trees hung overhead--our feet + Were on the sand. + +Two silent girls, a thoughtful man, + We sunned ourselves in open light, +And felt such April airs as fan + The Isle of Wight; + +And smelt the wall-flower in the crag + Whereon that dainty waft had fed, +Which made the bell-hung cowslip wag + Her delicate head; + +And let alighting jackdaws fleet + Adown it open-winged, and pass +Till they could touch with outstretched feet + The warmed grass. + +The happy wave ran up and rang + Like service bells a long way off, +And down a little freshet sprang + From mossy trough, + +And splashed into a rain of spray, + And fretted on with daylight's loss, +Because so many bluebells lay + Leaning across. + +Blue martins gossiped in the sun, + And pairs of chattering daws flew by, +And sailing brigs rocked softly on + In company. + +Wild cherry-boughs above us spread, + The whitest shade was ever seen, +And flicker, flicker, came and fled + Sun spots between. + +Bees murmured in the milk-white bloom, + As babes will sigh for deep content +When their sweet hearts for peace make room, + As given, not lent. + +And we saw on: we said no word, + And one was lost in musings rare, +One buoyant as the waft that stirred + Her shining hair. + +His eyes were bent upon the sand, + Unfathomed deeps within them lay. +A slender rod was in his hand-- + A hazel spray. + +Her eyes were resting on his face, + As shyly glad, by stealth to glean +Impressions of his manly grace + And guarded mien; + +The mouth with steady sweetness set, + And eyes conveying unaware +The distant hint of some regret + That harbored there. + +She gazed, and in the tender flush + That made her face like roses blown, +And in the radiance and the hush, + Her thought was shown. + +It was a happy thing to sit + So near, nor mar his reverie; +She looked not for a part in it, + So meek was she. + +But it was solace for her eyes, + And for her heart, that yearned to him, +To watch apart in loving wise + Those musings dim. + +Lost--lost, and gone! The Pelham woods + Were full of doves that cooed at ease; +The orchis filled her purple hoods + For dainty bees. + +He heard not; all the delicate air + Was fresh with falling water-spray: +It mattered not--he was not there, + But far away. + +Till with the hazel in his hand, + Still drowned in thought it thus befell; +He drew a letter on the sand-- + The letter L. + +And looking on it, straight there wrought + A ruddy flush about his brow; +His letter woke him: absent thought + Rushed homeward now. + +And half-abashed, his hasty touch + Effaced it with a tell-tale care, +As if his action had been much, + And not his air. + +And she? she watched his open palm + Smooth out the letter from the sand, +And rose, with aspect almost calm, + And filled her hand + +With cherry-bloom, and moved away + To gather wild forget-me-not, +And let her errant footsteps stray + To one sweet spot, + +As if she coveted the fair + White lining of the silver-weed, +And cuckoo-pint that shaded there + Empurpled seed. + +She had not feared, as I divine, + Because she had not hoped. Alas! +The sorrow of it! for that sign + Came but to pass; + +And yet it robbed her of the right + To give, who looked not to receive, +And made her blush in love's despite + That she should grieve. + +A shape in white, she turned to gaze; + Her eyes were shaded with her hand, +And half-way up the winding ways + We saw her stand. + +Green hollows of the fringed cliff, + Red rocks that under waters show, +Blue reaches, and a sailing skiff, + Were spread below. + +She stood to gaze, perhaps to sigh, + Perhaps to think; but who can tell +How heavy on her heart must lie + The letter L! + + * * * * * + +She came anon with quiet grace; + And "What," she murmured, "silent yet!" +He answered, "'Tis a haunted place, + And spell-beset. + +"O speak to us, and break the spell!" + "The spell is broken," she replied. +"I crossed the running brook, it fell, + It could not bide. + +"And I have brought a budding world, + Of orchis spires and daisies rank, +And ferny plumes but half uncurled, + From yonder bank; + +"And I shall weave of them a crown, + And at the well-head launch it free, +That so the brook may float it down, + And out to sea. + +"There may it to some English hands + From fairy meadow seem to come; +The fairyest of fairy lands-- + The land of home." + +"Weave on," he said, and as she wove + We told how currents in the deep, +With branches from a lemon grove, + Blue bergs will sweep. + +And messages from shipwrecked folk + Will navigate the moon-led main, +And painted boards of splintered oak + Their port regain. + +Then floated out by vagrant thought, + My soul beheld on torrid sand +The wasteful water set at nought + Man's skilful hand, + +And suck out gold-dust from the box, + And wash it down in weedy whirls, +And split the wine-keg on the rocks, + And lose the pearls. + +"Ah! why to that which needs it not," + Methought, "should costly things be given? +How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot, + On this side heaven!" + +So musing, did mine ears awake + To maiden tones of sweet reserve, +And manly speech that seemed to make + The steady curve + +Of lips that uttered it defer + Their guard, and soften for the thought: +She listened, and his talk with her + Was fancy fraught. + +"There is not much in liberty"-- + With doubtful pauses he began; +And said to her and said to me, + "There was a man-- + +"There was a man who dreamed one night + That his dead father came to him; +And said, when fire was low, and light + Was burning dim-- + +"'Why vagrant thus, my sometime pride, + Unloved, unloving, wilt thou roam? +Sure home is best!' The son replied, + 'I have no home.' + +"'Shall not I speak?' his father said, + 'Who early chose a youthful wife, +And worked for her, and with her led + My happy life. + +"'Ay, I will speak, for I was young + As thou art now, when I did hold +The prattling sweetness of thy tongue + Dearer than gold; + +"'And rosy from thy noonday sleep + Would bear thee to admiring kin, +And all thy pretty looks would keep + My heart within. + +"'Then after, mid thy young allies-- + For thee ambition flushed my brow-- +I coveted the school-boy prize + Far more than thou. + +"'I thought for thee, I thought for all + My gamesome imps that round me grew; +The dews of blessing heaviest fall + Where care falls too. + +"'And I that sent my boys away, + In youthful strength to earn their bread, +And died before the hair was gray + Upon my head-- + +"'I say to thee, though free from care, + A lonely lot, an aimless life, +The crowning comfort is not there-- + Son, take a wife.' + +"'Father beloved,' the son replied, + And failed to gather to his breast, +With arms in darkness searching wide, + The formless guest. + +"'I am but free, as sorrow is, + To dry her tears, to laugh, to talk; +And free, as sick men are, I wis + To rise and walk. + +"'And free, as poor men are, to buy + If they have nought wherewith to pay; +Nor hope, the debt before they die, + To wipe away. + +"'What 'vails it there are wives to win, + And faithful hearts for those to yearn, +Who find not aught thereto akin + To make return? + +"'Shall he take much who little gives, + And dwells in spirit far away, +When she that in his presence lives + Doth never stray, + +"But waking, guideth as beseems + The happy house in order trim, +And tends her babes; and sleeping, dreams + Of them and him? + +"'O base, O cold,'"--while thus he spake + The dream broke off, the vision fled; +He carried on his speech awake + And sighing said-- + +"'I had--ah happy man!--I had + A precious jewel in my breast, +And while I kept it I was glad + At work, at rest! + +"'Call it a heart, and call it strong + As upward stroke of eagle's wing; +Then call it weak, you shall not wrong + The beating thing. + +"'In tangles of the jungle reed, + Whose heats are lit with tiger eyes, +In shipwreck drifting with the weed + 'Neath rainy skies, + +"'Still youthful manhood, fresh and keen, + At danger gazed with awed delight +As if sea would not drown, I ween, + Nor serpent bite. + +"'I had--ah happy! but 'tis gone, + The priceless jewel; one came by, +And saw and stood awhile to con + With curious eye, + +"'And wished for it, and faintly smiled + From under lashes black as doom, +With subtle sweetness, tender, mild, + That did illume + +"'The perfect face, and shed on it + A charm, half feeling, half surprise, +And brim with dreams the exquisite + Brown blessed eyes. + +"'Was it for this, no more but this, + I took and laid it in her hand, +By dimples ruled, to hint submiss, + By frown unmanned? + +"'It was for this--and O farewell + The fearless foot, the present mind, +And steady will to breast the swell + And face the wind! + +"'I gave the jewel from my breast, + She played with it a little while +As I sailed down into the west, + Fed by her smile; + +"'Then weary of it--far from land, + With sigh as deep as destiny, +She let it drop from her fair hand + Into the sea, + +"'And watched it sink; and I--and I,-- + What shall I do, for all is vain? +No wave will bring, no gold will buy, + No toil attain; + +"'Nor any diver reach to raise + My jewel from the blue abyss; +Or could they, still I should but praise + Their work amiss. + +"'Thrown, thrown away! But I love yet + The fair, fair hand which did the deed: +That wayward sweetness to forget + Were bitter meed. + +"'No, let it lie, and let the wave + Roll over it for evermore; +Whelmed where the sailor hath his grave-- + The sea her store. + +"'My heart, my sometime happy heart! + And O for once let me complain, +I must forego life's better part-- + Man's dearer gain. + +"'I worked afar that I might rear + A peaceful home on English soil; +I labored for the gold and gear-- + I loved my toil. + +"'Forever in my spirit spake + The natural whisper, "Well 'twill be +When loving wife and children break + Their bread with thee!" + +"'The gathered gold is turned to dross, + The wife hath faded into air, +My heart is thrown away, my loss + I cannot spare. + +"'Not spare unsated thought her food-- + No, not one rustle of the fold, +Nor scent of eastern sandal-wood, + Nor gleam of gold; + +"'Nor quaint devices of the shawl, + Far less the drooping lashes meek; +The gracious figure, lithe and tall, + The dimpled cheek; + +"'And all the wonders of her eyes, + And sweet caprices of her air, +Albeit, indignant reason cries, + Fool! have a care. + +"'Fool! join not madness to mistake; + Thou knowest she loved thee not a whit; +Only that she thy heart might break-- + She wanted it, + +"'Only the conquered thing to chain + So fast that none might set it free, +Nor other woman there might reign + And comfort thee. + +"'Robbed, robbed of life's illusions sweet; + Love dead outside her closed door, +And passion fainting at her feet + To wake no more; + +"'What canst thou give that unknown bride + Whom thou didst work for in the waste, +Ere fated love was born, and cried-- + Was dead, ungraced? + +"'No more but this, the partial care, + The natural kindness for its own, +The trust that waxeth unaware, + As worth is known: + +"'Observance, and complacent thought + Indulgent, and the honor due +That many another man has brought + Who brought love too. + +"'Nay, then, forbid it Heaven!' he said, + 'The saintly vision fades from me; +O bands and chains! I cannot wed-- + I am not free.'" + +With that he raised his face to view; + "What think you," asking, "of my tale? +And was he right to let the dew + Of morn exhale, + +"And burdened in the noontide sun, + The grateful shade of home forego-- +Could he be right--I ask as one + Who fain would know?" + +He spoke to her and spoke to me; + The rebel rose-hue dyed her cheek; +The woven crown lay on her knee; + She would not speak. + +And I with doubtful pause--averse + To let occasion drift away-- +I answered--"If his case were worse + Than word can say, + +"Time is a healer of sick hearts, + And women have been known to choose, +With purpose to allay their smarts, + And tend their bruise, + +"These for themselves. Content to give, + In their own lavish love complete, +Taking for sole prerogative + Their tendance sweet. + +"Such meeting in their diadem + Of crowning love's ethereal fire, +Himself he robs who robbeth them + Of their desire. + +"Therefore the man who, dreaming, cried + Against his lot that even-song, +I judge him honest, and decide + That he was wrong." + +"When I am judged, ah may my fate," + He whispered, "in thy code be read! +Be thou both judge and advocate." + Then turned, he said-- + +"Fair weaver!" touching, while he spoke, + The woven crown, the weaving hand, +"And do you this decree revoke, + Or may it stand? + +"This friend, you ever think her right-- + She is not wrong, then?" Soft and low +The little trembling word took flight: + She answered, "No." + + +PRESENT. + +A meadow where the grass was deep, + Rich, square, and golden to the view, +A belt of elms with level sweep + About it grew. + +The sun beat down on it, the line + Of shade was clear beneath the trees; +There, by a clustering eglantine, + We sat at ease. + +And O the buttercups! that field + O' the cloth of gold, where pennons swam-- +Where France set up his lilied shield, + His oriflamb, + +And Henry's lion-standard rolled: + What was it to their matchless sheen, +Their million million drops of gold + Among the green! + +We sat at ease in peaceful trust, + For he had written, "Let us meet; +My wife grew tired of smoke and dust, + And London heat, + +"And I have found a quiet grange, + Set back in meadows sloping west, +And there our little ones can range + And she can rest. + +"Come down, that we may show the view, + And she may hear your voice again, +And talk her woman's talk with you + Along the lane." + +Since he had drawn with listless hand + The letter, six long years had fled, +And winds had blown about the sand, + And they were wed. + +Two rosy urchins near him played, + Or watched, entranced, the shapely ships +That with his knife for them he made + Of elder slips. + +And where the flowers were thickest shed, + Each blossom like a burnished gem, +A creeping baby reared its head, + And cooed at them. + +And calm was on the father's face, + And love was in the mother's eyes; +She looked and listened from her place, + In tender wise. + +She did not need to raise her voice + That they might hear, she sat so nigh; +Yet we could speak when 'twas our choice, + And soft reply. + +Holding our quiet talk apart + Of household things; till, all unsealed, +The guarded outworks of the heart + Began to yield; + +And much that prudence will not dip + The pen to fix and send away, +Passed safely over from the lip + That summer day. + +"I should be happy," with a look + Towards her husband where he lay, +Lost in the pages of his book, + Soft did she say. + +"I am, and yet no lot below + For one whole day eludeth care; +To marriage all the stories flow, + And finish there: + +"As if with marriage came the end, + The entrance into settled rest, +The calm to which love's tossings tend, + The quiet breast. + +"For me love played the low preludes, + Yet life began but with the ring, +Such infinite solicitudes + Around it cling. + +"I did not for my heart divine + Her destiny so meek to grow; +The higher nature matched with mine + Will have it so. + +"Still I consider it, and still + Acknowledge it my master made, +Above me by the steadier will + Of nought afraid. + +"Above me by the candid speech; + The temperate judgment of its own; +The keener thoughts that grasp and reach + At things unknown. + +"But I look up and he looks down, + And thus our married eyes can meet; +Unclouded his, and clear of frown, + And gravely sweet. + +"And yet, O good, O wise and true! + I would for all my fealty, +That I could be as much to you + As you to me; + +"And knew the deep secure content + Of wives who have been hardly won, +And, long petitioned, gave assent, + Jealous of none. + +"But proudly sure in all the earth + No other in that homage shares, +Nor other woman's face or worth + Is prized as theirs." + +I said: "And yet no lot below + For one whole day eludeth care. +Your thought." She answered, "Even so. + I would beware + +"Regretful questionings; be sure + That very seldom do they rise, +Nor for myself do I endure-- + I sympathize. + +"For once"--she turned away her head, + Across the grass she swept her hand-- +"There was a letter once," she said, + "Upon the sand." + +"There was, in truth, a letter writ + On sand," I said, "and swept from view; +But that same hand which fashioned it + Is given to you. + +"Efface the letter; wherefore keep + An image which the sands forego?" +"Albeit that fear had seemed to sleep," + She answered low, + +"I could not choose but wake it now; + For do but turn aside your face, +A house on yonder hilly brow + Your eyes may trace. + +"The chestnut shelters it; ah me, + That I should have so faint a heart! +But yester-eve, as by the sea + I sat apart, + +"I heard a name, I saw a hand + Of passing stranger point that way-- +And will he meet her on the strand, + When late we stray? + +"For she is come, for she is there, + I heard it in the dusk, and heard +Admiring words, that named her fair, + But little stirred + +"By beauty of the wood and wave, + And weary of an old man's sway; +For it was sweeter to enslave + Than to obey." + +--The voice of one that near us stood, + The rustle of a silken fold, +A scent of eastern sandal wood, + A gleam of gold! + +A lady! In the narrow space + Between the husband and the wife, +But nearest him--she showed a face + With dangers rife; + +A subtle smile that dimpling fled, + As night-black lashes rose and fell: +I looked, and to myself I said, + "The letter L." + +He, too, looked up, and with arrest + Of breath and motion held his gaze, +Nor cared to hide within his breast + His deep amaze; + +Nor spoke till on her near advance + His dark cheek flushed a ruddier hue; +And with his change of countenance + Hers altered too. + +"Lenore!" his voice was like the cry + Of one entreating; and he said +But that--then paused with such a sigh + As mourns the dead. + +And seated near, with no demur + Of bashful doubt she silence broke, +Though I alone could answer her + When first she spoke. + +She looked: her eyes were beauty's own; + She shed their sweetness into his; +Nor spared the married wife one moan + That bitterest is. + +She spoke, and lo, her loveliness + Methought she damaged with her tongue; +And every sentence made it less, + All falsely rung. + +The rallying voice, the light demand, + Half flippant, half unsatisfied; +The vanity sincere and bland-- + The answers wide. + +And now her talk was of the East, + And next her talk was of the sea; +"And has the love for it increased + You shared with me?" + +He answered not, but grave and still + With earnest eyes her face perused, +And locked his lips with steady will, + As one that mused-- + +That mused and wondered. Why his gaze + Should dwell on her, methought, was plain; +But reason that should wonder raise + I sought in vain. + +And near and near the children drew, + Attracted by her rich array, +And gems that trembling into view + Like raindrops lay. + +He spoke: the wife her baby took + And pressed the little face to hers; +What pain soe'er her bosom shook, + What jealous stirs + +Might stab her heart, she hid them so, + The cooing babe a veil supplied; +And if she listened none might know, + Or if she sighed; + +Or if forecasting grief and care + Unconscious solace thence she drew, +And lulled her babe, and unaware + Lulled sorrow too. + +The lady, she interpreter + For looks or language wanted none, +If yet dominion stayed with her-- + So lightly won; + +If yet the heart she wounded sore + Could yearn to her, and let her see +The homage that was evermore + Disloyalty; + +If sign would yield that it had bled, + Or rallied from the faithless blow, +Or sick or sullen stooped to wed, + She craved to know. + +Now dreamy deep, now sweetly keen, + Her asking eyes would round him shine; +But guarded lips and settled mien + Refused the sign. + +And unbeguiled and unbetrayed, + The wonder yet within his breast, +It seemed a watchful part he played + Against her quest. + +Until with accent of regret + She touched upon the past once more, +As if she dared him to forget + His dream of yore. + +And words of little weight let fall + The fancy of the lower mind; +How waxing life must needs leave all + Its best behind; + +How he had said that "he would fain + (One morning on the halcyon sea) +That life would at a stand remain + Eternally; + +"And sails be mirrored in the deep, + As then they were, for evermore, +And happy spirits wake and sleep + Afar from shore: + +"The well-contented heart be fed + Ever as then, and all the world +(It were not small) unshadowed + When sails were furled. + +"Your words"--a pause, and quietly + With touch of calm self-ridicule: +"It may be so--for then," said he, + "I was a fool." + +With that he took his book, and left + An awkward silence to my care, +That soon I filled with questions deft + And debonair; + +And slid into an easy vein, + The favorite picture of the year; +The grouse upon her lord's domain-- + The salmon weir; + +Till she could fain a sudden thought + Upon neglected guests, and rise, +And make us her adieux, with nought + In her dark eyes + +Acknowledging or shame or pain; + But just unveiling for our view +A little smile of still disdain + As she withdrew. + +Then nearer did the sunshine creep, + And warmer came the wafting breeze; +The little babe was fast asleep + On mother's knees. + +Fair was the face that o'er it leant, + The cheeks with beauteous blushes dyed; +The downcast lashes, shyly bent, + That failed to hide + +Some tender shame. She did not see; + She felt his eyes that would not stir, +She looked upon her babe, and he + So looked at her. + +So grave, so wondering, so content, + As one new waked to conscious life, +Whose sudden joy with fear is blent, + He said, "My wife." + +"My wife, how beautiful you are!" + Then closer at her side reclined, +"The bold brown woman from afar + Comes, to me blind. + +"And by comparison, I see + The majesty of matron grace, +And learn how pure, how fair can be + My own wife's face: + +"Pure with all faithful passion, fair + With tender smiles that come and go, +And comforting as April air + After the snow. + +"Fool that I was! my spirit frets + And marvels at the humbling truth, +That I have deigned to spend regrets + On my bruised youth. + +"Its idol mocked thee, seated nigh, + And shamed me for the mad mistake; +I thank my God he could deny, + And she forsake. + +"Ah, who am I, that God hath saved + Me from the doom I did desire, +And crossed the lot myself had craved, + To set me higher? + +"What have I done that He should bow + From heaven to choose a wife for me? +And what deserved, He should endow + My home with THEE? + +"My wife!" With that she turned her face + To kiss the hand about her neck; +And I went down and sought the place + Where leaped the beck-- + +The busy beck, that still would run + And fall, and falter its refrain; +And pause and shimmer in the sun, + And fall again. + +It led me to the sandy shore, + We sang together, it and I-- +"The daylight comes, the dark is o'er, + The shadows fly." + +I lost it on the sandy shore, + "O wife!" its latest murmurs fell, +"O wife, be glad, and fear no more + The letter L." + + + + +THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. + +(1571.) + + +The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, + The ringers ran by two, by three; +"Pull, if ye never pulled before; + Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. +"Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! +Ply all your changes, all your swells, + Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'" + +Men say it was a stolen tyde-- + The Lord that sent it, He knows all; +But in myne ears doth still abide + The message that the bells let fall: +And there was nought of strange, beside +The nights of mews and peewits pied + By millions crouched on the old sea wall. + +I sat and spun within the doore, + My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; +The level sun, like ruddy ore, + Lay sinking in the barren skies; +And dark against day's golden death +She moved where Lindis wandereth, +My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. + + "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, + Ere the early dews were falling, + Farre away I heard her song. + "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; + Where the reedy Lindis floweth, + Floweth, floweth. + From the meads where melick groweth + Faintly came her milking song-- + + "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, + "For the dews will soone be falling; + Leave your meadow grasses mellow, + Mellow, mellow; + Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; + Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot + Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; + Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, + From the clovers lift your head; + Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, + Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, + Jetty, to the milking shed." + +If it be long, ay, long ago, + When I beginne to think howe long, +Againe I hear the Lindis flow, + Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; +And all the aire, it seemeth mee, +Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), +That ring the tune of Enderby. + +Alle fresh the level pasture lay, + And not a shadowe mote be seene, +Save where full fyve good miles away + The steeple towered from out the greene; +And lo! the great bell farre and wide +Was heard in all the country side +That Saturday at eventide. + +The swanherds where their sedges are + Moved on in sunset's golden breath. +The shepherde lads I heard afarre, + And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; +Till floating o'er the grassy sea +Came downe that kyndly message free, +The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." + +Then some looked uppe into the sky, + And all along where Lindis flows +To where the goodly vessels lie, + And where the lordly steeple shows. +They sayde, "And why should this thing be? +What danger lowers by land or sea? +They ring the tune of Enderby! + +"For evil news from Mablethorpe, + Of pyrate galleys warping down; +For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, + They have not spared to wake the towne +But while the west bin red to see, +And storms be none, and pyrates flee, +Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?" + +I looked without, and lo! my sonne + Came riding downe with might and main +He raised a shout as he drew on, + Till all the welkin rang again, +"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" +(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath +Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) + +"The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, + The rising tide comes on apace, +And boats adrift in yonder towne + Go sailing uppe the market-place." +He shook as one that looks on death: +"God save you, mother!" straight he saith; +"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" + +"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, + With her two bairns I marked her long; +And ere yon bells beganne to play + Afar I heard her milking song." +He looked across the grassy lea, +To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!" +They rang "The Brides of Enderby!" + +With that he cried and beat his breast; + For, lo! along the river's bed +A mighty eygre reared his crest, + And uppe the Lindis raging sped. +It swept with thunderous noises loud; +Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, +Or like a demon in a shroud. + +And rearing Lindis backward pressed, + Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; +Then madly at the eygre's breast + Flung uppe her weltering walls again. +Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-- +Then beaten foam flew round about-- +Then all the mighty floods were out. + +So farre, so fast the eygre drave, + The heart had hardly time to beat, +Before a shallow seething wave + Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: +The feet had hardly time to flee +Before it brake against the knee, +And all the world was in the sea. + +Upon the roofe we sate that night, + The noise of bells went sweeping by; +I marked the lofty beacon light + Stream from the church tower, red and high-- +A lurid mark and dread to see; +And awsome bells they were to mee, +That in the dark rang "Enderby." + +They rang the sailor lads to guide + From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; +And I--my sonne was at my side, + And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; +And yet he moaned beneath his breath, +"O come in life, or come in death! +O lost! my love, Elizabeth." + +And didst thou visit him no more? + Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; +The waters laid thee at his doore, + Ere yet the early dawn was clear. +Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, +The lifted sun shone on thy face, +Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. + +That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, + That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; +A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! + To manye more than myne and me: +But each will mourn his own (she saith). +And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath +Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. + +I shall never hear her more +By the reedy Lindis shore, +"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, +Ere the early dews be falling; +I shall never hear her song, +"Cusha! Cusha!" all along +Where the sunny Lindis floweth, + Goeth, floweth; +From the meads where melick groweth, +When the water winding down, +Onward floweth to the town. + +I shall never see her more +Where the reeds and rushes quiver, + Shiver, quiver; +Stand beside the sobbing river, +Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling +To the sandy lonesome shore; +I shall never hear her calling, +"Leave your meadow grasses mellow. + Mellow, mellow; +Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; +Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; +Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; +Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; + Lightfoot, Whitefoot, +From your clovers lift the head; +Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, +Jetty, to the milking shed." + + + + +AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. + +(THE PARSON'S BROTHER, SISTER, AND TWO CHILDREN) + + +_Preface_. + +What wonder man should fail to stay + A nursling wafted from above, +The growth celestial come astray, + That tender growth whose name is Love! + +It is as if high winds in heaven + Had shaken the celestial trees, +And to this earth below had given + Some feathered seeds from one of these. + +O perfect love that 'dureth long! + Dear growth, that shaded by the palms. +And breathed on by the angel's song, + Blooms on in heaven's eternal calms! + +How great the task to guard thee here, + Where wind is rough and frost is keen, +And all the ground with doubt and fear + Is checkered, birth and death between! + +Space is against thee--it can part; + Time is against thee--it can chill; +Words--they but render half the heart; + Deeds--they are poor to our rich will. + + * * * * * + +_Merton_. Though she had loved me, I had never bound +Her beauty to my darkness; that had been +Too hard for her. Sadder to look so near +Into a face all shadow, than to stand +Aloof, and then withdraw, and afterwards +Suffer forgetfulness to comfort her. +I think so, and I loved her; therefore I +Have no complaint; albeit she is not mine: +And yet--and yet, withdrawing I would fain +She would have pleaded duty--would have said +"My father wills it"; would have turned away, +As lingering, or unwillingly; for then +She would have done no damage to the past: +Now she has roughly used it--flung it down +And brushed its bloom away. If she had said, +"Sir, I have promised; therefore, lo! my hand"-- +Would I have taken it? Ah no! by all +Most sacred, no! + I would for my sole share +Have taken first her recollected blush +The day I won her; next her shining tears-- +The tears of our long parting; and for all +The rest--her cry, her bitter heart-sick cry, +That day or night (I know not which it was, +The days being always night), that darkest night. +When being led to her I heard her cry, +"O blind! blind! blind!" +Go with thy chosen mate: +The fashion of thy going nearly cured +The sorrow of it. I am yet so weak +That half my thoughts go after thee; but not +So weak that I desire to have it so. + +JESSIE, _seated at the piano, sings_. + +When the dimpled water slippeth, + Full of laughter, on its way, +And her wing the wagtail dippeth, + Running by the brink at play; +When the poplar leaves atremble + Turn their edges to the light, +And the far-up clouds resemble + Veils of gauze most clear and white; +And the sunbeams fall and flatter + Woodland moss and branches brown. +And the glossy finches chatter + Up and down, up and down: +Though the heart be not attending, + Having music of her own, +On the grass, through meadows wending, + It is sweet to walk alone. + +When the falling waters utter + Something mournful on their way, +And departing swallows flutter, + Taking leave of bank and brae; +When the chaffinch idly sitteth + With her mate upon the sheaves, +And the wistful robin flitteth + Over beds of yellow leaves; +When the clouds, like ghosts that ponder + Evil fate, float by and frown, +And the listless wind doth wander + Up and down, up and down: +Though the heart be not attending, + Having sorrows of her own, +Through the fields and fallows wending, + It is sad to walk alone. + +_Merton_. Blind! blind! blind! +Oh! sitting in the dark for evermore, +And doing nothing--putting out a hand +To feel what lies about me, and to say +Not "This is blue or red," but "This is cold, +And this the sun is shining on, and this +I know not till they tell its name to me." + +O that I might behold once more my God! +The shining rulers of the night and day; +Or a star twinkling; or an almond-tree, +Pink with her blossom and alive with bees, +Standing against the azure! O my sight! +Lost, and yet living in the sunlit cells +Of memory--that only lightsome place +Where lingers yet the dayspring of my youth: +The years of mourning for thy death are long. + +Be kind, sweet memory! O desert me not! +For oft thou show'st me lucent opal seas, +Fringed with their cocoa-palms and dwarf red crags, +Whereon the placid moon doth "rest her chin", +For oft by favor of thy visitings +I feel the dimness of an Indian night, +And lo! the sun is coming. Red as rust +Between the latticed blind his presence burns, +A ruby ladder running up the wall; +And all the dust, printed with pigeons' feet, +Is reddened, and the crows that stalk anear +Begin to trail for heat their glossy wings, +And the red flowers give back at once the dew, +For night is gone, and day is born so fast, +And is so strong, that, huddled as in flight, +The fleeting darkness paleth to a shade, +And while she calls to sleep and dreams "Come on," +Suddenly waked, the sleepers rub their eyes, +Which having opened, lo! she is no more. + +O misery and mourning! I have felt-- +Yes, I have felt like some deserted world +That God had done with, and had cast aside +To rock and stagger through the gulfs of space, +He never looking on it any more-- +Untilled, no use, no pleasure, not desired, +Nor lighted on by angels in their flight +From heaven to happier planets, and the race +That once had dwelt on it withdrawn or dead +Could such a world have hope that some blest day +God would remember her, and fashion her +Anew? + +_Jessie_. What, dearest? Did you speak to me? + +_Child_. I think he spoke to us. + +_M_. No, little elves, +You were so quiet that I half forgot +Your neighborhood. What are you doing there? + +_J_. They sit together on the window-mat +Nursing their dolls. + +_C_. Yes, Uncle, our new dolls-- +Our best dolls, that you gave us. + +_M_. Did you say +The afternoon was bright? + +_J_. Yes, bright indeed! +The sun is on the plane-tree, and it flames +All red and orange. + +_C_. I can see my father-- +Look! look! the leaves are falling on his gown. + +_M_. Where? + +_C_. In the churchyard, Uncle--he is gone: +He passed behind the tower. + +_M_. I heard a bell: +There is a funeral, then, behind the church. + +_2d Child_. Are the trees sorry when their leaves drop off? + +_1st Child_. You talk such silly words;--no, not at all. +There goes another leaf. + +_2d Child_. I did not see. + +_1st Child_. Look! on the grass, between the little hills. +Just where they planted Amy. + +_J._ Amy died-- +Dear little Amy! when you talk of her, +Say, she is gone to heaven. + +_2d Child_. They planted her-- +Will she come up next year? + +_1st Child_. No, not so soon; +But some day God will call her to come up, +And then she will. Papa knows everything-- +He said she would before he planted her. + +_2d Child_. It was at night she went to heaven. Last night +We saw a star before we went to bed. + +_1st Child_. Yes, Uncle, did you know? A large bright star, +And at her side she had some little ones-- +Some young ones. + +_M_. Young ones! no, my little maid, +Those stars are very old. + +_1st Child_. What! all of them? + +_M_. Yes. + +_1st Child_. Older than our father? + +_M_. Older, far. + +_2d Child_. They must be tired of shining there so long. +Perhaps they wish they might come down. + +_J_. Perhaps! +Dear children, talk of what you understand. +Come, I must lift the trailing creepers up +That last night's wind has loosened. + +_1st Child_. May we help? +Aunt, may we help to nail them? + +_J._ We shall see. +Go, find and bring the hammer, and some shreds. + +_[Steps outside the window, lifts a branch, and sings.]_ + +Should I change my allegiance for rancor + If fortune changes her side? +Or should I, like a vessel at anchor, + Turn with the turn of the tide? +Lift! O lift, thou lowering sky; + An thou wilt, thy gloom forego! +An thou wilt not, he and I + Need not part for drifts of snow. + + _M. [within_] Lift! no, thou lowering sky, thou wilt not lift-- +Thy motto readeth, "Never." + +_Children_. Here they are! +Here are the nails! and may we help? + +_J_. You shall, +If I should want help. + +_1st Child_. Will you want it, then? +Please want it--we like nailing. + +_2d Child_. Yes, we do. + +_J_. It seems I ought to want it: hold the bough, +And each may nail in turn. + +[_Sings._] + +Like a daisy I was, near him growing: + Must I move because favors flag, +And be like a brown wall-flower blowing + Far out of reach in a crag? +Lift! O lift, thou lowering sky; + An thou canst, thy blue regain! +An thou canst not, he and I + Need not part for drops of rain. + +_1st Child_. Now, have we nailed enough? + +_J. [trains the creepers_] Yes, you may go; +But do not play too near the churchyard path. + +_M. [within_] Even misfortune does not strike so near +As my dependence. O, in youth and strength +To sit a timid coward in the dark, +And feel before I set a cautious step! +It is so very dark, so far more dark +Than any night that day comes after--night +In which there would be stars, or else at least +The silvered portion of a sombre cloud +Through which the moon is plunging. + +_J. [entering]_ Merton! + +_M_. Yes + +_J_. Dear Merton, did you know that I could hear? + +_M_. No: e'en my solitude is not mine now, +And if I be alone is ofttimes doubt. +Alas! far more than eyesight have I lost; +For manly courage drifteth after it-- +E'en as a splintered spar would drift away +From some dismasted wreck. Hear, I complain-- +Like a weak ailing woman I complain. + +_J_. For the first time. + +_M_. I cannot bear the dark. + +_J_. My brother! you do bear it--bear it well-- +Have borne it twelve long months, and not complained +Comfort your heart with music: all the air +Is warm with sunbeams where the organ stands. +You like to feel them on you. Come and play. + +_M_. My fate, my fate is lonely! + +_J_. So it is-- +I know it is. + +_M_. And pity breaks my heart. + +_J_. Does it, dear Merton? + +_M_. Yes, I say it does. +What! do you think I am so dull of ear +That I can mark no changes in the tones +That reach me? Once I liked not girlish pride +And that coy quiet, chary of reply, +That held me distant: now the sweetest lips +Open to entertain me--fairest hands +Are proffered me to guide. + +_J_. That is not well? + +_M_. No: give me coldness, pride, or still disdain, +Gentle withdrawal. Give me anything +But this--a fearless, sweet, confiding ease, +Whereof I may expect, I may exact, +Considerate care, and have it--gentle speech, +And have it. Give me anything but this! +For they who give it, give it in the faith +That I will not misdeem them, and forget +My doom so far as to perceive thereby +Hope of a wife. They make this thought too plain; +They wound me--O they cut me to the heart! +When have I said to any one of them, +"I am a blind and desolate man;--come here, +I pray you--be as eyes to me?" When said, +Even to her whose pitying voice is sweet +To my dark ruined heart, as must be hands +That clasp a lifelong captive's through the grate, +And who will ever lend her delicate aid +To guide me, dark encumbrance that I am!-- +When have I said to her, "Comforting voice, +Belonging to a face unknown, I pray +Be my wife's voice?" + +_J_. Never, my brother--no, +You never have! + +_M_. What could she think of me +If I forgot myself so far? or what +Could she reply? + +_J_. You ask not as men ask +Who care for an opinion, else perhaps, +Although I am not sure--although, perhaps, +I have no right to give one--I should say +She would reply, "I will" + + * * * * * + +_Afterthought_. + +Man dwells apart, though not alone, + He walks among his peers unread; +The best of thoughts which he hath known. + For lack of listeners are not said. + +Yet dreaming on earth's clustered isles, + He saith "They dwell not lone like men, +Forgetful that their sunflecked smiles + Flash far beyond each other's ken." + +He looks on God's eternal suns + That sprinkle the celestial blue, +And saith, "Ah! happy shining ones, + I would that men were grouped like you!" + +Yet this is sure, the loveliest star + That clustered with its peers we see, +Only because from us so far + Doth near its fellows seem to be. + + + + +SONGS OF SEVEN. + + +SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION. + +There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, + There's no rain left in heaven: +I've said my "seven times" over and over, + Seven times one are seven. + +I am old, so old, I can write a letter; + My birthday lessons are done; +The lambs play always, they know no better; + They are only one times one. + +O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing + And shining so round and low; +You were bright! ah bright! but your light is failing-- + You are nothing now but a bow. + +You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven + That God has hidden your face? +I hope if you have you will soon be forgiven, + And shine again in your place. + +O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, + You've powdered your legs with gold! +O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, + Give me your money to hold! + +O columbine, open your folded wrapper, + Where two twin turtle-doves dwell! +O cuckoo pint, toll me the purple clapper + That hangs in your clear green bell! + +And show me your nest with the young ones in it; + I will not steal them away; +I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet-- + I am seven times one to-day. + + +SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE. + +You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, + How many soever they be, +And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges + Come over, come over to me. + +Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling + No magical sense conveys, +And bells have forgotten their old art of telling + The fortune of future days. + +"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, + While a boy listened alone; +Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily + All by himself on a stone. + +Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, + And mine, they are yet to be; +No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: + You leave the story to me. + +The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, + And hangeth her hoods of snow; +She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: + O, children take long to grow. + +I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, + Nor long summer bide so late; +And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, + For some things are ill to wait. + +I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, + While dear hands are laid on my head; +"The child is a woman, the book may close over, + For all the lessons are said." + +I wait for my story--the birds cannot sing it, + Not one, as he sits on the tree; +The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it! + Such as I wish it to be. + + +SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE. + +I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, + Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; +"Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover-- + Hush, nightingale, hush! O, sweet nightingale, wait + Till I listen and hear + If a step draweth near, + For my love he is late! + +"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, + A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, +The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: + To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? + Let the star-clusters glow, + Let the sweet waters flow, + And cross quickly to me. + +"You night-moths that hover where honey brims over + From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; +You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover + To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. + Ah, my sailor, make haste, + For the time runs to waste, + And my love lieth deep-- + +"Too deep for swift telling: and yet my one lover + I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." + +By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover, + Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight: + But I'll love him more, more + Than e'er wife loved before, + Be the days dark or bright. + + +SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITY. + +Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, + Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! +When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, + And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small! +Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, + Eager to gather them all. + +Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups! + Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; +Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, + That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; +Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow"-- + Sing once, and sing it again. + +Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, + Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; +A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, + And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. +O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, + Maybe he thinks on you now! + +Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, + Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall-- +A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, + And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall! +Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, + God that is over us all! + + +SEVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOWHOOD. + +I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan + Before I am well awake; +"Let me bleed! O let me alone, + Since I must not break!" + +For children wake, though fathers sleep + With a stone at foot and at head: +O sleepless God, forever keep, + Keep both living and dead! + +I lift mine eyes, and what to see + But a world happy and fair! +I have not wished it to mourn with me-- + Comfort is not there. + +O what anear but golden brooms, + And a waste of reedy rills! +O what afar but the fine glooms + On the rare blue hills! + +I shall not die, but live forlore-- + How bitter it is to part! +O to meet thee, my love, once more! + O my heart, my heart! + +No more to hear, no more to see! + O that an echo might wake +And waft one note of thy psalm to me + Ere my heart-strings break! + +I should know it how faint soe'er, + And with angel voices blent; +O once to feel thy spirit anear, + I could be content! + +Or once between the gates of gold, + While an angel entering trod, +But once--thee sitting to behold + On the hills of God! + + +SEVEN TIMES SIX. GIVING IN MARRIAGE. + +To bear, to nurse, to rear, + To watch, and then to lose: +To see my bright ones disappear, + Drawn up like morning dews-- +To bear, to nurse, to rear, + To watch, and then to lose: +This have I done when God drew near + Among his own to choose. + +To hear, to heed, to wed, + And with thy lord depart +In tears that he, as soon as shed, + Will let no longer smart.-- +To hear, to heed, to wed, + This while thou didst I smiled, +For now it was not God who said, +"Mother, give ME thy child." + +O fond, O fool, and blind, + To God I gave with tears; +But when a man like grace would find, + My soul put by her fears-- +O fond, O fool, and blind, + God guards in happier spheres; +That man will guard where he did bind + Is hope for unknown years. + +To hear, to heed, to wed, + Fair lot that maidens choose, +Thy mother's tenderest words are said, + Thy face no more she views; +Thy mother's lot, my dear, + She doth in nought accuse; +Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, + To love--and then to lose. + + +SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. LONGING FOR HOME. + +I. + + A song of a boat:-- + There was once a boat on a billow: + Lightly she rocked to her port remote, +And the foam was white in her wake like snow, +And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow + And bent like a wand of willow. + +II. + + I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat + Went curtseying over the billow, + I marked her course till a dancing mote +She faded out on the moonlit foam, +And I stayed behind in the dear loved home; + And my thoughts all day were about the boat, + And my dreams upon the pillow. + +III. + +I pray you hear my song of a boat, + For it is but short:-- +My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat, + In river or port. +Long I looked out for the lad she bore, + On the open desolate sea, +And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, + For he came not back to me-- + Ah me! + +IV. + + A song of a nest:-- + There was once a nest in a hollow: +Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, + Soft and warm, and full to the brim-- + Vetches leaned over it purple and dim, + With buttercup buds to follow. + +V. + +I pray you hear my song of a nest, + For it is not long:-- +You shall never light, in a summer quest + The bushes among-- +Shall never light on a prouder sitter, + A fairer nestful, nor ever know +A softer sound than their tender twitter + That wind-like did come and go. + +VI. + + I had a nestful once of my own, + Ah happy, happy I! +Right dearly I loved them: but when they were grown + They spread out their wings to fly-- + O, one after one they flew away + Far up to the heavenly blue, + To the better country, the upper day, + And--I wish I was going too. + +VII. + +I pray you, what is the nest to me, + My empty nest? +And what is the shore where I stood to see + My boat sail down to the west? +Can I call that home where I anchor yet, + Though my good man has sailed? +Can I call that home where my nest was set, + Now all its hope hath failed? +Nay, but the port where my sailor went, + And the land where my nestlings be: +There is the home where my thoughts are sent, + The only home for me-- + Ah me! + + + + +A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. + + +We reached the place by night, + And heard the waves breaking: +They came to meet us with candles alight + To show the path we were taking. +A myrtle, trained on the gate, was white + With tufted flowers down shaking. + +With head beneath her wing, + A little wren was sleeping-- +So near, I had found it an easy thing + To steal her for my keeping +From the myrtle-bough that with easy swing + Across the path was sweeping. + +Down rocky steps rough-hewed, + Where cup-mosses flowered, +And under the trees, all twisted and rude, + Wherewith the dell was dowered, +They led us, where deep in its solitude + Lay the cottage, leaf-embowered. + +The thatch was all bespread + With climbing passion-flowers; +They were wet, and glistened with raindrops, shed + That day in genial showers. +"Was never a sweeter nest," we said, + "Than this little nest of ours." + +We laid us down to sleep: + But as for me--waking, +I marked the plunge of the muffled deep + On its sandy reaches breaking; +For heart-joyance doth sometimes keep + From slumber, like heart-aching. + +And I was glad that night, + With no reason ready, +To give my own heart for its deep delight, + That flowed like some tidal eddy, +Or shone like a star that was rising bright + With comforting radiance steady. + +But on a sudden--hark! + Music struck asunder +Those meshes of bliss, and I wept in the dark, + So sweet was the unseen wonder; +So swiftly it touched, as if struck at a mark, + The trouble that joy kept under. + +I rose--the moon outshone: + I saw the sea heaving, +And a little vessel sailing alone, + The small crisp wavelet cleaving; +'Twas she as she sailed to her port unknown-- + Was that track of sweetness leaving. + +We know they music made + In heaven, ere man's creation; +But when God threw it down to us that strayed + It dropt with lamentation, +And ever since doth its sweetness shade + With sighs for its first station. + +Its joy suggests regret-- + Its most for more is yearning; +And it brings to the soul that its voice hath met, + No rest that cadence learning, +But a conscious part in the sighs that fret + Its nature for returning. + +O Eve, sweet Eve! methought + When sometimes comfort winning, +As she watched the first children's tender sport, + Sole joy born since her sinning, +If a bird anear them sang, it brought + The pang as at beginning. + +While swam the unshed tear, + Her prattlers little heeding, +Would murmur, "This bird, with its carol clear. + When the red clay was kneaden, +And God made Adam our father dear, + Sang to him thus in Eden." + +The moon went in--the sky + And earth and sea hiding, +I laid me down, with the yearning sigh + Of that strain in my heart abiding; +I slept, and the barque that had sailed so nigh + In my dream was ever gliding. + +I slept, but waked amazed, + With sudden noise frighted, +And voices without, and a flash that dazed + My eyes from candles lighted. +"Ah! surely," methought, "by these shouts upraised + Some travellers are benighted." + +A voice was at my side-- + "Waken, madam, waken! +The long prayed-for ship at her anchor doth ride. + Let the child from its rest be taken, +For the captain doth weary for babe and for bride-- + Waken, madam, waken! + +"The home you left but late, + He speeds to it light-hearted; +By the wires he sent this news, and straight + To you with it they started." +O joy for a yearning heart too great, + O union for the parted! + +We rose up in the night, + The morning star was shining; +We carried the child in its slumber light + Out by the myrtles twining: +Orion over the sea hung bright, + And glorious in declining. + +Mother, to meet her son, + Smiled first, then wept the rather; +And wife, to bind up those links undone, + And cherished words to gather, +And to show the face of her little one, + That had never seen its father. + +That cottage in a chine + We were not to behold it; +But there may the purest of sunbeams shine, + May freshest flowers enfold it, +For sake of the news which our hearts must twine + With the bower where we were told it! + +Now oft, left lone again, + Sit mother and sit daughter, +And bless the good ship that sailed over the main, + And the favoring winds that brought her; +While still some new beauty they fable and feign + For the cottage by the water. + + + + +PERSEPHONE. + +(Written for THE PORTFOLIO SOCIETY, January, 1862. + +Subject given--"Light and Shade.") + + +She stepped upon Sicilian grass, + Demeter's daughter fresh and fair, +A child of light, a radiant lass, + And gamesome as the morning air. +The daffodils were fair to see, +They nodded lightly on the lea, +Persephone--Persephone! + +Lo! one she marked of rarer growth + Than orchis or anemone; +For it the maiden left them both, + And parted from her company. +Drawn nigh she deemed it fairer still, +And stooped to gather by the rill +The daffodil, the daffodil. + +What ailed the meadow that it shook? + What ailed the air of Sicily? +She wondered by the brattling brook, + And trembled with the trembling lea. +"The coal-black horses rise--they rise: +O mother, mother!" low she cries-- +Persephone--Persephone! + +"O light, light, light!" she cries, "farewell; + The coal-black horses wait for me. +O shade of shades, where I must dwell, + Demeter, mother, far from thee! +Ah, fated doom that I fulfil! +Ah, fateful flower beside the rill! +The daffodil, the daffodil!" + +What ails her that she comes not home? + Demeter seeks her far and wide, +And gloomy-browed doth ceaseless roam + From many a morn till eventide. +"My life, immortal though it be, +Is nought," she cries, "for want of thee, +Persephone--Persephone! + +"Meadows of Enna, let the rain + No longer drop to feed your rills, +Nor dew refresh the fields again, + With all their nodding daffodils! +Fade, fade and droop, O lilied lea, +Where thou, dear heart, wert reft from me-- +Persephone--Persephone!" + +She reigns upon her dusky throne, + Mid shades of heroes dread to see; +Among the dead she breathes alone, + Persephone--Persephone! +Or seated on the Elysian hill +She dreams of earthly daylight still, +And murmurs of the daffodil. + +A voice in Hades soundeth clear, + The shadows mourn and fill below; +It cries--"Thou Lord of Hades, hear, + And let Demeter's daughter go. +The tender corn upon the lea +Droops in her goddess gloom when she +Cries for her lost Persephone. + +"From land to land she raging flies, + The green fruit falleth in her wake, +And harvest fields beneath her eyes + To earth the grain unripened shake. +Arise, and set the maiden free; +Why should the world such sorrow dree +By reason of Persephone?" + +He takes the cleft pomegranate seeds: + "Love, eat with me this parting day;" +Then bids them fetch the coal-black steeds-- + "Demeter's daughter, wouldst away?" +The gates of Hades set her free: +"She will return full soon," saith he-- +"My wife, my wife Persephone." + +Low laughs the dark king on his throne-- + "I gave her of pomegranate seeds." +Demeter's daughter stands alone + Upon the fair Eleusian meads. +Her mother meets her. "Hail!" saith she; +"And doth our daylight dazzle thee, +My love, my child Persephone? + +"What moved thee, daughter, to forsake + Thy fellow-maids that fatal morn, +And give thy dark lord power to take + Thee living to his realm forlorn?" +Her lips reply without her will, +As one addressed who slumbereth still-- +"The daffodil, the daffodil!" + +Her eyelids droop with light oppressed, + And sunny wafts that round her stir, +Her cheek upon her mother's breast-- + Demeter's kisses comfort her. +Calm Queen of Hades, art thou she +Who stepped so lightly on the lea-- +Persephone, Persephone? + +When, in her destined course, the moon + Meets the deep shadow of this world, +And laboring on doth seem to swoon + Through awful wastes of dimness whirled-- +Emerged at length, no trace hath she +Of that dark hour of destiny, +Still silvery sweet--Persephone. + +The greater world may near the less, + And draw it through her weltering shade, +But not one biding trace impress + Of all the darkness that she made; +The greater soul that draweth thee +Hath left his shadow plain to see +On thy fair face, Persephone! + +Demeter sighs, but sure 'tis well + The wife should love her destiny: +They part, and yet, as legends tell, + She mourns her lost Persephone; +While chant the maids of Enna still-- +"O fateful flower beside the rill-- +The daffodil, the daffodil!" + + + + +A SEA SONG. + + +Old Albion sat on a crag of late. + And sang out--"Ahoy! ahoy! +Long, life to the captain, good luck to the mate. +And this to my sailor boy! + Come over, come home, + Through the salt sea foam, + My sailor, my sailor boy. + +"Here's a crown to be given away, I ween, + A crown for my sailor's head, +And all for the worth of a widowed queen, + And the love of the noble dead; + And the fear and fame + Of the island's name + Where my boy was born and bred. + +"Content thee, content thee, let it alone, + Thou marked for a choice so rare; +Though treaties be treaties, never a throne + Was proffered for cause as fair. + Yet come to me home, + Through the salt sea foam, + For the Greek must ask elsewhere. + +"'Tis a pity, my sailor, but who can tell? + Many lands they look to me; +One of these might be wanting a Prince as well, + But that's as hereafter may be." + She raised her white head + And laughed; and she said + "That's as hereafter may be." + + + + +BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. + + +It was a village built in a green rent, +Between two cliffs that skirt the dangerous bay +A reef of level rock runs out to sea, +And you may lie on it and look sheer down, +Just where the "Grace of Sunderland" was lost, +And see the elastic banners of the dulse +Rock softly, and the orange star-fish creep +Across the laver, and the mackerel shoot +Over and under it, like silver boats +Turning at will and plying under water. + +There on that reef we lay upon our breasts, +My brother and I, and half the village lads, +For an old fisherman had called to us +With "Sirs, the syle be come." "And what are they?" +My brother said. "Good lack!" the old man cried, +And shook his head; "To think you gentlefolk +Should ask what syle be! Look you; I can't say +What syle be called in your fine dictionaries, +Nor what name God Almighty calls them by +When their food's ready and He sends them south: +But our folk call them syle, and nought but syle, +And when they're grown, why then we call them herring. +I tell you, Sir, the water is as full +Of them as pastures be of blades of grass; +You'll draw a score out in a landing net, +And none of them be longer than a pin. + +"Syle! ay, indeed, we should be badly off, +I reckon, and so would God Almighty's gulls," +He grumbled on in his quaint piety, +"And all His other birds, if He should say +I will not drive my syle into the south; +The fisher folk may do without my syle, +And do without the shoals of fish it draws +To follow and feed on it." + This said, we made +Our peace with him by means of two small coins, +And down we ran and lay upon the reef, +And saw the swimming infants, emerald green, +In separate shoals, the scarcely turning ebb +Bringing them in; while sleek, and not intent +On chase, but taking that which came to hand, +The full-fed mackerel and the gurnet swam +Between; and settling on the polished sea, +A thousand snow-white gulls sat lovingly +In social rings, and twittered while they fed. +The village dogs and ours, elate and brave, +Lay looking over, barking at the fish; +Fast, fast the silver creatures took the bait, +And when they heaved and floundered on the rock, +In beauteous misery, a sudden pat +Some shaggy pup would deal, then back away, +At distance eye them with sagacious doubt, +And shrink half frighted from the slippery things. + +And so we lay from ebb-tide, till the flow +Rose high enough to drive us from the reef; +The fisher lads went home across the sand; +We climbed the cliff, and sat an hour or more, +Talking and looking down. It was not talk +Of much significance, except for this-- +That we had more in common than of old, +For both were tired, I with overwork. +He with inaction; I was glad at heart +To rest, and he was glad to have an ear +That he could grumble to, and half in jest +Rail at entails, deplore the fate of heirs, +And the misfortune of a good estate-- +Misfortune that was sure to pull him down, +Make him a dreamy, selfish, useless man: +Indeed he felt himself deteriorate +Already. Thereupon he sent down showers +Of clattering stones, to emphasize his words, +And leap the cliffs and tumble noisily +Into the seething wave. And as for me, +I railed at him and at ingratitude, +While rifling of the basket he had slung +Across his shoulders; then with right good will +We fell to work, and feasted like the gods, +Like laborers, or like eager workhouse folk +At Yuletide dinner; or, to say the whole +At once, like tired, hungry, healthy youth, +Until the meal being o'er, the tilted flask +Drained of its latest drop, the meat and bread +And ruddy cherries eaten, and the dogs +Mumbling the bones, this elder brother of mine-- +This man, that never felt an ache or pain +In his broad, well-knit frame, and never knew +The trouble of an unforgiven grudge, +The sting of a regretted meanness, nor +The desperate struggle of the unendowed +For place and for possession--he began +To sing a rhyme that he himself had wrought; +Sending it out with cogitative pause, +As if the scene where he had shaped it first +Had rolled it back on him, and meeting it +Thus unaware, he was of doubtful mind +Whether his dignity it well beseemed +To sing of pretty maiden: + +Goldilocks sat on the grass, + Tying up of posies rare; +Hardly could a sunbeam pass + Through the cloud that was her hair. +Purple orchis lasteth long, + Primrose flowers are pale and clear; +O the maiden sang a song + It would do you good to hear! + +Sad before her leaned the boy, + "Goldilocks that I love well, +Happy creature, fair and coy, + Think o' me, sweet Amabel." +Goldilocks she shook apart, + Looked with doubtful, doubtful eyes; +Like a blossom in her heart, + Opened out her first surprise. + +As a gloriole sign o' grace, + Goldilocks, ah fall and flow, +On the blooming, childlike face, + Dimple, dimple, come and go. +Give her time; on grass and sky + Let her gaze if she be fain: +As they looked ere he drew nigh, + They will never look again. + +Ah! the playtime she has known, + While her goldilocks grew long, +Is it like a nestling flown, + Childhood over like a song? +Yes, the boy may clear his brow, + Though she thinks to say him nay, +When she sighs, "I cannot now-- + Come again some other day." + +"Hold! there," he cried, half angry with himself; +"That ending goes amiss:" then turned again +To the old argument that we had held-- +"Now look you!" said my brother, "You may talk +Till, weary of the talk, I answer 'Ay, +There's reason in your words;' and you may talk +Till I go on to say, 'This should be so;' +And you may talk till I shall further own +'It _is_ so; yes, I am a lucky dog!' +Yet not the less shall I next morning wake. +And with a natural and fervent sigh, +Such as you never heaved, I shall exclaim +'What an unlucky dog I am!'" And here +He broke into a laugh. "But as for you-- +You! on all hands you have the best of me; +Men have not robbed _you_ of your birthright--work, +Nor ravaged in old days a peaceful field, +Nor wedded heiresses against their will, +Nor sinned, nor slaved, nor stooped, nor overreached, +That you might drone a useless life away +'Mid half a score of bleak and barren farms +And half a dozen bogs." + "O rare!" I cried; +"His wrongs go nigh to make him eloquent: +Now we behold how far bad actions reach! +Because five hundred years ago a Knight +Drove geese and beeves out from a Franklin's yard +Because three hundred years ago a squire-- +Against her will, and for her fair estate-- +Married a very ugly red-haired maid, +The blest inheritor of all their pelf, +While in the full enjoyment of the same, +Sighs on his own confession every day. +He cracks no egg without a moral sigh, +Nor eats of beef, but thinking on that wrong; +Then, yet the more to be revenged on them, +And shame their ancient pride, if they should know, +Works hard as any horse for his degree, +And takes to writing verses." + "Ay," he said, +Half laughing at himself. "Yet you and I, +But for those tresses which enrich us yet +With somewhat of the hue that partial fame +Calls auburn when it shines on heads of heirs, +But when it flames round brows of younger sons, +Just red--mere red; why, but for this, I say, +And but for selfish getting of the land, +And beggarly entailing it, we two, +To-day well fed, well grown, well dressed, well read, +We might have been two horny-handed boors-- +Lean, clumsy, ignorant, and ragged boors-- +Planning for moonlight nights a poaching scheme, +Or soiling our dull souls and consciences +With plans for pilfering a cottage roost. + +"What, chorus! are you dumb? you should have cried, +'So good comes out of evil;'" and with that, +As if all pauses it was natural +To seize for songs, his voice broke out again: + + Coo, dove, to thy married mate-- + She has two warm eggs in her nest: + Tell her the hours are few to wait + Ere life shall dawn on their rest; + And thy young shall peck at the shells, elate + With a dream of her brooding breast. + + Coo, dove, for she counts the hours, + Her fair wings ache for flight: + By day the apple has grown in the flowers, + And the moon has grown by night, + And the white drift settled from hawthorn bowers, + Yet they will not seek the light. + + Coo, dove; but what of the sky? + And what if the storm-wind swell, + And the reeling branch come down from on high + To the grass where daisies dwell, + And the brood beloved should with them lie + Or ever they break the shell? + + Coo, dove; and yet black clouds lower, + Like fate, on the far-off sea: + Thunder and wind they bear to thy bower, + As on wings of destiny. + Ah, what if they break in an evil hour, + As they broke over mine and me? + +What next?--we started like to girls, for lo! +The creaking voice, more harsh than rusty crane, +Of one who stooped behind us, cried aloud +"Good lack! how sweet the gentleman does sing-- +So loud and sweet, 'tis like to split his throat. +Why, Mike's a child to him, a two years child-- +Chrisom child." + "Who's Mike?" my brother growled +A little roughly. Quoth the fisherman-- +"Mike, Sir? he's just a fisher lad, no more; +But he can sing, when he takes on to sing, +So loud there's not a sparrow in the spire +But needs must hear. Sir, if I might make bold, +I'd ask what song that was you sung. My mate, +As we were shoving off the mackerel boats, +Said he, 'I'll wager that's the sort o' song +They kept their hearts up with in the Crimea,'" + +"There, fisherman," quoth I, "he showed his wit, +Your mate; he marked the sound of savage war-- +Gunpowder, groans, hot-shot, and bursting shells, +And 'murderous messages,' delivered by +Spent balls that break the heads of dreaming men." + +"Ay, ay, Sir!" quoth the fisherman. "Have done!" +My brother. And I--"The gift belongs to few +Of sending farther than the words can reach +Their spirit and expression;" still--"Have done!" +He cried; and then "I rolled the rubbish out +More loudly than the meaning warranted, +To air my lungs--I thought not on the words." + +Then said the fisherman, who missed the point, +"So Mike rolls out the psalm; you'll hear him, Sir, +Please God you live till Sunday." + "Even so: +And you, too, fisherman; for here, they say, +You are all church-goers." + "Surely, Sir," quoth he, +Took off his hat, and stroked his old white head +And wrinkled face; then sitting by us said, +As one that utters with a quiet mind +Unchallenged truth--"'Tis lucky for the boats." + +The boats! 'tis lucky for the boats! Our eyes +Were drawn to him as either fain would say, +What! do they send the psalm up in the spire, +And pray because 'tis lucky for the boats? + +But he, the brown old man, the wrinkled man, +That all his life had been a church-goer, +Familiar with celestial cadences, +Informed of all he could receive, and sure +Of all he understood--he sat content, +And we kept silence. In his reverend face +There was a simpleness we could not sound; +Much truth had passed him overhead; some error +He had trod under foot;--God comfort him! +He could not learn of us, for we were young +And he was old, and so we gave it up; +And the sun went into the west, and down +Upon the water stooped an orange cloud, +And the pale milky reaches flushed, as glad +To wear its colors; and the sultry air +Went out to sea, and puffed the sails of ships +With thymy wafts, the breath of trodden grass: +It took moreover music, for across +The heather belt and over pasture land +Came the sweet monotone of one slow bell, +And parted time into divisions rare, +Whereof each morsel brought its own delight. + +"They ring for service," quoth the fisherman; +"Our parson preaches in the church to-night." + +"And do the people go?" my brother asked. + +"Ay, Sir; they count it mean to stay away, +He takes it so to heart. He's a rare man, +Our parson; half a head above us all" + +"That's a great gift, and notable," said I. + +"Ay, Sir; and when he was a younger man +He went out in the lifeboat very oft, +Before the 'Grace of Sunderland' was wrecked. +He's never been his own man since that hour: +For there were thirty men aboard of her, +Anigh as close as you are now to me, +And ne'er a one was saved. + They're lying now, +With two small children, in a row: the church +And yard are full of seamen's graves, and few +Have any names. + She bumped upon the reef; +Our parson, my young son, and several more +Were lashed together with a two-inch rope, +And crept along to her; their mates ashore +Ready to haul them in. The gale was high, +The sea was all a boiling seething froth, +And God Almighty's guns were going off, +And the land trembled. + + "When she took the ground, +She went to pieces like a lock of hay +Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that, +The captain reeled on deck with two small things, +One in each arm--his little lad and lass. +Their hair was long, and blew before his face, +Or else we thought he had been saved; he fell, +But held them fast. The crew, poor luckless souls! +The breakers licked them off; and some were crushed, +Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung up dead, +The dear breath beaten out of them: not one +Jumped from the wreck upon the reef to catch +The hands that strained to reach, but tumbled back +With eyes wide open. But the captain lay +And clung--the only man alive. They prayed-- +'For God's sake, captain, throw the children here!' +'Throw them!' our parson cried; and then she struck +And he threw one, a pretty two years child; +But the gale dashed him on the slippery verge, +And down he went. They say they heard him cry. + +"Then he rose up and took the other one, +And all our men reached out their hungry arms, +And cried out, 'Throw her! throw her!' and he did: +He threw her right against the parson's breast, +And all at once a sea broke over them, +And they that saw it from the shore have said +It struck the wreck, and piecemeal scattered it, +Just as a woman might the lump of salt +That 'twixt her hands into the kneading pan +She breaks and crumbles on her rising bread. + +"We hauled our men in: two of them were dead-- +The sea had beaten them, their heads hung down; +Our parson's arms were empty, for the wave +Had torn away the pretty, pretty lamb; +We often see him stand beside her grave: +But 'twas no fault of his, no fault of his. + +"I ask your pardon, Sirs, I prate and prate, +And never have I said what brought me here. +Sirs, if you want a boat to-morrow morn, +I'm bold to say there's ne'er a boat like mine." + +"Ay, that was what we wanted," we replied; +"A boat, his boat;" and off he went, well pleased. + +We, too, rose up (the crimson in the sky +Flushing our faces), and went sauntering on, +And thought to reach our lodging, by the cliff. +And up and down among the heather beds, +And up and down between the sheaves we sped, +Doubling and winding; for a long ravine +Ran up into the land and cut us off, +Pushing out slippery ledges for the birds. +And rent with many a crevice, where the wind +Had laid up drifts of empty eggshells, swept +From the bare berths of gulls and guillemots. + +So as it chanced we lighted on a path +That led into a nutwood; and our talk +Was louder than beseemed, if we had known, +With argument and laughter; for the path, +As we sped onward, took a sudden turn +Abrupt, and we came out on churchyard grass, +And close upon a porch, and face to face +With those within, and with the thirty graves. +We heard the voice of one who preached within, +And stopped. "Come on," my brother whispered me; +"It were more decent that we enter now; +Come on! we'll hear this rare old demigod: +I like strong men and large; I like gray heads, +And grand gruff voices, hoarse though this may be +With shouting in the storm." + It was not hoarse, +The voice that preached to those few fishermen +And women, nursing mothers with the babes +Hushed on their breasts; and yet it held them not: +Their drowsy eyes were drawn to look at us, +Till, having leaned our rods against the wall, +And left the dogs at watch, we entered, sat, +And were apprised that, though he saw us not, +The parson knew that he had lost the eyes +And ears of those before him, for he made +A pause--a long dead pause, and dropped his arms, +And stood awaiting, till I felt the red +Mount to my brow. + And a soft fluttering stir +Passed over all, and every mother hushed +The babe beneath her shawl, and he turned round +And met our eyes, unused to diffidence, +But diffident of his; then with a sigh +Fronted the folk, lifted his grand gray head, +And said, as one that pondered now the words +He had been preaching on with new surprise, +And found fresh marvel in their sound, "Behold! +Behold!" saith He, "I stand at the door and knock." + +Then said the parson: "What! and shall He wait, +And must He wait, not only till we say, +'Good Lord, the house is clean, the hearth is swept. +The children sleep, the mackerel-boats are in, +And all the nets are mended; therefore I +Will slowly to the door and open it:' +But must He also wait where still, behold! +He stands and knocks, while we do say, 'Good Lord. +The gentlefolk are come to worship here, +And I will up and open to Thee soon; +But first I pray a little longer wait, +For I am taken up with them; my eyes +Must needs regard the fashion of their clothes, +And count the gains I think to make by them; +Forsooth, they are of much account, good Lord! +Therefore have patience with me--wait, dear Lord +Or come again?' + What! must He wait for THIS-- +For this? Ay, He doth wait for this, and still, +Waiting for this, He, patient, raileth not; +Waiting for this, e'en this He saith, 'Behold! +I stand at the door and knock,' + O patient hand! +Knocking and waiting--knocking in the night +When work is done! I charge you, by the sea +Whereby you fill your children's mouths, and by +The might of Him that made it--fishermen! +I charge you, mothers! by the mother's milk +He drew, and by His Father, God over all. +Blessed forever, that ye answer Him! +Open the door with shame, if ye have sinned; +If ye be sorry, open it with sighs. +Albeit the place be bare for poverty, +And comfortless for lack of plenishing, +Be not abashed for that, but open it, +And take Him in that comes to sup with thee; +'Behold!' He saith, 'I stand at the door and knock.' + +"Now, hear me: there be troubles in this world +That no man can escape, and there is one +That lieth hard and heavy on my soul, +Concerning that which is to come:-- + I say +As a man that knows what earthly trouble means, +I will not bear this ONE--I cannot bear +This ONE--I cannot bear the weight of you-- +You--every one of you, body and soul; +You, with the care you suffer, and the loss +That you sustain; you, with the growing up +To peril, maybe with the growing old +To want, unless before I stand with you +At the great white throne, I may be free of all, +And utter to the full what shall discharge +Mine obligation: nay, I will not wait +A day, for every time the black clouds rise, +And the gale freshens, still I search my soul +To find if there be aught that can persuade +To good, or aught forsooth that can beguile +From evil, that I (miserable man! +If that be so) have left unsaid, undone. + +"So that when any risen from sunken wrecks, +Or rolled in by the billows to the edge +Of the everlasting strand, what time the sea +Gives up her dead, shall meet me, they may say +Never, 'Old man, you told us not of this; +You left us fisher lads that had to toil +Ever in danger of the secret stab +Of rocks, far deadlier than the dagger; winds +Of breath more murderous than the cannon's; wave +Mighty to rock us to our death; and gulfs, +Ready beneath to suck and swallow us in: +This crime be on your head; and as for us-- +What shall we do? 'but rather--nay, not so, +I will not think it; I will leave the dead, +Appealing but to life: I am afraid +Of you, but not so much if you have sinned +As for the doubt if sin shall be forgiven. +The day was, I have been afraid of pride-- +Hard man's hard pride; but now I am afraid +Of man's humility, I counsel you, +By the great God's great humbleness, and by +His pity, be not humble over-much. +See! I will show at whose unopened doors +He stands and knocks, that you may never says +'I am too mean, too ignorant, too lost; +He knocks at other doors, but not at mine.' + +"See here! it is the night! it is the night! +And snow lies thickly, white untrodden snow, +And the wan moon upon a casement shines-- +A casement crusted o'er with frosty leaves, +That make her ray less bright along the floor. +A woman sits, with hands upon her knees, +Poor tired soul! and she has nought to do, +For there is neither fire nor candle-light: +The driftwood ash lies cold upon her hearth, +The rushlight flickered down an hour ago; +Her children wail a little in their sleep +For cold and hunger, and, as if that sound +Was not enough, another comes to her, +Over God's undefiled snow--a song-- +Nay, never hang your heads--I say, a song. + And doth she curse the alehouse, and the sots +That drink the night out and their earnings there, +And drink their manly strength and courage down, +And drink away the little children's bread, +And starve her, starving by the self-same act +Her tender suckling, that with piteous eye +Looks in her face, till scarcely she has heart +To work, and earn the scanty bit and drop +That feed the others? + Does she curse the song? +I think not, fishermen; I have not heard +Such women curse. God's curse is curse enough. +To-morrow she will say a bitter thing, +Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises show-- +A bitter thing, but meant for an excuse-- +'My master is not worse than many men:' +But now, ay, now she sitteth dumb and still; +No food, no comfort, cold and poverty +Bearing her down. + My heart is sore for her; +How long, how long? When troubles come of God, +When men are frozen out of work, when wives +Are sick, when working fathers fail and die, +When boats go down at sea--then nought behoves +Like patience; but for troubles wrought of men +Patience is hard--I tell you it is hard. + +"O thou poor soul! it is the night--the night; +Against thy door drifts up the silent snow, +Blocking thy threshold: 'Fall' thou sayest, 'fall, fall +Cold snow, and lie and be trod underfoot. +Am not I fallen? wake up and pipe, O wind, +Dull wind, and heat and bluster at my door: +Merciful wind, sing me a hoarse rough song, +For there is other music made to-night +That I would fain not hear. Wake, thou still sea, +Heavily plunge. Shoot on, white waterfall. +O, I could long like thy cold icicles +Freeze, freeze, and hang upon the frosty clift +And not complain, so I might melt at last +In the warm summer sun, as thou wilt do! + +"'But woe is me! I think there is no sun; +My sun is sunken, and the night grows dark: +None care for me. The children cry for bread, +And I have none, and nought can comfort me; +Even if the heavens were free to such as I, +It were not much, for death is long to wait, +And heaven is far to go!' + + "And speak'st thou thus, +Despairing of the sun that sets to thee, +And of the earthly love that wanes to thee, +And of the heaven that lieth far from thee? +Peace, peace, fond fool! One draweth near thy door +Whose footsteps leave no print across the snow; +Thy sun has risen with comfort in his face, +The smile of heaven, to warm thy frozen heart, +And bless with saintly hand. What! is it long +To wait, and far to go? Thou shalt not go; +Behold, across the snow to thee He comes, +Thy heaven descends, and is it long to wait? +Thou shalt not wait: 'This night, this night,' he saith, +'I stand at the door and knock.' + +"It is enough--can such an one be here-- +Yea, here? O God forgive you, fishermen! +One! is there only one? But do thou know, +O woman pale for want, if thou art here, +That on thy lot much thought is spent in heaven; +And, coveting the heart a hard man broke, +One standeth patient, watching in the night, +And waiting in the daytime. + What shall be +If thou wilt answer? He will smile on thee, +One smile of His shall be enough to heal +The wound of man's neglect; and He will sigh, +Pitying the trouble which that sigh shall cure; +And He will speak--speak in the desolate nigh +In the dark night: 'For me a thorny crown +Men wove, and nails were driven in my hands +And feet: there was an earthquake, and I died +I died, and am alive for evermore. + +"'I died for thee; for thee I am alive, +And my humanity doth mourn for thee, +For thou art mine; and all thy little ones, +They, too, are mine, are mine. Behold, the house +Is dark, but there is brightness where the sons +Of God are singing, and, behold, the heart +Is troubled: yet the nations walk in white; +They have forgotten how to weep; and thou +Shalt also come, and I will foster thee +And satisfy thy soul; and thou shall warm +Thy trembling life beneath the smile of God. +A little while--it is a little while-- +A little while, and I will comfort thee; +I go away, but I will come again.' + +"But hear me yet. There was a poor old man +Who sat and listened to the raging sea, +And heard it thunder, lunging at the cliffs +As like to tear them down. He lay at night; +And 'Lord have mercy on the lads,' said he, +'That sailed at noon, though they be none of mine! +For when the gale gets up, and when the wind +Flings at the window, when it beats the roof, +And lulls and stops and rouses up again, +And cuts the crest clean off the plunging wave. +And scatters it like feathers up the field, +Why, then I think of my two lads: my lads +That would have worked and never let me want, +And never let me take the parish pay. +No, none of mine; my lads were drowned at sea-- +My two--before the most of these wore born. +I know how sharp that cuts, since my poor wife +Walked up and down, and still walked up and down. +And I walked after, and one could not hear +A word the other said, for wind and sea +That raged and beat and thundered in the night-- +The awfullest, the longest, lightest night +That ever parents had to spend--a moon +That shone like daylight on the breaking wave. +Ah me! and other men have lost their lads, +And other women wiped their poor dead mouths, +And got them home and dried them in the house, +And seen the driftwood lie along the coast, +That was a tidy boat but one day back. +And seen next tide the neighbors gather it +To lay it on their fires. + Ay, I was strong +And able-bodied--loved my work;--but now +I am a useless hull: 'tis time I sank; +I am in all men's way; I trouble them; +I am a trouble to myself: but yet +I feel for mariners of stormy nights, +And feel for wives that watch ashore. Ay, ay! +If I had learning I would pray the Lord +To bring them in: but I'm no scholar, no; +Book-learning is a world too hard for me: +But I make bold to say, 'O Lord, good Lord, +I am a broken-down poor man, a fool +To speak to Thee: but in the Book 'tis writ, +As I hear say from others that can read, +How, when Thou camest, Thou didst love the sea, +And live with fisherfolk, whereby 'tis sure +Thou knowest all the peril they go through. +And all their trouble. + As for me, good Lord, +I have no boat; I am too old, too old-- +My lads are drowned; I buried my poor wife; +My little lasses died so long ago +That mostly I forget what they were like. +Thou knowest, Lord; they were such little ones. +I know they went to Thee, but I forget +Their faces, though I missed them sore. + O Lord, +I was a strong man; I have drawn good food +And made good money out of Thy great sea: +But yet I cried for them at nights; and now, +Although I be so old, I miss my lads, +And there be many folk this stormy night +Heavy with fear for theirs. Merciful Lord, +Comfort them; save their honest boys, their pride, +And let them hear next ebb the blessedest, +Best sound--the boat-keels grating on the sand. +I cannot pray with finer words: I know +Nothing; I have no learning, cannot learn-- +Too old, too old. They say I want for nought, +I have the parish pay; but I am dull +Of hearing, and the fire scarce warms me through. +God save me, I have been a sinful man-- +And save the lives of them that still can work, +For they are good to me; ay, good to me. +But, Lord, I am a trouble! and I sit, +And I am lonesome, and the nights are few +That any think to come and draw a chair, +And sit in my poor place and talk a while. +Why should they come, forsooth? Only the wind +Knocks at my door, O long and loud it knocks, +The only thing God made that has a mind +To enter in.' + + "Yea, thus the old man spake: +These were the last words of his aged mouth-- +BUT ONE DID KNOCK. One came to sup with him, +That humble, weak, old man; knocked at his door +In the rough pauses of the laboring wind. +I tell you that One knocked while it was dark. +Save where their foaming passion had made white +Those livid seething billows. What He said +In that poor place where He did talk a while, +I cannot tell: but this I am assured, +That when the neighbors came the morrow morn, +What time the wind had bated, and the sun +Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile +He passed away in, and they said, 'He looks +As he had woke and seen the face of Christ, +And with that rapturous smile held out his arms +To come to Him!' + + "Can such an one be here, +So old, so weak, so ignorant, so frail? +The Lord be good to thee, thou poor old man; +It would be hard with thee if heaven were shut +To such as have not learning! Nay, nay, nay, +He condescends to them of low estate; +To such as are despised He cometh down, +Stands at the door and knocks. + + "Yet bear with me. +I have a message; I have more to say. +Shall sorrow win His pity, and not sin-- +That burden ten times heavier to be borne? +What think you? Shall the virtuous have His care +Alone? O virtuous women, think not scorn. +For you may lift your faces everywhere; +And now that it grows dusk, and I can see +None though they front me straight, I fain would tell +A certain thing to you. I say to _you_; +And if it doth concern you, as methinks +It doth, then surely it concerneth all. +I say that there was once--I say not here-- +I say that there was once a castaway, +And she was weeping, weeping bitterly; +Kneeling, and crying with a heart-sick cry +That choked itself in sobs--'O my good name! +Oh my good name!' And none did hear her cry! +Nay; and it lightened, and the storm-bolts fell, +And the rain splashed upon the roof, and still +She, storm-tost as the storming elements-- +She cried with an exceeding bitter cry, +'O my good name!' And then the thunder-cloud +Stooped low and burst in darkness overhead, +And rolled, and rocked her on her knees, and shook +The frail foundations of her dwelling-place. +But she--if any neighbors had come in +(None did): if any neighbors had come in, +They might have seen her crying on her knees. +And sobbing 'Lost, lost, lost!' beating her breast-- +Her breast forever pricked with cruel thorns. +The wounds whereof could neither balm assuage +Nor any patience heal--beating her brow, +Which ached, it had been bent so long to hide +From level eyes, whose meaning was contempt. + +"O ye good women, it is hard to leave +The paths of virtue, and return again. +What if this sinner wept, and none of you +Comforted her? And what if she did strive +To mend, and none of you believed her strife. +Nor looked upon her? Mark, I do not say, +Though it was hard, you therefore were to blame; +That she had aught against you, though your feet +Never drew near her door. But I beseech +Your patience. Once in old Jerusalem +A woman kneeled at consecrated feet, +Kissed them, and washed them with her tears. + What then? +I think that yet our Lord is pitiful: +I think I see the castaway e'en now! +And she is not alone: the heavy rain +Splashes without, and sullen thunder rolls, +But she is lying at the sacred feet +Of One transfigured. + + "And her tears flow down, +Down to her lips,--her lips that kiss the print +Of nails; and love is like to break her heart! +Love and repentance--for it still doth work +Sore in her soul to think, to think that she, +Even she, did pierce the sacred, sacred feet. +And bruise the thorn-crowned head. + + "O Lord, our Lord, +How great is Thy compassion. Come, good Lord, +For we will open. Come this night, good Lord; +Stand at the door and knock. + + "And is this all?-- +Trouble, old age and simpleness, and sin-- +This all? It might be all some other night; +But this night, if a voice said 'Give account +Whom hast thou with thee?' then must I reply, +'Young manhood have I, beautiful youth and strength, +Rich with all treasure drawn up from the crypt +Where lies the learning of the ancient world-- +Brave with all thoughts that poets fling upon +The strand of life, as driftweed after storms: +Doubtless familiar with Thy mountain heads, +And the dread purity of Alpine snows, +Doubtless familiar with Thy works concealed +For ages from mankind--outlying worlds, +And many mooned spheres--and Thy great store +Of stars, more thick than mealy dust which here +Powders the pale leaves of Auriculas. +This do I know, but, Lord, I know not more. +Not more concerning them--concerning Thee, +I know Thy bounty; where Thou givest much +Standing without, if any call Thee in +Thou givest more.' Speak, then, O rich and strong: +Open, O happy young, ere yet the hand +Of Him that knocks, wearied at last, forbear; +The patient foot its thankless quest refrain, +The wounded heart for evermore withdraw." + +I have heard many speak, but this one man-- +So anxious not to go to heaven alone-- +This one man I remember, and his look, +Till twilight overshadowed him. He ceased. +And out in darkness with the fisherfolk +We passed and stumbled over mounds of moss, +And heard, but did not see, the passing beck. +Ah, graceless heart, would that it could regain +From the dim storehouse of sensations past +The impress full of tender awe, that night, +Which fell on me! It was as if the Christ +Had been drawn down from heaven to track us home, +And any of the footsteps following us +Might have been His. + + + + +A WEDDING SONG. + + +Come up the broad river, the Thames, my Dane, + My Dane with the beautiful eyes! +Thousands and thousands await thee full fain, + And talk of the wind and the skies. +Fear not from folk and from country to part, + O, I swear it is wisely done: +For (I said) I will bear me by thee, sweetheart, + As becometh my father's son. + +Great London was shouting as I went down. + "She is worthy," I said, "of this; +What shall I give who have promised a crown? + O, first I will give her a kiss." +So I kissed her and brought her, my Dane, my Dane, + Through the waving wonderful crowd: +Thousands and thousands, they shouted amain, + Like mighty thunders and loud. + +And they said, "He is young, the lad we love, + The heir of the Isles is young: +How we deem of his mother, and one gone above, + Can neither be said nor sung. + +"He brings us a pledge--he will do his part + With the best of his race and name;"-- +And I will, for I look to live, sweetheart, + As may suit with my mother's fame. + + + + +THE FOUR BRIDGES. + + +I love this gray old church, the low, long nave, + The ivied chancel and the slender spire; +No less its shadow on each heaving grave, + With growing osier bound, or living brier; +I love those yew-tree trunks, where stand arrayed +So many deep-cut names of youth and maid. + +A simple custom this--I love it well-- + A carved betrothal and a pledge of truth; +How many an eve, their linked names to spell, + Beneath the yew-trees sat our village youth! +When work was over, and the new-cut hay +Sent wafts of balm from meadows where it lay. + +Ah! many an eve, while I was yet a boy, + Some village hind has beckoned me aside, +And sought mine aid, with shy and awkward joy, + To carve the letters of his rustic bride, +And make them clear to read as graven stone, +Deep in the yew-tree's trunk beside his own. + +For none could carve like me, and here they stand. + Fathers and mothers of this present race: +And underscored by some less practised hand, + That fain the story of its line would trace, +With children's names, and number, and the day +When any called to God have passed away. + +I look upon them, and I turn aside, + As oft when carving them I did erewhile; +And there I see those wooden bridges wide + That cross the marshy hollow; there the stile +In reeds embedded, and the swelling down, +And the white road towards the distant town. + +But those old bridges claim another look. + Our brattling river tumbles through the one; +The second spans a shallow, weedy brook; + Beneath the others, and beneath the sun, +Lie two long stilly pools, and on their breasts +Picture their wooden piles, encased in swallows' nests. + +And round about them grows a fringe of reeds, + And then a floating crown of lily-flowers, +And yet within small silver-budded weeds; + But each clear centre evermore embowers +A deeper sky, where, stooping, you may see +The little minnows darting restlessly. + +My heart is bitter, lilies, at your sweet; + Why did the dewdrop fringe your chalices? +Why in your beauty are you thus complete, + You silver ships--you floating palaces? +O! if need be, you must allure man's eye, + Yet wherefore blossom here? O why? O why? + +O! O! the world is wide, you lily flowers, + It hath warm forests, cleft by stilly pools, +Where every night bathe crowds of stars; and bowers + Of spicery hang over. Sweet air cools +And shakes the lilies among those stars that lie: +Why are not ye content to reign there? Why? + +That chain of bridges, it were hard to tell + How it is linked with all my early joy. +There was a little foot that I loved well, + It danced across them when I was a boy; +There was a careless voice that used to sing; +There was a child, a sweet and happy thing. + +Oft through that matted wood of oak and birch + She came from yonder house upon the hill; +She crossed the wooden bridges to the church, + And watched, with village girls, my boasted skill: +But loved to watch the floating lilies best, +Or linger, peering in a swallow's nest; + +Linger and linger, with her wistful eyes + Drawn to the lily-buds that lay so white +And soft on crimson water; for the skies + Would crimson, and the little cloudlets bright +Would all be flung among the flowers sheer down, +To flush the spaces of their clustering crown. + +Till the green rushes--O, so glossy green-- + The rushes, they would whisper, rustle, shake; +And forth on floating gauze, no jewelled queen + So rich, the green-eyed dragon-flies would break, +And hover on the flowers--aerial things, +With little rainbows flickering on their wings. + +Ah! my heart dear! the polished pools lie still, + Like lanes of water reddened by the west, +Till, swooping down from yon o'erhanging hill, + The bold marsh harrier wets her tawny breast; +We scared her oft in childhood from her prey, +And the old eager thoughts rise fresh as yesterday. + +To yonder copse by moonlight I did go, + In luxury of mischief, half afraid, +To steal the great owl's brood, her downy snow, + Her screaming imps to seize, the while she preyed +With yellow, cruel eyes, whose radiant glare, +Fell with their mother rage, I might not dare. + +Panting I lay till her great fanning wings + Troubled the dreams of rock-doves, slumbering nigh, +And she and her fierce mate, like evil things, + Skimmed the dusk fields; then rising, with a cry +Of fear, joy, triumph, darted on my prey. + And tore it from the nest and fled away. + +But afterward, belated in the wood, + I saw her moping on the rifled tree, +And my heart smote me for her, while I stood + Awakened from my careless reverie; +So white she looked, with moonlight round her shed. +So motherlike she drooped and hung her head. + +O that mine eyes would cheat me! I behold + The godwits running by the water edge, +Tim mossy bridges mirrored as of old; + The little curlews creeping from the sedge, +But not the little foot so gayly light +O that mine eyes would cheat me, that I might!-- + +Would cheat me! I behold the gable ends-- + Those purple pigeons clustering on the cote; +The lane with maples overhung, that bends + Toward her dwelling; the dry grassy moat, +Thick mullions, diamond-latticed, mossed and gray, +And walls bunked up with laurel and with bay. + +And up behind them yellow fields of corn, + And still ascending countless firry spires, +Dry slopes of hills uncultured, bare, forlorn, + And green in rocky clefts with whins and briers; +Then rich cloud masses dyed the violet's hue, +With orange sunbeams dropping swiftly through. + +Ay, I behold all this full easily; + My soul is jealous of my happier eyes. +And manhood envies youth. Ah, strange to see, + By looking merely, orange-flooded skies; +Nay, any dew-drop that may near me shine: +But never more the face of Eglantine! + +She was my one companion, being herself + The jewel and adornment of my days, +My life's completeness. O, a smiling elf, + That I do but disparage with my praise-- +My playmate; and I loved her dearly and long, +And she loved me, as the tender love the strong. + +Ay, but she grew, till on a time there came + A sudden restless yearning to my heart; +And as we went a-nesting, all for shame + And shyness, I did hold my peace, and start; +Content departed, comfort shut me out, +And there was nothing left to talk about. + +She had but sixteen years, and as for me, + Four added made my life. This pretty bird, +This fairy bird that I had cherished--she, + Content, had sung, while I, contented, heard. +The song had ceased; the bird, with nature's art, +Had brought a thorn and set it in my heart. + +The restless birth of love my soul opprest, + I longed and wrestled for a tranquil day, +And warred with that disquiet in my breast + As one who knows there is a better way; +But, turned against myself, I still in vain +Looked for the ancient calm to come again. + +My tired soul could to itself confess + That she deserved a wiser love than mine; +To love more truly were to love her less, + And for this truth I still awoke to pine; +I had a dim belief that it would be +A better thing for her, a blessed thing for me. + +Good hast Thou made them--comforters right sweet; + Good hast Thou made the world, to mankind lent; +Good are Thy dropping clouds that feed the wheat; + Good are Thy stars above the firmament. +Take to Thee, take, Thy worship, Thy renown; +The good which Thou hast made doth wear Thy crown. + +For, O my God, Thy creatures are so frail, + Thy bountiful creation is so fair. +That, drawn before us like the temple veil, + It hides the Holy Place from thought and care, +Giving man's eyes instead its sweeping fold, +Rich as with cherub wings and apples wrought of gold. + +Purple and blue and scarlet--shimmering bells + And rare pomegranates on its broidered rim, +Glorious with chain and fretwork that the swell + Of incense shakes to music dreamy and dim, +Till on a day comes loss, that God makes gain, +And death and darkness rend the veil in twain. + + * * * * * + +Ah, sweetest! my beloved! each outward thing + Recalls my youth, and is instinct with thee; +Brown wood-owls in the dusk, with noiseless wing, + Float from yon hanger to their haunted tree, +And hoot full softly. Listening, I regain +A flashing thought of thee with their remembered strain. + +I will not pine--it is the careless brook. + These amber sunbeams slanting down the vale; +It is the long tree-shadows, with their look + Of natural peace, that make my heart to fail: +The peace of nature--No, I will not pine-- +But O the contrast 'twixt her face and mine! + +And still I changed--I was a boy no more; + My heart was large enough to hold my kind, +And all the world. As hath been oft before + With youth, I sought, but I could never find +Work hard enough to quiet my self-strife, +And use the strength of action-craving life. + +She, too, was changed: her bountiful sweet eyes + Looked out full lovingly on all the world. +O tender as the deeps in yonder skies + Their beaming! but her rosebud lips were curled +With the soft dimple of a musing smile, +Which kept my gaze, but held me mute the while. + +A cast of bees, a slowly moving wain, + The scent of bean-flowers wafted up a dell, +Blue pigeons wheeling over fields of grain, + Or bleat of folded lamb, would please her well; +Or cooing of the early coted dove;-- +She sauntering mused of these; I, following, mused of love. + +With her two lips, that one the other pressed + So poutingly with such a tranquil air, +With her two eyes, that on my own would rest + So dream-like, she denied my silent prayer, +Fronted unuttered words and said them nay, +And smiled down love till it had nought to say. + +The words that through mine eyes would clearly shine + Hovered and hovered on my lips in vain; +If after pause I said but "Eglantine," + She raised to me her quiet eyelids twain, +And looked me this reply--look calm, yet bland-- +"I shall not know, I will not understand." + +Yet she did know my story--knew my life + Was wrought to hers with bindings many and strong +That I, like Israel, served for a wife, + And for the love I bare her thought not long, +But only a few days, full quickly told, +My seven years' service strict as his of old. + +I must be brief: the twilight shadows grow, + And steal the rose-bloom genial summer sheds, +And scented wafts of wind that come and go + Have lifted dew from honeyed clover-heads; +The seven stars shine out above the mill, +The dark delightsome woods lie veiled and still. + +Hush! hush! the nightingale begins to sing, + And stops, as ill-contented with her note; +Then breaks from out the bush with hurried wing. + Restless and passionate. She tunes her throat, +Laments awhile in wavering trills, and then +Floods with a stream of sweetness all the glen. + +The seven stars upon the nearest pool + Lie trembling down betwixt the lily leaves, +And move like glowworms; wafting breezes cool + Come down along the water, and it heaves +And bubbles in the sedge; while deep and wide +The dim night settles on the country side. + +I know this scene by heart. O! once before + I saw the seven stars float to and fro, +And stayed my hurried footsteps by the shore + To mark the starry picture spread below: +Its silence made the tumult in my breast +More audible; its peace revealed my own unrest. + +I paused, then hurried on; my heart beat quick; + I crossed the bridges, reached the steep ascent, +And climbed through matted fern and hazels thick; + Then darkling through the close green maples went +And saw--there felt love's keenest pangs begin-- +An oriel window lighted from within-- + +I saw--and felt that they were scarcely cares + Which I had known before; I drew more near, +And O! methought how sore it frets and wears + The soul to part with that it holds so dear; +Tis hard two woven tendrils to untwine, +And I was come to part with Eglantine. + +For life was bitter through those words repressed, + And youth was burdened with unspoken vows; +Love unrequited brooded in my breast, + And shrank, at glance, from the beloved brows: +And three long months, heart-sick, my foot withdrawn, +I had not sought her side by rivulet, copse, or lawn-- + +Not sought her side, yet busy thought no less + Still followed in her wake, though far behind; +And I, being parted from her loveliness, + Looked at the picture of her in my mind: +I lived alone, I walked with soul oppressed, +And ever sighed for her, and sighed for rest. + +Then I had risen to struggle with my heart. +And said--"O heart! the world is fresh and fair, +And I am young; but this thy restless smart + Changes to bitterness the morning air: +I will, I must, these weary fetters break-- +I will be free, if only for her sake. + +"O let me trouble her no more with sighs! + Heart-healing comes by distance, and with time: +Then let me wander, and enrich mine eyes + With the green forests of a softer clime, +Or list by night at sea the wind's low stave +And long monotonous rockings of the wave. + +"Through open solitudes, unbounded meads, + Where, wading on breast-high in yellow bloom, +Untamed of man, the shy white lama feeds-- + There would I journey and forget my doom; +Or far, O far as sunrise I would see +The level prairie stretch away from me! + +"Or I would sail upon the tropic seas, + Where fathom long the blood-red dulses grow, +Droop from the rock and waver in the breeze, + Lashing the tide to foam; while calm below +The muddy mandrakes throng those waters warm, +And purple, gold, and green, the living blossoms swarm." + +So of my father I did win consent, + With importunities repeated long, +To make that duty which had been my bent, + To dig with strangers alien tombs among, +And bound to them through desert leagues to pace. +Or track up rivers to their starting-place. + +For this I had done battle and had won, + But not alone to tread Arabian sands, +Measure the shadows of a southern sun, + Or dig out gods in the old Egyptian lands; +But for the dream wherewith I thought to cope-- +The grief of love unmated with love's hope. + +And now I would set reason in array, + Methought, and fight for freedom manfully, +Till by long absence there would come a day + When this my love would not be pain to me; +But if I knew my rosebud fair and blest +I should not pine to wear it on my breast. + +The days fled on; another week should fling + A foreign shadow on my lengthening way; +Another week, yet nearness did not bring + A braver heart that hard farewell to say. +I let the last day wane, the dusk begin, +Ere I had sought that window lighted from within. + +Sinking and sinking, O my heart! my heart! + Will absence heal thee whom its shade doth rend? +I reached the little gate, and soft within + The oriel fell her shadow. She did lend +Her loveliness to me, and let me share +The listless sweetness of those features fair. + +Among thick laurels in the gathering gloom, + Heavy for this our parting, I did stand; +Beside her mother in the lighted room, + She sitting leaned her cheek upon her hand +And as she read, her sweet voice floating through +The open casement seemed to mourn me an adieu. + +Youth! youth! how buoyant are thy hopes! they turn, + Like marigolds, toward the sunny side. +My hopes were buried in a funeral urn, + And they sprung up like plants and spread them wide; +Though I had schooled and reasoned them away, +They gathered smiling near and prayed a holiday. + +Ah, sweetest voice! how pensive were its tones, + And how regretful its unconscious pause! +"Is it for me her heart this sadness owns, + And is our parting of to-night the cause? +Ah, would it might be so!" I thought, and stood +Listening entranced among the underwood. + +I thought it would be something worth the pain + Of parting, to look once in those deep eyes, +And take from them an answering look again: + "When eastern palms," I thought, "about me rise, +If I might carve our names upon the rind, +Betrothed, I would not mourn, though leaving thee behind." + +I can be patient, faithful, and most fond + To unacknowledged love; I can be true +To this sweet thraldom, this unequal bond, + This yoke of mine that reaches not to you: +O, how much more could costly parting buy-- +If not a pledge, one kiss, or, failing that, a sigh! + +I listened, and she ceased to read; she turned + Her face towards the laurels where I stood: +Her mother spoke--O wonder! hardly learned; + She said, "There is a rustling in the wood; +Ah, child! if one draw near to bid farewell, +Let not thine eyes an unsought secret tell. + +"My daughter, there is nothing held so dear + As love, if only it be hard to win. +The roses that in yonder hedge appear + Outdo our garden-buds which bloom within; +But since the hand may pluck them every day, +Unmarked they bud, bloom, drop, and drift away. + +"My daughter, my beloved, be not you + Like those same roses." O bewildering word! +My heart stood still, a mist obscured my view: + It cleared; still silence. No denial stirred +The lips beloved; but straight, as one opprest, +She, kneeling, dropped her face upon her mother's breast. + +This said, "My daughter, sorrow comes to all; + Our life is checked with shadows manifold: +But woman has this more--she may not call + Her sorrow by its name. Yet love not told, +And only born of absence and by thought, +With thought and absence may return to nought." + +And my beloved lifted up her face, + And moved her lips as if about to speak; +She dropped her lashes with a girlish grace, + And the rich damask mantled in her cheek: +I stood awaiting till she should deny +Her love, or with sweet laughter put it by. + +But, closer nestling to her mother's heart, + She, blushing, said no word to break my trance, +For I was breathless; and, with lips apart, + Felt my breast pant and all my pulses dance, +And strove to move, but could not for the weight +Of unbelieving joy, so sudden and so great, + +Because she loved me. With a mighty sigh + Breaking away, I left her on her knees, +And blest the laurel bower, the darkened sky, + The sultry night of August. Through the trees, +Giddy with gladness, to the porch I went, +And hardly found the way for joyful wonderment. + +Yet, when I entered, saw her mother sit + With both hands cherishing the graceful head, +Smoothing the clustered hair, and parting it + From the fair brow; she, rising, only said, +In the accustomed tone, the accustomed word, +The careless greeting that I always heard; + +And she resumed her merry, mocking smile, + Though tear-drops on the glistening lashes hung. +O woman! thou wert fashioned to beguile: + So have all sages said, all poets sung. +She spoke of favoring winds and waiting ships, +With smiles of gratulation on her lips! + +And then she looked and faltered: I had grown + So suddenly in life and soul a man: +She moved her lips, but could not find a tone + To set her mocking music to; began +One struggle for dominion, raised her eyes, +And straight withdrew them, bashful through surprise + +The color over cheek and bosom flushed; + I might have heard the beating of her heart, +But that mine own beat louder; when she blushed, + The hand within mine own I felt to start, +But would not change my pitiless decree +To strive with her for might and mastery. + +She looked again, as one that, half afraid, + Would fain be certain of a doubtful thing; +Or one beseeching "Do not me upbraid!" + And then she trembled like the fluttering +Of timid little birds, and silent stood, +No smile wherewith to mock my hardihood. + +She turned, and to an open casement moved + With girlish shyness, mute beneath my gaze. +And I on downcast lashes unreproved + Could look as long as pleased me; while, the rays +Of moonlight round her, she her fair head bent, +In modest silence to my words attent. + +How fast the giddy whirling moments flew! + The moon had set; I heard the midnight chime, +Hope is more brave than fear, and joy than dread. + And I could wait unmoved the parting time. +It came; for, by a sudden impulse drawn, +She, risen, stepped out upon the dusky lawn. + +A little waxen taper in her hand, + Her feet upon the dry and dewless grass, +She looked like one of the celestial band, + Only that on her cheeks did dawn and pass +Most human blushes; while, the soft light thrown +On vesture pure and white, she seemed yet fairer grown. + +Her mother, looking out toward her, sighed, + Then gave her hand in token of farewell. +And with her warning eyes, that seemed to chide, + Scarce suffered that I sought her child to tell +The story of my life, whose every line +No other burden bore than--Eglantine. + +Black thunder-clouds were rising up behind, + The waxen taper burned full steadily; +It seemed as if dark midnight had a mind + To hear what lovers say, and her decree +Had passed for silence, while she, dropped to ground +With raiment floating wide, drank in the sound. + +O happiness! thou dost not leave a trace + So well defined as sorrow. Amber light, +Shed like a glory on her angel face, + I can remember fully, and the sight +Of her fair forehead and her shining eyes, +And lips that smiled in sweet and girlish wise. + +I can remember how the taper played + Over her small hands and her vesture white; +How it struck up into the trees, and laid + Upon their under leaves unwonted light; +And when she held it low, how far it spread +O'er velvet pansies slumbering on their bed. + +I can remember that we spoke full low, + That neither doubted of the other's truth; +And that with footsteps slower and more slow, + Hands folded close for love, eyes wet for ruth: +Beneath the trees, by that clear taper's flame, +We wandered till the gate of parting came. + +But I forget the parting words she said, + So much they thrilled the all-attentive soul; +For one short moment human heart and head + May bear such bliss--its present is the whole: +I had that present, till in whispers fell +With parting gesture her subdued farewell. + +Farewell! she said, in act to turn away, + But stood a moment yet to dry her tears, +And suffered my enfolding arm to stay + The time of her departure. O ye years +That intervene betwixt that day and this! +You all received your hue from that keen pain and bliss. + +O mingled pain and bliss! O pain to break + At once from happiness so lately found, +And four long years to feel for her sweet sake + The incompleteness of all sight and sound! +But bliss to cross once more the foaming brine-- +O bliss to come again and make her mine! + +I cannot--O, I cannot more recall! + But I will soothe my troubled thoughts to rest +With musing over journeyings wide, and all + Observance of this active-humored west, +And swarming cities steeped in eastern day, +With swarthy tribes in gold and striped array. + +I turn away from these, and straight there will succeed + (Shifting and changing at the restless will), +Imbedded in some deep Circassian mead, + White wagon-tilts, and flocks that eat their fill +Unseen above, while comely shepherds pass, +And scarcely show their heads above the grass. + +--The red Sahara in an angry glow, + With amber fogs, across its hollows trailed +Long strings of camels, gloomy-eyed and slow, + And women on their necks, from gazers veiled, +And sun-swart guides who toil across the sand +To groves of date-trees on the watered land. + +Again--the brown sails of an Arab boat, + Flapping by night upon a glassy sea, +Whereon the moon and planets seem to float, + More bright of hue than they were wont to be, +While shooting-stars rain down with crackling sound, +And, thick as swarming locusts, drop to ground. + +Or far into the heat among the sands + The gembok nations, snuffing up the wind, +Drawn by the scent of water--and the bands + Of tawny-bearded lions pacing, blind +With the sun-dazzle in their midst, opprest +With prey, and spiritless for lack of rest! + +What more? Old Lebanon, the frosty-browed, + Setting his feet among oil-olive trees, +Heaving his bare brown shoulder through a cloud; + And after, grassy Carmel, purple seas, +Flattering his dreams and echoing in his rocks, +Soft as the bleating of his thousand flocks. + +Enough: how vain this thinking to beguile, + With recollected scenes, an aching breast! +Did not I, journeying, muse on her the while? + Ah, yes! for every landscape comes impressed-- +Ay, written on, as by an iron pen-- +With the same thought I nursed about her then. + +Therefore let memory turn again to home; + Feel, as of old, the joy of drawing near; +Watch the green breakers and the wind-tossed foam, + And see the land-fog break, dissolve, and clear; +Then think a skylark's voice far sweeter sound +Than ever thrilled but over English ground; + +And walk, glad, even to tears, among the wheat, + Not doubting this to be the first of lands; +And, while in foreign words this murmuring, meet + Some little village school-girls (with their hands +Full of forget-me-nots), who, greeting me, +I count their English talk delightsome melody; + +And seat me on a bank, and draw them near, + That I may feast myself with hearing it, +Till shortly they forget their bashful fear, + Push back their flaxen curls, and round me sit-- +Tell me their names, their daily tasks, and show +Where wild wood-strawberries in the copses grow. + +So passed the day in this delightful land: + My heart was thankful for the English tongue-- +For English sky with feathery cloudlets spanned-- + For English hedge with glistening dewdrops hung. +I journeyed, and at glowing eventide +Stopped at a rustic inn by the wayside. + +That night I slumbered sweetly, being right glad + To miss the flapping of the shrouds; but lo! +A quiet dream of beings twain I had, + Behind the curtain talking soft and low: +Methought I did not heed their utterance fine, +Till one of them said, softly, "Eglantine." + +I started up awake, 'twas silence all: + My own fond heart had shaped that utterance clear: +And "Ah!" methought, "how sweetly did it fall, + Though but in dream, upon the listening ear! +How sweet from other lips the name well known-- +That name, so many a year heard only from mine own!" + +I thought awhile, then slumber came to me, + And tangled all my fancy in her maze, +And I was drifting on a raft at sea. + The near all ocean, and the far all haze; +Through the while polished water sharks did glide, +And up in heaven I saw no stars to guide. + +"Have mercy, God!" but lo! my raft uprose; + Drip, drip, I heard the water splash from it; +My raft had wings, and as the petrel goes, + It skimmed the sea, then brooding seemed to sit +The milk-white mirror, till, with sudden spring, +She flew straight upward like a living thing. + +But strange!--I went not also in that flight, + For I was entering at a cavern's mouth; +Trees grew within, and screaming birds of night + Sat on them, hiding from the torrid south. +On, on I went, while gleaming in the dark +Those trees with blanched leaves stood pale and stark. + +The trees had flower-buds, nourished in deep night, + And suddenly, as I went farther in, +They opened, and they shot out lambent light; + Then all at once arose a railing din +That frighted me: "It is the ghosts," I said, +And they are railing for their darkness fled. + +"I hope they will not look me in the face; + It frighteth me to hear their laughter loud;" +I saw them troop before with jaunty pace, + And one would shake off dust that soiled her shroud: +But now, O joy unhoped! to calm my dread, +Some moonlight filtered through a cleft o'erhead. + +I climbed the lofty trees--the blanched trees-- + The cleft was wide enough to let me through; +I clambered out and felt the balmy breeze, + And stepped on churchyard grasses wet with dew. +O happy chance! O fortune to admire! +I stood beside my own loved village spire. + +And as I gazed upon the yew-tree's trunk, + Lo, far-off music--music in the night! +So sweet and tender as it swelled and sunk; + It charmed me till I wept with keen delight, +And in my dream, methought as it drew near +The very clouds in heaven stooped low to hear. + +Beat high, beat low, wild heart so deeply stirred, + For high as heaven runs up the piercing strain; +The restless music fluttering like a bird + Bemoaned herself, and dropped to earth again, +Heaping up sweetness till I was afraid +That I should die of grief when it did fade. + +And it DID fade; but while with eager ear + I drank its last long echo dying away, +I was aware of footsteps that drew near, + And round the ivied chancel seemed to stray: +O soft above the hallowed place they trod-- +Soft as the fall of foot that is not shod! + +I turned--'twas even so--yes, Eglantine! + For at the first I had divined the same; +I saw the moon on her shut eyelids shine, + And said, "She is asleep:" still on she came; +Then, on her dimpled feet, I saw it gleam, +And thought--"I know that this is but a dream." + +My darling! O my darling! not the less + My dream went on because I knew it such; +She came towards me in her loveliness-- + A thing too pure, methought, for mortal touch; +The rippling gold did on her bosom meet, +The long white robe descended to her feet. + +The fringed lids dropped low, as sleep-oppressed; + Her dreamy smile was very fair to see, +And her two hands were folded to her breast, + With somewhat held between them heedfully. +O fast asleep! and yet methought she knew +And felt my nearness those shut eyelids through. + +She sighed: my tears ran down for tenderness-- + And have I drawn thee to me in my sleep? +Is it for me thou wanderest shelterless, + Wetting thy steps in dewy grasses deep? +"O if this be!" I said--"yet speak to me; +I blame my very dream for cruelty." + +Then from her stainless bosom she did take + Two beauteous lily flowers that lay therein, +And with slow-moving lips a gesture make, + As one that some forgotten words doth win: +"They floated on the pool," methought she said, +And water trickled from each lily's head. + +It dropped upon her feet--I saw it gleam + Along the ripples of her yellow hair. +And stood apart, for only in a dream + She would have come, methought, to meet me there. +She spoke again--"Ah fair! ah fresh they shine! +And there are many left, and these are mine." + +I answered her with flattering accents meet-- + "Love, they are whitest lilies e'er were blown." +"And sayest thou so?" she sighed in murmurs sweet; + "I have nought else to give thee now, mine own! +For it is night. Then take them, love!" said she: +"They have been costly flowers to thee--and me." + +While thus she said I took them from her hand, + And, overcome with love and nearness, woke; +And overcome with ruth that she should stand + Barefooted in the grass; that, when she spoke, +Her mystic words should take so sweet a tone, +And of all names her lips should choose "My own" + +I rose, I journeyed, neared my home, and soon + Beheld the spire peer out above the hill. +It was a sunny harvest afternoon. + When by the churchyard wicket, standing still, +I cast my eager eyes abroad to know +If change had touched the scenes of long ago. + +I looked across the hollow; sunbeams shone + Upon the old house with the gable ends: +"Save that the laurel trees are taller grown, + No change," methought, "to its gray wall extends +What clear bright beams on yonder lattice shine! +There did I sometime talk with Eglantine." + +There standing with my very goal in sight, + Over my haste did sudden quiet steal; +I thought to dally with my own delight, + Nor rush on headlong to my garnered weal, +But taste the sweetness of a short delay, +And for a little moment hold the bliss at bay. + +The church was open; it perchance might be + That there to offer thanks I might essay, +Or rather, as I think, that I might see + The place where Eglantine was wont to pray. +But so it was; I crossed that portal wide, +And felt my riot joy to calm subside. + +The low depending curtains, gently swayed, + Cast over arch and roof a crimson glow; +But, ne'ertheless, all silence and all shade + It seemed, save only for the rippling flow +Of their long foldings, when the sunset air +Sighed through the casements of the house of prayer. + +I found her place, the ancient oaken stall, + Where in her childhood I had seen her sit, +Most saint-like and most tranquil there of all, + Folding her hands, as if a dreaming fit-- +A heavenly vision had before her strayed +Of the Eternal Child in lowly manger laid. + +I saw her prayer-book laid upon the seat, + And took it in my hand, and felt more near +in fancy to her, finding it most sweet + To think how very oft, low kneeling there, +In her devout thoughts she had let me share, +And set my graceless name in her pure prayer. + +My eyes were dazzled with delightful tears-- + In sooth they were the last I ever shed; +For with them fell the cherished dreams of years. + I looked, and on the wall above my head, +Over her seat, there was a tablet placed, +With one word only on the marble traced.-- + + +Ah well! I would not overstate that woe, + For I have had some blessings, little care; +But since the falling of that heavy blow, + God's earth has never seemed to me so fair; +Nor any of his creatures so divine, +Nor sleep so sweet;--the word was--EGLANTINE. + + + + +A MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD. + +(F.M.L.) + + +Living child or pictured cherub, + Ne'er o'ermatched its baby grace; +And the mother, moving nearer, + Looked it calmly in the face; +Then with slight and quiet gesture, + And with lips that scarcely smiled, +Said--"A Portrait of my daughter + When she was a child." + +Easy thought was hers to fathom, + Nothing hard her glance to read, +For it seemed to say, "No praises + For this little child I need: +If you see, I see far better, + And I will not feign to care +For a stranger's prompt assurance + That the face is fair." + +Softly clasped and half extended, + She her dimpled hands doth lay: +So they doubtless placed them, saying-- + "Little one, you must not play." +And while yet his work was growing, + This the painter's hand hath shown, +That the little heart was making + Pictures of its own. + +Is it warm in that green valley, + Vale of childhood, where you dwell? +Is it calm in that green valley, + Round whose bournes such great hills swell? +Are there giants in the valley-- + Giants leaving footprints yet? +Are there angels in the valley? + Tell me--I forget. + +Answer, answer, for the lilies, + Little one, o'ertop you much, +And the mealy gold within them + You can scarcely reach to touch; +O how far their aspect differs, + Looking up and looking down! +You look up in that green valley-- + Valley of renown. + +Are there voices in the valley, + Lying near the heavenly gate? +When it opens, do the harp-strings, + Touched within, reverberate? +When, like shooting-stars, the angels + To your couch at nightfall go, +Are their swift wings heard to rustle? + Tell me! for you know. + +Yes, you know; and you are silent, + Not a word shall asking win; +Little mouth more sweet than rosebud, + Fast it locks the secret in. +Not a glimpse upon your present + You unfold to glad my view; +Ah, what secrets of your future + I could tell to you! + +Sunny present! thus I read it, + By remembrance of my past:-- +Its to-day and its to-morrow + Are as lifetimes vague and vast; +And each face in that green valley + Takes for you an aspect mild, +And each voice grows soft in saying-- + "Kiss me, little child!" + +As a boon the kiss is granted: + Baby mouth, your touch is sweet, +Takes the love without the trouble + From those lips that with it meet; +Gives the love, O pure! O tender! + Of the valley where it grows, +But the baby heart receiveth + MORE THAN IT BESTOWS. + +Comes the future to the present-- + "Ah!" she saith, "too blithe of mood; +Why that smile which seems to whisper-- + 'I am happy, God is good?' +God is good: that truth eternal + Sown for you in happier years, +I must tend it in my shadow, + Water it with tears. + +"Ah, sweet present! I must lead thee + By a daylight more subdued; +There must teach thee low to whisper-- + 'I am mournful, God is good!'" +Peace, thou future! clouds are coming, + Stooping from the mountain crest, +But that sunshine floods the valley: + Let her--let her rest. + +Comes the future to the present-- + "Child," she saith, "and wilt thou rest? +How long, child, before thy footsteps + Fret to reach yon cloudy crest? +Ah, the valley!--angels guard it, + But the heights are brave to see; +Looking down were long contentment: + Come up, child, to me." + +So she speaks, but do not heed her, + Little maid with wondrous eyes, +Not afraid, but clear and tender, + Blue, and filled with prophecies; +Thou for whom life's veil unlifted + Hangs, whom warmest valleys fold, +Lift the veil, the charm dissolveth-- + Climb, but heights are cold. + +There are buds that fold within them, + Closed and covered from our sight, +Many a richly tinted petal, + Never looked on by the light: +Fain to see their shrouded faces, + Sun and dew are long at strife, +Till at length the sweet buds open-- + Such a bud is life. + +When the rose of thine own being + Shall reveal its central fold, +Thou shalt look within and marvel, + Fearing what thine eyes behold; +What it shows and what it teaches + Are not things wherewith to part; +Thorny rose! that always costeth + Beatings at the heart. + +Look in fear, for there is dimness; + Ills unshapen float anigh. +Look in awe, for this same nature + Once the Godhead deigned to die. +Look in love, for He doth love it, + And its tale is best of lore: +Still humanity grows dearer, + Being learned the more. + +Learn, but not the less bethink thee + How that all can mingle tears; +But his joy can none discover, + Save to them that are his peers; +And that they whose lips do utter + Language such as bards have sung-- +Lo! their speech shall be to many + As an unknown tongue. + +Learn, that if to thee the meaning + Of all other eyes be shown, +Fewer eyes can ever front thee, + That are skilled to read thine own; +And that if thy love's deep current + Many another's far outflows, +Then thy heart must take forever, + LESS THAN IT BESTOWS. + + + + +STRIFE AND PEACE. + +(Written for THE PORTFOLIO SOCIETY, October 1861.) + + +The yellow poplar-leaves came down + And like a carpet lay, +No waftings were in the sunny air + To flutter them away; +And he stepped on blithe and debonair + That warm October day. + +"The boy," saith he, "hath got his own, + But sore has been the fight, +For ere his life began the strife + That ceased but yesternight; +For the will," he said, "the kinsfolk read, + And read it not aright. + +"His cause was argued in the court + Before his christening day, +And counsel was heard, and judge demurred, + And bitter waxed the fray; +Brother with brother spake no word + When they met in the way. + +"Against each one did each contend, + And all against the heir. +I would not bend, for I knew the end-- + I have it for my share, +And nought repent, though my first friend + From henceforth I must spare. + +"Manor and moor and farm and wold + Their greed begrudged him sore, +And parchments old with passionate hold + They guarded heretofore; +And they carped at signature and seal, + But they may carp no more. + +"An old affront will stir the heart + Through years of rankling pain, +And I feel the fret that urged me yet + That warfare to maintain; +For an enemy's loss may well be set + Above an infant's gain. + +"An enemy's loss I go to prove, + Laugh out, thou little heir! +Laugh in his face who vowed to chase + Thee from thy birthright fair; +For I come to set thee in thy place: + Laugh out, and do not spare." + +A man of strife, in wrathful mood + He neared the nurse's door; +With poplar-leaves the roof and eaves + Were thickly scattered o'er, +And yellow as they a sunbeam lay + Along the cottage floor. + +"Sleep on, thou pretty, pretty lamb," + He hears the fond nurse say; +"And if angels stand at thy right hand, + As now belike they may, +And if angels meet at thy bed's feet, + I fear them not this day. + +"Come wealth, come want to thee, dear heart, + It was all one to me, +For thy pretty tongue far sweeter rung + Than coined gold and fee; +And ever the while thy waking smile + It was right fair to see. + +"Sleep, pretty bairn, and never know + Who grudged and who transgressed: +Thee to retain I was full fain, + But God, He knoweth best! +And His peace upon thy brow lies plain + As the sunshine on thy breast!" + +The man of strife, he enters in, + Looks, and his pride doth cease; +Anger and sorrow shall be to-morrow + Trouble, and no release; +But the babe whose life awoke the strife + Hath entered into peace. + + + + +THE + +DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE + +[Illustration.] + + + + +THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. + + +I saw in a vision once, our mother-sphere + The world, her fixed foredoomed oval tracing, +Rolling and rolling on and resting never, + While like a phantom fell, behind her pacing +The unfurled flag of night, her shadow drear + Fled as she fled and hung to her forever. + +Great Heaven! methought, how strange a doom to share. + Would I may never bear + Inevitable darkness after me +(Darkness endowed with drawings strong, + And shadowy hands that cling unendingly), + Nor feel that phantom-wings behind me sweep, +As she feels night pursuing through the long + Illimitable reaches of "the vasty deep." + + * * * * * + +God save you, gentlefolks. There was a man + Who lay awake at midnight on his bed, +Watching the spiral flame that feeding ran + Among the logs upon his hearth, and shed +A comfortable glow, both warm and dim, +On crimson curtains that encompassed him. + +Right stately was his chamber, soft and white + The pillow, and his quilt was eider-down. +What mattered it to him though all that night + The desolate driving cloud might lower and frown, +And winds were up the eddying sleet to chase, +That drave and drave and found no settling-place? + +What mattered it that leafless trees might rock, + Or snow might drift athwart his window-pane? +He bare a charmed life against their shock, + Secure from cold, hunger, and weather stain; +Fixed in his right, and born to good estate, +From common ills set by and separate. + +From work and want and fear of want apart, + This man (men called him Justice Wilvermore),-- +This man had comforted his cheerful heart + With all that it desired from every shore. +He had a right,--the right of gold is strong,-- +He stood upon his right his whole life long. + +Custom makes all things easy, and content + Is careless, therefore on the storm and cold, +As he lay waking, never a thought he spent, + Albeit across the vale beneath the wold, +Along a reedy mere that frozen lay, +A range of sordid hovels stretched away. + +What cause had he to think on them, forsooth? + What cause that night beyond another night? +He was familiar even from his youth + With their long ruin and their evil plight. +The wintry wind would search them like a scout, +The water froze within as freely as without. + +He think upon them? No! They were forlorn, + So were the cowering inmates whom they held; +A thriftless tribe, to shifts and leanness born, + Ever complaining: infancy or eld +Alike. But there was rent, or long ago +Those cottage roofs had met with overthrow. + +For this they stood; and what his thoughts might be + That winter night, I know not; but I know +That, while the creeping flame fed silently + And cast upon his bed a crimson glow, +The Justice slept, and shortly in his sleep +He fell to dreaming, and his dream was deep. + +He dreamed that over him a shadow came; + And when he looked to find the cause, behold +Some person knelt between him and the flame:-- + A cowering figure of one frail and old,-- +A woman; and she prayed as he descried, +And spread her feeble hands, and shook and sighed. + +"Good Heaven!" the Justice cried, and being distraught + He called not to her, but he looked again: +She wore a tattered cloak, but she had naught + Upon her head; and she did quake amain, +And spread her wasted hands and poor attire +To gather in the brightness of his fire. + +"I know you, woman!" then the Justice cried; + "I know that woman well," he cried aloud; +"The shepherd Aveland's widow: God me guide! + A pauper kneeling on my hearth": and bowed +The hag, like one at home, its warmth to share! +"How dares she to intrude? What does she there? + +"Ho, woman, ho!"--but yet she did not stir, + Though from her lips a fitful plaining broke; +"I'll ring my people up to deal with her; + I'll rouse the house," he cried; but while he spoke +He turned, and saw, but distant from his bed, +Another form,--a Darkness with a head. + +Then in a rage, he shouted, "Who are you?" + For little in the gloom he might discern. +"Speak out; speak now; or I will make you rue + The hour!" but there was silence, and a stern, +Dark face from out the dusk appeared to lean, +And then again drew back, and was not seen. + +"God!" cried the dreaming man, right impiously, + "What have I done, that these my sleep affray?" +"God!" said the Phantom, "I appeal to Thee, + Appoint Thou me this man to be my prey." +"God!" sighed the kneeling woman, frail and old, +"I pray Thee take me, for the world is cold." + +Then said the trembling Justice, in affright, + "Fiend, I adjure thee, speak thine errand here!" +And lo! it pointed in the failing light + Toward the woman, answering, cold and clear, +"Thou art ordained an answer to thy prayer; +But first to tell _her_ tale that kneeleth there." + +"_Her_ tale!" the Justice cried. "A pauper's tale!" + And he took heart at this so low behest, +And let the stoutness of his will prevail, + Demanding, "Is't for _her_ you break my rest? +She went to jail of late for stealing wood, +She will again for this night's hardihood. + +"I sent her; and to-morrow, as I live, + I will commit her for this trespass here." +"Thou wilt not!" quoth the Shadow, "thou wilt give + Her story words"; and then it stalked anear +And showed a lowering face, and, dread to see, +A countenance of angered majesty. + +Then said the Justice, all his thoughts astray, + With that material Darkness chiding him, +"If this must be, then speak to her, I pray, + And bid her move, for all the room is dim +By reason of the place she holds to-night: +She kneels between me and the warmth and light." + +"With adjurations deep and drawings strong, + And with the power," it said, "unto me given, +I call upon thee, man, to tell thy wrong, + Or look no more upon the face of Heaven. +Speak! though she kneel throughout the livelong night, +And yet shall kneel between thee and the light." + +This when the Justice heard, he raised his hands, + And held them as the dead in effigy +Hold theirs, when carved upon a tomb. The bands + Of fate had bound him fast: no remedy +Was left: his voice unto himself was strange, +And that unearthly vision did not change. + +He said, "That woman dwells anear my door, + Her life and mine began the selfsame day, +And I am hale and hearty: from my store + I never spared her aught: she takes her way +Of me unheeded; pining, pinching care +Is all the portion that she has to share. + +"She is a broken-down, poor, friendless wight, + Through labor and through sorrow early old; +And I have known of this her evil plight, + Her scanty earnings, and her lodgment cold; +A patienter poor soul shall ne'er be found: +She labored on my land the long year round. + +"What wouldst thou have me say, thou fiend abhorred? + Show me no more thine awful visage grim. +If thou obey'st a greater, tell thy lord + That I have paid her wages. Cry to him! +He has not _much_ against me. None can say +I have not paid her wages day by day. + +"The spell! It draws me. I must speak again; + And speak against myself; and speak aloud. +The woman once approached me to complain,-- + 'My wages are so low.' I may be proud; +It is a fault." "Ay," quoth the Phantom fell, +"Sinner! it is a fault: thou sayest well." + +"She made her moan, 'My wages are so low.'" + "Tell on!" "She said," he answered, "'My best days +Are ended, and the summer is but slow + To come; and my good strength for work decays +By reason that I live so hard, and lie +On winter nights so bare for poverty.'" + +"And you replied,"--began the lowering shade, + "And I replied," the Justice followed on, +"That wages like to mine my neighbor paid; + And if I raised the wages of the one +Straight should the others murmur; furthermore, +The winter was as winters gone before. + +"No colder and not longer." "Afterward?"-- + The Phantom questioned. "Afterward," he groaned, +"She said my neighbor was a right good lord, + Never a roof was broken that he owned; +He gave much coal and clothing. 'Doth he so? +Work for my neighbor, then,' I answered. 'Go! + +"'You are full welcome.' Then she mumbled out + She hoped I was not angry; hoped, forsooth, +I would forgive her: and I turned about, + And said I should be angry in good truth +If this should be again, or ever more +She dared to stop me thus at the church door." + +"Then?" quoth the Shade; and he, constrained, said on, + "Then she, reproved, curtseyed herself away." +"Hast met her since?" it made demand anon; + And after pause the Justice answered, "Ay; +Some wood was stolen; my people made a stir: +She was accused, and I did sentence her." + +But yet, and yet, the dreaded questions came: + "And didst thou weigh the matter,--taking thought +Upon her sober life and honest fame?" + "I gave it," he replied, with gaze distraught; +"I gave it, Fiend, the usual care; I took +The usual pains; I could not nearer look, + +"Because,--because their pilfering had got head. + What wouldst thou more? The neighbors pleaded hard, +'Tis true, and many tears the creature shed; + But I had vowed their prayers to disregard, +Heavily strike the first that robbed my land, +And put down thieving with a steady hand. + +"She said she was not guilty. Ay, 'tis true + She said so, but the poor are liars all. +O thou fell Fiend, what wilt thou? Must I view + Thy darkness yet, and must thy shadow fall +Upon me miserable? I have done +No worse, no more than many a scathless one." + +"Yet," quoth the Shade, "if ever to thine ears + The knowledge of her blamelessness was brought, +Or others have confessed with dying tears + The crime she suffered for, and thou hast wrought +All reparation in thy power, and told +Into her empty hand thy brightest gold:-- + +"If thou hast honored her, and hast proclaimed + Her innocence and thy deplored wrong, +Still thou art nought; for thou shalt yet be blamed + In that she, feeble, came before thee strong, +And thou, in cruel haste to deal a blow, +Because thou hadst been angered, worked her woe. + +"But didst thou right her? Speak!" The Justice sighed, + And beaded drops stood out upon his brow; +"How could I humble me," forlorn he cried, + "To a base beggar? Nay, I will avow +That I did ill. I will reveal the whole; +I kept that knowledge in my secret soul." + +"Hear him!" the Phantom muttered; "hear this man, + O changeless God upon the judgment throne." +With that, cold tremors through his pulses ran, + And lamentably he did make his moan; +While, with its arms upraised above his head, +The dim dread visitor approached his bed. + +"Into these doors," it said, "which thou hast closed, + Daily this woman shall from henceforth come; +Her kneeling form shall yet be interposed + Till all thy wretched hours have told their sum; +Shall yet be interposed by day, by night, +Between thee, sinner, and the warmth and light. + +"Remembrance of her want shall make thy meal + Like ashes, and thy wrong thou shalt not right. +But what! Nay, verily, nor wealth nor weal + From henceforth shall afford thy soul delight. +Till men shall lay thy head beneath the sod, +There shall be no deliverance, saith my God." + +"Tell me thy name," the dreaming Justice cried; + "By what appointment dost thou doom me thus?" +"'Tis well that thou shouldst know me," it replied, + "For mine thou art, and nought shall sever us; +From thine own lips and life I draw my force: +The name thy nation give me is REMORSE." + +This when he heard, the dreaming man cried out, + And woke affrighted; and a crimson glow +The dying ember shed. Within, without, + In eddying rings the silence seemed to flow; +The wind had lulled, and on his forehead shone +The last low gleam; he was indeed alone. + +"O, I have had a fearful dream," said he; + "I will take warning and for mercy trust; +The fiend Remorse shall never dwell with me: + I will repair that wrong, I will be just, +I will be kind, I will my ways amend." +_Now the first dream is told unto its end._ + +Anigh the frozen mere a cottage stood, + A piercing wind swept round and shook the door, +The shrunken door, and easy way made good, + And drave long drifts of snow along the floor. +It sparkled there like diamonds, for the moon +Was shining in, and night was at the noon. + +Before her dying embers, bent and pale, + A woman sat because her bed was cold; +She heard the wind, the driving sleet and hail, + And she was hunger-bitten, weak and old; +Yet while she cowered, and while the casement shook, +Upon her trembling knees she held a book,-- + +A comfortable book for them that mourn, + And good to raise the courage of the poor; +It lifts the veil and shows, beyond the bourne, + Their Elder Brother, from His home secure, +That for them desolate He died to win, +Repeating, "Come, ye blessed, enter in." + +What thought she on, this woman? on her days + Of toil, or on the supperless night forlorn? +I think not so; the heart but seldom weighs + With conscious care a burden always borne; +And she was used to these things, had grown old +In fellowship with toil, hunger, and cold. + +Then did she think how sad it was to live + Of all the good this world can yield bereft? +No, her untutored thoughts she did not give + To such a theme; but in their warp and weft +She wove a prayer: then in the midnight deep +Faintly and slow she fell away to sleep. + +A strange, a marvellous sleep, which brought a dream. + And it was this: that all at once she heard +The pleasant babbling of a little stream + That ran beside her door, and then a bird +Broke out in songs. She looked, and lo! the rime +And snow had melted; it was summer time! + +And all the cold was over, and the mere + Full sweetly swayed the flags and rushes green; +The mellow sunlight poured right warm and clear + Into her casement, and thereby were seen +Fair honeysuckle flowers, and wandering bees +Were hovering round the blossom-laden trees. + +She said, "I will betake me to my door, + And will look out and see this wondrous sight, +How summer is come back, and frost is o'er, + And all the air warm waxen in a night." +With that she opened, but for fear she cried, +For lo! two Angels,--one on either side. + +And while she looked, with marvelling measureless, + The Angels stood conversing face to face, +But neither spoke to her. "The wilderness," + One Angel said, "the solitary place, +Shall yet be glad for Him." And then full fain +The other Angel answered, "He shall reign." + +And when the woman heard, in wondering wise, + She whispered, "They are speaking of my Lord." +And straightway swept across the open skies + Multitudes like to these. They took the word, +That flock of Angels, "He shall come again, +My Lord, my Lord!" they sang, "and He shall reign!" + +Then they, drawn up into the blue o'er-head, + Right happy, shining ones, made haste to flee; +And those before her one to other said, + "Behold He stands aneath yon almond-tree." +This when the woman heard, she fain had gazed, +But paused for reverence, and bowed down amazed. + +After she looked, for this her dream was deep; + She looked, and there was nought beneath the tree; +Yet did her love and longing overleap + The fear of Angels, awful though they be, +And she passed out between the blessed things, +And brushed her mortal weeds against their wings. + +O, all the happy world was in its best, + The trees were covered thick with buds and flowers, +And these were dropping honey; for the rest, + Sweetly the birds were piping in their bowers; +Across the grass did groups of Angels go, +And Saints in pairs were walking to and fro. + +Then did she pass toward the almond-tree, + And none she saw beneath it: yet each Saint +Upon his coming meekly bent the knee, + And all their glory as they gazed waxed faint. +And then a 'lighting Angel neared the place, +And folded his fair wings before his face. + +She also knelt, and spread her aged hands + As feeling for the sacred human feet; +She said, "Mine eyes are held, but if He stands + Anear, I will not let Him hence retreat +Except He bless me." Then, O sweet! O fair! +Some words were spoken, but she knew not where. + +She knew not if beneath the boughs they woke, + Or dropt upon her from the realms above; +"What wilt thou, woman?" in the dream He spoke, + "Thy sorrow moveth Me, thyself I love; +Long have I counted up thy mournful years, +Once I did weep to wipe away thy tears." + +She said: "My one Redeemer, only blest, + I know Thy voice, and from my yearning heart +Draw out my deep desire, my great request, + My prayer, that I might enter where Thou art. +Call me, O call from this world troublesome, +And let me see Thy face." He answered, "Come." + +_Here is the ending of the second dream._ + It is a frosty morning, keen and cold, +Fast locked are silent mere and frozen stream, + And snow lies sparkling on the desert wold; +With savory morning meats they spread the board, +But Justice Wilvermore will walk abroad. + +"Bring me my cloak," quoth he, as one in haste. + "Before you breakfast, sir?" his man replies. +"Ay," quoth he quickly, and he will not taste + Of aught before him, but in urgent wise +As he would fain some carking care allay, +Across the frozen field he takes his way. + +"A dream! how strange that it should move me so, + 'Twas but a dream," quoth Justice Wilvermore: +"And yet I cannot peace nor pleasure know, + For wrongs I have not heeded heretofore; +Silver and gear the crone shall have of me, +And dwell for life in yonder cottage free. + +"For visions of the night are fearful things, + Remorse is dread, though merely in a dream; +I will not subject me to visitings + Of such a sort again. I will esteem +My peace above my pride. From natures rude +A little gold will buy me gratitude. + +"The woman shall have leave to gather wood, + As much as she may need, the long year round; +She shall, I say,--moreover, it were good + Yon other cottage roofs to render sound. +Thus to my soul the ancient peace restore, +And sleep at ease," quoth Justice Wilvermore. + +With that he nears the door: a frosty rime + Is branching over it, and drifts are deep +Against the wall. He knocks, and there is time,-- + (For none doth open),--time to list the sweep +And whistle of the wind along the mere +Through beds of stiffened reeds and rushes sere. + +"If she be out, I have my pains for nought," + He saith, and knocks again, and yet once more, +But to his ear nor step nor stir is brought; + And after pause, he doth unlatch the door +And enter. No: she is not out, for see +She sits asleep 'mid frost-work winterly. + +Asleep, asleep before her empty grate, + Asleep, asleep, albeit the landlord call. +"What, dame," he saith, and comes toward her straight, + "Asleep so early!" But whate'er befall, +She sleepeth; then he nears her, and behold +He lays a hand on hers, and it is cold. + +Then doth the Justice to his home return; + From that day forth he wears a sadder brow; +His hands are opened, and his heart doth learn + The patience of the poor. He made a vow +And keeps it, for the old and sick have shared +His gifts, their sordid homes he hath repaired. + +And some he hath made happy, but for him + Is happiness no more. He doth repent, +And now the light of joy is waxen dim, + Are all his steps toward the Highest sent; +He looks for mercy, and he waits release +Above, for this world doth not yield him peace. + +Night after night, night after desolate night, + Day after day, day after tedious day, +Stands by his fire, and dulls its gleamy light, + Paceth behind or meets him in the way; +Or shares the path by hedgerow, mere, or stream, +The visitor that doomed him in his dream. + + Thy kingdom come. +I heard a Seer cry,--"The wilderness, + The solitary place, +Shall yet be glad for Him, and He shall bless +(Thy kingdom come) with his revealed face +The forests; they shall drop their precious gum, +And shed for Him their balm: and He shall yield +The grandeur of His speech to charm the field. + +"Then all the soothed winds shall drop to listen, + (Thy kingdom come,) +Comforted waters waxen calm shall glisten +With bashful tremblement beneath His smile: + And Echo ever the while +Shall take, and in her awful joy repeat, +The laughter of His lips--(thy kingdom come): +And hills that sit apart shall be no longer dumb; + No, they shall shout and shout, +Raining their lovely loyalty along the dewy plain: + And valleys round about, + +"And all the well-contented land, made sweet + With flowers she opened at His feet, +Shall answer; shout and make the welkin ring +And tell it to the stars, shout, shout, and sing; + Her cup being full to the brim, + Her poverty made rich with Him, +Her yearning satisfied to its utmost sum,-- +Lift up thy voice, O earth, prepare thy song, + It shall not yet be long, +Lift up, O earth, for He shall come again, +Thy Lord; and He shall reign, and He SHALL reign,-- + Thy kingdom come." + + + + +SONGS + +ON + +THE VOICES OF BIRDS. + +[Illustration] + + + + + +SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. + + +INTRODUCTION. + +CHILD AND BOATMAN. + +"Martin, I wonder who makes all the songs." +"You do, sir?" + "Yes, I wonder how they come." +"Well, boy, I wonder what you'll wonder next!" +"But somebody must make them?" + "Sure enough." +"Does your wife know?" + "She never said she did." +"You told me that she knew so many things." +"I said she was a London woman, sir, +And a fine scholar, but I never said +She knew about the songs." + "I wish she did." +"And I wish no such thing; she knows enough, +She knows too much already. Look you now, +This vessel's off the stocks, a tidy craft." +"A schooner, Martin?" + "No, boy, no; a brig, +Only she's schooner rigged,--a lovely craft." +"Is she for me? O, thank you, Martin, dear. +What shall I call her?" + "Well, sir, what you please." +"Then write on her 'The Eagle.'" + "Bless the child! +Eagle! why, you know naught of eagles, you. +When we lay off the coast, up Canada way, +And chanced to be ashore when twilight fell, +That was the place for eagles; bald they were, +With eyes as yellow as gold." + "O, Martin, dear, +Tell me about them." + "Tell! there's nought to tell, +Only they snored o' nights and frighted us." +"Snored?" + "Ay, I tell you, snored; they slept upright +In the great oaks by scores; as true as time, +If I'd had aught upon my mind just then, +I wouldn't have walked that wood for unknown gold; +It was most awful. When the moon was full, +I've seen them fish at night, in the middle watch, +When she got low. I've seen them plunge like stones, +And come up fighting with a fish as long, +Ay, longer than my arm; and they would sail,-- +When they had struck its life out,--they would sail +Over the deck, and show their fell, fierce eyes, +And croon for pleasure, hug the prey, and speed +Grand as a frigate on a wind." + "My ship, +She must be called 'The Eagle' after these. +And, Martin, ask your wife about the songs +When you go in at dinner-time." + "Not I." + + +THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD BY THE UNSATISFIED HEART. + + When in a May-day hush + Chanteth the Missel-thrush +The harp o' the heart makes answer with murmurous stirs; + When Robin-redbreast sings, + We think on budding springs, +And Culvers when they coo are love's remembrancers. + + But thou in the trance of light + Stayest the feeding night, +And Echo makes sweet her lips with the utterance wise, + And casts at our glad feet, + In a wisp of fancies fleet, +Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned prophecies. + + Her central thought full well + Thou hast the wit to tell, +To take the sense o' the dark and to yield it so; + The moral of moonlight + To set in a cadence bright, +And sing our loftiest dream that we thought none did know. + + I have no nest as thou, + Bird on the blossoming bough, +Yet over thy tongue outfloweth the song o' my soul, + Chanting, "forego thy strife, + The spirit out-acts the life, +But MUCH is seldom theirs who can perceive THE WHOLE. + + "Thou drawest a perfect lot + All thine, but holden not, +Lie low, at the feet of beauty that ever shall bide; + There might be sorer smart + Than thine, far-seeing heart, +Whose fate is still to yearn, and not be satisfied." + + +SAND MARTINS. + +I passed an inland-cliff precipitate; + From tiny caves peeped many a soot-black poll; +In each a mother-martin sat elate, + And of the news delivered her small soul. + +Fantastic chatter! hasty, glad, and gay, + Whereof the meaning was not ill to tell: +"Gossip, how wags the world with you to-day?" + "Gossip, the world wags well, the world wags well." + +And heark'ning, I was sure their little ones + Were in the bird-talk, and discourse was made +Concerning hot sea-bights and tropic suns, + For a clear sultriness the tune conveyed;-- + +And visions of the sky as of a cup + Hailing down light on pagan Pharaoh's sand, +And quivering air-waves trembling up and up, + And blank stone faces marvellously bland. + +"When should the young be fledged and with them hie + Where costly day drops down in crimson light? +(Fortunate countries of the firefly + Swarm with blue diamonds all the sultry night, + +"And the immortal moon takes turn with them.) + When should they pass again by that red land, +Where lovely mirage works a broidered hem + To fringe with phantom-palms a robe of sand? + +"When should they dip their breasts again and play + In slumberous azure pools, clear as the air, +Where rosy-winged flamingoes fish all day, + Stalking amid the lotus blossom fair? + +"Then, over podded tamarinds bear their flight, + While cassias blossom in the zone of calms, +And so betake them to a south sea-bight, + To gossip in the crowns of cocoa-palms + +"Whose roots are in the spray. O, haply there + Some dawn, white-winged they might chance to find +A frigate standing in to make more fair + The loneliness unaltered of mankind. + +"A frigate come to water: nuts would fall, + And nimble feet would climb the flower-flushed strand, +While northern talk would ring, and there withal + The martins would desire the cool north land. + +"And all would be as it had been before; + Again at eve there would be news to tell; +Who passed should hear them chant it o'er and o'er, + Gossip, how wags the world?' 'Well, gossip, well.'" + + +A POET IN HIS YOUTH, AND THE CUCKOO-BIRD. + +Once upon a time, I lay +Fast asleep at dawn of day; +Windows open to the south, +Fancy pouting her sweet mouth +To my ear. + She turned a globe +In her slender hand, her robe +Was all spangled; and she said, +As she sat at my bed's head, +"Poet, poet, what, asleep! +Look! the ray runs up the steep +To your roof." Then in the golden +Essence of romances olden, +Bathed she my entranced heart. +And she gave a hand to me, +Drew me onward, "Come!" said she; +And she moved with me apart, +Down the lovely vale of Leisure. + +Such its name was, I heard say, +For some Fairies trooped that way; +Common people of the place, +Taking their accustomed pleasure, +(All the clocks being stopped) to race +Down the slope on palfreys fleet. +Bridle bells made tinkling sweet; +And they said, "What signified +Faring home till eventide: +There were pies on every shelf, +And the bread would bake itself." +But for that I cared not, fed, +As it were, with angels' bread, +Sweet as honey; yet next day +All foredoomed to melt away; +Gone before the sun waxed hot, +Melted manna that _was not_. + +Rock-doves' poetry of plaint, +Or the starling's courtship quaint, +Heart made much of; 'twas a boon +Won from silence, and too soon +Wasted in the ample air: +Building rooks far distant were. +Scarce at all would speak the rills, +And I saw the idle hills, +In their amber hazes deep, +Fold themselves and go to sleep, +Though it was not yet high noon. + +Silence? Rather music brought +From the spheres! As if a thought, +Having taken wings, did fly +Through the reaches of the sky. +Silence? No, a sumptuous sigh +That had found embodiment, +That had come across the deep +After months of wintry sleep, +And with tender heavings went +Floating up the firmament. + +"O," I mourned, half slumbering yet, +"'Tis the voice of _my_ regret,-- +_Mine!_" and I awoke. Full sweet +Saffron sunbeams did me greet; +And the voice it spake again, +Dropped from yon blue cup of light +Or some cloudlet swan's-down white +On my soul, that drank full fain +The sharp joy--the sweet pain-- +Of its clear, right innocent, +Unreproved discontent. + +How it came--where it went-- +Who can tell? The open blue +Quivered with it, and I, too, +Trembled. I remembered me +Of the springs that used to be, +When a dimpled white-haired child, +Shy and tender and half wild, +In the meadows I had heard +Some way off the talking bird, +And had felt it marvellous sweet, +For it laughed: it did me greet, +Calling me: yet, hid away +In the woods, it would not play. +No. + + And all the world about, +While a man will work or sing, +Or a child pluck flowers of spring, +Thou wilt scatter music out, +Rouse him with thy wandering note, +Changeful fancies set afloat, +Almost tell with thy clear throat, +But not quite,--the wonder-rife, +Most sweet riddle, dark and dim, +That he searcheth all his life, +Searcheth yet, and ne'er expoundeth; +And so winnowing of thy wings, +Touch and trouble his heart's strings. +That a certain music soundeth +In that wondrous instrument, +With a trembling upward sent, +That is reckoned sweet above +By the Greatness surnamed Love. + +"O, I hear thee in the blue; +Would that I might wing it too! +O to have what hope hath seen! +O to be what might have been! + +"O to set my life, sweet bird, +To a tune that oft I heard +When I used to stand alone +Listening to the lovely moan +Of the swaying pines o'erhead, +While, a-gathering of bee-bread +For their living, murmured round, +As the pollen dropped to ground, +All the nations from the hives; +And the little brooding wives +On each nest, brown dusky things, +Sat with gold-dust on their wings. +Then beyond (more sweet than all) +Talked the tumbling waterfall; +And there were, and there were not +(As might fall, and form anew +Bell-hung drops of honey-dew) +Echoes of--I know not what; +As if some right-joyous elf, +While about his own affairs, +Whistled softly otherwheres. +Nay, as if our mother dear, +Wrapped in sun-warm atmosphere, +Laughed a little to herself, +Laughed a little as she rolled, +Thinking on the days of old. + +"Ah! there be some hearts, I wis, +To which nothing comes amiss. +Mine was one. Much secret wealth +I was heir to: and by stealth, +When the moon was fully grown, +And she thought herself alone, +I have heard her, ay, right well, +Shoot a silver message down +To the unseen sentinel +Of a still, snow-thatched town. + +"Once, awhile ago, I peered +In the nest where Spring was reared. +There, she quivering her fair wings, +Flattered March with chirrupings; +And they fed her; nights and days, +Fed her mouth with much sweet food, +And her heart with love and praise, +Till the wild thing rose and flew +Over woods and water-springs, +Shaking off the morning dew +In a rainbow from her wings. + +"Once (I will to you confide +More), O once in forest wide, +I, benighted, overheard +Marvellous mild echoes stirred, +And a calling half defined, +And an answering from afar; +Somewhat talked with a star, +And the talk was of mankind. + +"'Cuckoo, cuckoo!' +Float anear in upper blue: +Art thou yet a prophet true? +Wilt thou say, 'And having seen +Things that be, and have not been, +Thou art free o' the world, for naught +Can despoil thee of thy thought'? +Nay, but make me music yet, +Bird, as deep as my regret, +For a certain hope hath set, +Like a star; and left me heir +To a crying for its light, +An aspiring infinite, +And a beautiful despair! + +"Ah! no more, no more, no more +I shall lie at thy shut door, +Mine ideal, my desired, +Dreaming thou wilt open it, +And step out, thou most admired, +By my side to fare, or sit, +Quenching hunger and all drouth +With the wit of thy fair mouth, +Showing me the wished prize +In the calm of thy dove's eyes, +Teaching me the wonder-rife +Majesties of human life, +All its fairest possible sum, +And the grace of its to come. + +"What a difference! Why of late +All sweet music used to say, +'She will come, and with thee stay +To-morrow, man, if not to-day.' +Now it murmurs, 'Wait, wait, wait!'" + + +A RAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE. + +I saw when I looked up, on either hand, + A pale high chalk-cliff, reared aloft in white; +A narrowing rent soon closed toward the land,-- + Toward the sea, an open yawning bight. + +The polished tide, with scarce a hint of blue, + Washed in the bight; above with angry moan +A raven, that was robbed, sat up in view, + Croaking and crying on a ledge alone. + +"Stand on thy nest, spread out thy fateful wings, + With sullen hungry love bemoan thy brood, +For boys have wrung their necks, those imp-like things, + Whose beaks dripped crimson daily at their food. + +"Cry, thou black prophetess! cry, and despair, + None love thee, none! Their father was thy foe, +Whose father in his youth did know thy lair, + And steal thy little demons long ago. + +"Thou madest many childless for their sake, + And picked out many eyes that loved the light. +Cry, thou black prophetess! sit up, awake, + Forebode; and ban them through the desolate night" + +Lo! while I spake it, with a crimson hue + The dipping sun endowed that silver flood, +And all the cliffs flushed red, and up she flew, + The bird, as mad to bathe in airy blood. + +"Nay, thou mayst cry, the omen is not thine, + Thou aged priestess of fell doom, and fate. +It is not blood: thy gods are making wine, + They spilt the must outside their city gate, + +"And stained their azure pavement with the lees: + They will not listen though thou cry aloud. +Old Chance, thy dame, sits mumbling at her ease, + Nor hears; the fair hag, Luck, is in her shroud. + +"They heed not, they withdraw the sky-hung sign, + Thou hast no charm against the favorite race; +Thy gods pour out for it, not blood, but wine: + There is no justice in their dwelling-place! + +"Safe in their father's house the boys shall rest, + Though thy fell brood doth stark and silent lie; +Their unborn sons may yet despoil thy nest: + Cry, thou black prophetess! lift up! cry, cry!" + + +THE WARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS. + + When I hear the waters fretting, + When I see the chestnut letting +All her lovely blossom falter down, I think, "Alas the day!" + Once with magical sweet singing, + Blackbirds set the woodland ringing, +That awakes no more while April hours wear themselves away. + + In our hearts fair hope lay smiling, + Sweet as air, and all beguiling; +And there hung a mist of bluebells on the slope and down the dell; + And we talked of joy and splendor + That the years unborn would render, +And the blackbirds helped us with the story, for they knew it well. + + Piping, fluting, "Bees are humming, + April's here, and summer's coming; +Don't forget us when you walk, a man with men, in pride and joy; + Think on us in alleys shady, + When you step a graceful lady; +For no fairer day have we to hope for, little girl and boy. + + "Laugh and play, O lisping waters, + Lull our downy sons and daughters; +Come, O wind, and rock their leafy cradle in thy wanderings coy; + When they wake we'll end the measure + With a wild sweet cry of pleasure, +And a 'Hey down derry, let's be merry! little girl and boy!'" + + +SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME. + +I walked beside a dark gray sea. + And said, "O world, how cold thou art! +Thou poor white world, I pity thee, + For joy and warmth from thee depart. + +"Yon rising wave licks off the snow, + Winds on the crag each other chase, +In little powdery whirls they blow + The misty fragments down its face. + +"The sea is cold, and dark its rim, + Winter sits cowering on the wold, +And I beside this watery brim, + Am also lonely, also cold." + +I spoke, and drew toward a rock, + Where many mews made twittering sweet; +Their wings upreared, the clustering flock + Did pat the sea-grass with their feet. + +A rock but half submerged, the sea + Ran up and washed it while they fed; +Their fond and foolish ecstasy + A wondering in my fancy bred. + +Joy companied with every cry, + Joy in their food, in that keen wind, +That heaving sea, that shaded sky, + And in themselves, and in their kind. + +The phantoms of the deep at play! + What idless graced the twittering things; +Luxurious paddlings in the spray, + And delicate lifting up of wings. + +Then all at once a flight, and fast + The lovely crowd flew out to sea; +If mine own life had been recast, + Earth had not looked more changed to me. + +"Where is the cold? Yon clouded skies + Have only dropt their curtains low +To shade the old mother where she lies + Sleeping a little, 'neath the snow. + +"The cold is not in crag, nor scar, + Not in the snows that lap the lea, +Not in yon wings that beat afar, + Delighting, on the crested sea; + +"No, nor in yon exultant wind + That shakes the oak and bends the pine. +Look near, look in, and thou shalt find + No sense of cold, fond fool, but thine!" + +With that I felt the gloom depart, + And thoughts within me did unfold, +Whose sunshine warmed me to the heart,-- + I walked in joy, and was not cold. + + + + +LAURANCE. + + +I. + +He knew she did not love him; but so long +As rivals were unknown to him, he dwelt +At ease, and did not find his love a pain. + +He had much deference in his nature, need +To honor--it became him; he was frank, +Fresh, hardy, of a joyous mind, and strong,-- +Looked all things straight in the face. So when she came +Before him first, he looked at her, and looked +No more, but colored to his healthful brow, +And wished himself a better man, and thought +On certain things, and wished they were undone, +Because her girlish innocence, the grace +Of her unblemished pureness, wrought in him +A longing and aspiring, and a shame +To think how wicked was the world,--that world +Which he must walk in,--while from her (and such +As she was) it was hidden; there was made +A clean path, and the girl moved on like one +In some enchanted ring. + + In his young heart +She reigned, with all the beauties that she had, +And all the virtues that he rightly took +For granted; there he set her with her crown, +And at her first enthronement he turned out +Much that was best away, for unaware +His thoughts grew noble. She was always there +And knew it not, and he grew like to her +And like to what he thought her. + Now he dwelt +With kin that loved him well,--two fine old folk, +A rich, right honest yeoman, and his dame,-- +Their only grandson he, their pride, their heir. + +To these, one daughter had been born, one child, +And as she grew to woman, "Look," they said, +"She must not leave us; let us build a wing, +With cheerful rooms and wide, to our old grange; +There may she dwell, with her good man, and all +God sends them." Then the girl in her first youth +Married a curate,--handsome, poor in purse, +Of gentle blood and manners, and he lived +Under her father's roof, as they had planned. + +Full soon, for happy years are short, they filled +The house with children; four were born to them. +Then came a sickly season; fever spread + Among the poor. The curate, never slack + In duty, praying by the sick, or worse, +Burying the dead, when all the air was clogged +With poisonous mist, was stricken; long he lay +Sick, almost to the death, and when his head +He lifted from the pillow, there was left +One only of that pretty flock: his girls, +His three, were cold beneath the sod; his boy, +Their eldest born, remained. + + The drooping wife +Bore her great sorrow in such quiet wise, +That first they marvelled at her, then they tried +To rouse her, showing her their bitter grief, +Lamenting, and not sparing; but she sighed, +"Let me alone, it will not be for long." +Then did her mother tremble, murmuring out, +"Dear child, the best of comfort will be soon. +O, when you see this other little face, +You will, please God, be comforted." + + She said, +"I shall not live to see it"; but she did,-- +little sickly face, a wan, thin face. +Then she grew eager, and her eyes were bright +When she would plead with them: "Take me away, +Let me go south; it is the bitter blast +That chills my tender babe; she cannot thrive +Under the desolate, dull, mournful cloud." +Then all they journeyed south together, mute +With past and coming sorrow, till the sun, +In gardens edging the blue tideless main, +Warmed them and calmed the aching at their hearts, +And all went better for a while; but not +For long. They sitting by the orange-trees +Once rested, and the wife was very still: +One woman with narcissus flowers heaped up +Let down her basket from her head, but paused +With pitying gesture, and drew near and stooped, +Taking a white wild face upon her breast,-- +The little babe on its poor mother's knees, +None marking it, none knowing else, had died. + +The fading mother could not stay behind, +Her heart was broken; but it awed them most +To feel they must not, dared not, pray for life, +Seeing she longed to go, and went so gladly. + +After, these three, who loved each other well, +Brought their one child away, and they were best +Together in the wide old grange. Full oft +The father with the mother talked of her, +Their daughter, but the husband nevermore; +He looked for solace in his work, and gave +His mind to teach his boy. And time went on, +Until the grandsire prayed those other two +"Now part with him; it must be; for his good: +He rules and knows it; choose for him a school, +Let him have all advantages, and all +Good training that should make a gentleman." + +With that they parted from their boy, and lived +Longing between his holidays, and time +Sped; he grew on till he had eighteen years. +His father loved him, wished to make of him +Another parson; but the farmer's wife +Murmured at that: "No, no, they learned bad ways, +They ran in debt at college; she had heard +That many rued the day they sent their boys +To college"; and between the two broke in +His grandsire: "Find a sober, honest man, +A scholar, for our lad should see the world +While he is young, that he may marry young. +He will not settle and be satisfied +Till he has run about the world awhile. +Good lack, I longed to travel in my youth, +And had no chance to do it. Send him off, +A sober man being found to trust him with, +One with the fear of God before his eyes." +And he prevailed; the careful father chose +A tutor, young,--the worthy matron thought,-- +In truth, not ten years older than her boy, +And glad as he to range, and keen for snows, +Desert, and ocean. And they made strange choice +Of where to go, left the sweet day behind, +And pushed up north in whaling ships, to feel +What cold was, see the blowing whale come up, +And Arctic creatures, while a scarlet sun +Went round and round, crowd on the clear blue berg. + +Then did the trappers have them; and they heard +Nightly the whistling calls of forest-men +That mocked the forest wonners; and they saw +Over the open, raging up like doom, +The dangerous dust-cloud, that was full of eyes,-- +The bisons. So were three years gone like one; +And the old cities drew them for a while, +Great mothers, by the Tiber and the Seine; +They have hid many sons hard by their seats, +But all the air is stirring with them still, +The waters murmur of them, skies at eve +Are stained with their rich blood, and every sound +Means men. + At last, the fourth year running out, +The youth came home. And all the cheerful house +Was decked in fresher colors, and the dame +Was full of joy. But in the father's heart +Abode a painful doubt. "It is not well; +He cannot spend his life with dog and gun. +I do not care that my one son should sleep +Merely for keeping him in breath, and wake +Only to ride to cover." + Not the less +The grandsire pondered. "Ay, the boy must WORK +Or SPEND; and I must let him spend; just stay +Awhile with us, and then from time to time +Have leave to be away with those fine folk +With whom, these many years, at school, and now, +During his sojourn in the foreign towns, +He has been made familiar." Thus a month +Went by. They liked the stirring ways of youth, +The quick elastic step, and joyous mind, +Ever expectant of it knew not what, +But something higher than has e'er been born +Of easy slumber and sweet competence. +And as for him,--the while they thought and thought +A comfortable instinct let him know +How they had waited for him, to complete +And give a meaning to their lives; and still +At home, but with a sense of newness there, +And frank and fresh as in the school-boy days, +He oft--invading of his father's haunts, +The study where he passed the silent morn-- +Would sit, devouring with a greedy joy +The piled-up books, uncut as yet; or wake +To guide with him by night the tube, and search, +Ay, think to find new stars; then risen betimes, +Would ride about the farm, and list the talk +Of his hale grandsire. + But a day came round, +When, after peering in his mother's room, +Shaded and shuttered from the light, he oped +A door, and found the rosy grandmother +Ensconced and happy in her special pride, +Her storeroom. She was corking syrups rare, +And fruits all sparkling in a crystal coat. +Here after choice of certain cates well known, +He, sitting on her bacon-chest at ease, +Sang as he watched her, till right suddenly, +As if a new thought came, "Goody," quoth he, +"What, think you, do they want to do with me? +What have they planned for me that I should do?" + +"Do, laddie!" quoth she faltering, half in tears; +"Are you not happy with us, not content? +Why would ye go away? There is no need +That ye should DO at all. O, bide at home. +Have we not plenty?" + "Even so," he said; +"I did not wish to go." + "Nay, then," quoth she, +"Be idle; let me see your blessed face. +What, is the horse your father chose for you +Not to your mind? He is? Well, well, remain; +Do as you will, so you but do it here. +You shall not want for money." + But, his arms +Folding, he sat and twisted up his mouth +With comical discomfiture. + "What, then," +She sighed, "what is it, child, that you would like?" +"Why," said he, "farming." + And she looked at him, +Fond, foolish woman that she was, to find +Some fitness in the worker for the work, +And she found none. A certain grace there was +Of movement, and a beauty in the face, +Sun-browned and healthful beauty that had come +From his grave father; and she thought, "Good lack, +A farmer! he is fitter for a duke. +He walks; why, how he walks! if I should meet +One like him, whom I knew not, I should ask, +'And who may that be?'" So the foolish thought +Found words. Quoth she, half laughing, half ashamed, +"We planned to make of you--a gentleman." +And with engaging sweet audacity +She thought it nothing less,--he, looking up, +With a smile in his blue eyes, replied to her, +"And hav'n't you done it?" Quoth she, lovingly, +"I think we have, laddie; I think we have." + +"Then," quoth he, "I may do what best I like; +It makes no matter. Goody, you were wise +To help me in it, and to let me farm; +I think of getting into mischief else!" +"No! do ye, laddie?" quoth the dame, and laughed. +"But ask my grandfather," the youth went on, +"To let me have the farm he bought last year, +The little one, to manage. I like land; +I want some." And she, womanlike, gave way +Convinced; and promised, and made good her word, +And that same night upon the matter spoke, +In presence of the father and the son. + +"Roger," quoth she, "our Laurance wants to farm; +I think he might do worse." The father sat +Mute but right glad. The grandson breaking in +Set all his wish and his ambition forth; +But cunningly the old man hid his joy, +And made conditions with a faint demur. +Then pausing, "Let your father speak," quoth he; +"I am content if he is": at his word +The parson took him, ay, and, parson like, +Put a religious meaning in the work, +Man's earliest work, and wished his son God speed. + + +II. + +Thus all were satisfied, and day by day, +For two sweet years a happy course was theirs; +Happy, but yet the fortunate, the young +Loved, and much cared-for, entered on his strife,-- +A stirring of the heart, a quickening keen +Of sight and hearing to the delicate +Beauty and music of an altered world; +Began to walk in that mysterious light +Which doth reveal and yet transform; which gives +Destiny, sorrow, youth, and death, and life, +Intenser meaning; in disquieting +Lifts up; a shining light: men call it Love. + +Fair, modest eyes had she, the girl he loved; +A silent creature, thoughtful, grave, sincere. +She never turned from him with sweet caprice, +Nor changing moved his soul to troublous hope, +Nor dropped for him her heavy lashes low, +But excellent in youthful grace came up; +And ere his words were ready, passing on, +Had left him all a-tremble; yet made sure +That by her own true will, and fixed intent, +She held him thus remote. Therefore, albeit +He knew she did not love him, yet so long +As of a rival unaware, he dwelt +All in the present, without fear, or hope, +Enthralled and whelmed in the deep sea of love, +And could not get his head above its wave +To reach the far horizon, or to mark +Whereto it drifted him. + So long, so long; +Then, on a sudden, came the ruthless fate, +Showed him a bitter truth, and brought him bale +All in the tolling out of noon. + 'Twas thus: +Snow-time was come; it had been snowing hard; +Across the churchyard path he walked; the clock +Began to strike, and, as he passed the porch, +Half turning, through a sense that came to him +As of some presence in it, he beheld +His love, and she had come for shelter there; +And all her face was fair with rosy bloom, +The blush of happiness; and one held up +Her ungloved hand in both his own, and stooped +Toward it, sitting by her. O her eyes +Were full of peace and tender light: they looked +One moment in the ungraced lover's face +While he was passing in the snow; and he +Received the story, while he raised his hat +Retiring. Then the clock left off to strike, +And that was all. It snowed, and he walked on; +And in a certain way he marked the snow, +And walked, and came upon the open heath; +And in a certain way he marked the cold, +And walked as one that had no starting-place +Might walk, but not to any certain goal. + +And he strode on toward a hollow part, +Where from the hillside gravel had been dug, +And he was conscious of a cry, and went +Dulled in his sense, as though he heard it not; +Till a small farmhouse drudge, a half-grown girl, +Rose from the shelter of a drift that lay +Against the bushes, crying, "God! O God, +O my good God, He sends us help at last." + +Then looking hard upon her, came to him +The power to feel and to perceive. Her teeth +Chattered, and all her limbs with shuddering failed, +And in her threadbare shawl was wrapped a child +That looked on him with wondering, wistful eyes. + +"I thought to freeze," the girl broke out with tears; +"Kind sir, kind sir," and she held out the child, +As praying him to take it; and he did; +And gave to her the shawl, and swathed his charge +In the foldings of his plaid; and when it thrust +Its small round face against his breast, and felt +With small red hands for warmth,--unbearable +Pains of great pity rent his straitened heart, +For the poor upland dwellers had been out +Since morning dawn, at early milking-time, +Wandering and stumbling in the drift. And now, +Lamed with a fall, half crippled by the cold, +Hardly prevailed his arm to drag her on, +That ill-clad child, who yet the younger child +Had motherly cared to shield. So toiling through +The great white storm coming, and coming yet. +And coming till the world confounded sat +With all her fair familiar features gone, +The mountains muffled in an eddying swirl, +He led or bore them, and the little one +Peered from her shelter, pleased; but oft would mourn +The elder, "They will beat me: O my can, +I left my can of milk upon the moor." +And he compared her trouble with his own, +And had no heart to speak. And yet 'twas keen; +It filled her to the putting down of pain +And hunger,--what could his do more? + He brought +The children to their home, and suddenly +Regained himself, and wondering at himself, +That he had borne, and yet been dumb so long, +The weary wailing of the girl: he paid +Money to buy her pardon; heard them say, +"Peace, we have feared for you; forget the milk, +It is no matter!" and went forth again +And waded in the snow, and quietly +Considered in his patience what to do +With all the dull remainder of his days. + +With dusk he was at home, and felt it good +To hear his kindred talking, for it broke +A mocking, endless echo in his soul, +"It is no matter!" and he could not choose +But mutter, though the weariness o'ercame +His spirit, "Peace, it is no matter; peace, +It is no matter!" For he felt that all +Was as it had been, and his father's heart +Was easy, knowing not how that same day +Hope with her tender colors and delight +(He should not care to have him know) were dead; +Yea, to all these, his nearest and most dear, +It was no matter. And he heard them talk +Of timber felled, of certain fruitful fields, +And profitable markets. + All for him +Their plans, and yet the echoes swarmed and swam +About his head, whenever there was pause; +"It is no matter!" And his greater self +Arose in him and fought. "It matters much, +It matters all to these, that not to-day +Nor ever they should know it. I will hide +The wound; ay, hide it with a sleepless care. +What! shall I make these three to drink of rue, +Because my cup is bitter?" And he thrust +Himself in thought away, and made his ears +Hearken, and caused his voice, that yet did seem +Another, to make answer, when they spoke, +As there had been no snowstorm, and no porch, +And no despair. + So this went on awhile +Until the snow had melted from the wold, +And he, one noonday, wandering up a lane, +Met on a turn the woman whom he loved. +Then, even to trembling he was moved: his speech +Faltered; but when the common kindly words +Of greeting were all said, and she passed on, +He could not bear her sweetness and his pain, +"Muriel!" he cried; and when she heard her name, +She turned. "You know I love you," he broke out: +She answered "Yes," and sighed. + "O pardon me. +Pardon me," quoth the lover; "let me rest +In certainty, and hear it from your mouth: +Is he with whom I saw you once of late +To call you wife?" "I hope so," she replied; +And over all her face the rose-bloom came, +As thinking on that other, unaware +Her eyes waxed tender. When he looked on her, +Standing to answer him, with lovely shame, +Submiss, and yet not his, a passionate, +A quickened sense of his great impotence +To drive away the doom got hold on him; +He set his teeth to force the unbearable +Misery back, his wide-awakened eyes +Flashed as with flame. + And she, all overawed +And mastered by his manhood, waited yet, +And trembled at the deep she could not sound; +A passionate nature in a storm; a heart +Wild with a mortal pain, and in the grasp +Of an immortal love. + "Farewell," he said, +Recovering words, and when she gave her hand, +"My thanks for your good candor; for I feel +That it has cost you something." Then, the blush +Yet on her face, she said: "It was your due: +But keep this matter from your friends and kin, +We would not have it known." Then cold and proud, +Because there leaped from under his straight lids, +And instantly was veiled, a keen surprise,-- +"He wills it, and I therefore think it well." +Thereon they parted; but from that time forth, +Whether they met on festal eve, in field, +Or at the church, she ever bore herself +Proudly, for she had felt a certain pain, +The disapproval hastily betrayed +And quickly hidden hurt her. "'T was a grace," +She thought, "to tell this man the thing he asked, +And he rewards me with surprise. I like +No one's surprise, and least of all bestowed +Where he bestowed it." + But the spring came on: +Looking to wed in April all her thoughts +Grew loving; she would fain the world had waxed +More happy with her happiness, and oft +Walking among the flowery woods she felt +Their loveliness reach down into her heart, +And knew with them the ecstasies of growth, +The rapture that was satisfied with light, +The pleasure of the leaf in exquisite +Expansion, through the lovely longed-for spring. + +And as for him,--(Some narrow hearts there are +That suffer blight when that they fed upon +As something to complete their being fails, +And they retire into their holds and pine, +And long restrained grow stern. But some there are, +That in a sacred want and hunger rise, +And draw the misery home and live with it, +And excellent in honor wait, and will +That somewhat good should yet be found in it, +Else wherefore were they born?),--and as for him, +He loved her, but his peace and welfare made +The sunshine of three lives. The cheerful grange +Threw open wide its hospitable doors +And drew in guests for him. The garden flowers, +Sweet budding wonders, all were set for him. +In him the eyes at home were satisfied, +And if he did but laugh the ear approved. +What then? He dwelt among them as of old, +And taught his mouth to smile. + And time went on, +Till on a morning, when the perfect spring +Rested among her leaves, he journeying home +After short sojourn in a neighboring town, +Stopped at the little station on the line +That ran between his woods; a lonely place +And quiet, and a woman and a child +Got out. He noted them, but walking on +Quickly, went back into the wood, impelled +By hope, for, passing, he had seen his love, +And she was sitting on a rustic seat +That overlooked the line, and he desired +With longing indescribable to look +Upon her face again. And he drew near. +She was right happy; she was waiting there. +He felt that she was waiting for her lord. +She cared no whit if Laurance went or stayed, +But answered when he spoke, and dropped her cheek +In her fair hand. + And he, not able yet +To force himself away, and never more +Behold her, gathered blossom, primrose flowers, +And wild anemone, for many a clump +Grew all about him, and the hazel rods +Were nodding with their catkins. But he heard +The stopping train, and felt that he must go; +His time was come. There was nought else to do +Or hope for. With the blossom he drew near +And would have had her take it from his hand; +But she, half lost in thought, held out her own, +And then remembering him and his long love, +She said, "I thank you; pray you now forget, +Forget me, Laurance," and her lovely eyes +Softened; but he was dumb, till through the trees +Suddenly broke upon their quietude +The woman and her child. And Muriel said, +"What will you?" She made answer quick and keen, +"Your name, my lady; 'tis your name I want, +Tell me your name." Not startled, not displeased, +But with a musing sweetness on her mouth, +As if considering in how short a while +It would be changed, she lifted up her face +And gave it, and the little child drew near +And pulled her gown, and prayed her for the flowers. +Then Laurance, not content to leave them so, +Nor yet to wait the coming lover, spoke,-- +"Your errand with this lady?"--"And your right +To ask it?" she broke out with sudden heat +And passion: "What is that to you! Poor child! +Madam!" And Muriel lifted up her face +And looked,--they looked into each other's eyes. + +"That man who comes," the clear-voiced woman cried, +"That man with whom you think to wed so soon, +You must not heed him. What! the world is full +Of men, and some are good, and most, God knows, +Better than he,--that I should say it!--far +Better." And down her face the large tears ran, +And Muriel's wild dilated eyes looked up, +Taking a terrible meaning from her words; +And Laurance stared about him half in doubt +If this were real, for all things were so blithe, +And soft air tossed the little flowers about; +The child was singing, and the blackbirds piped, +Glad in fair sunshine. And the women both +Were quiet, gazing in each other's eyes. + +He found his voice, and spoke: "This is not well, +Though whom you speak of should have done you wrong; +A man that could desert and plan to wed +Will not his purpose yield to God and right, +Only to law. You, whom I pity so much, +If you be come this day to urge a claim, +You will not tell me that your claim will hold; +'Tis only, if I read aright, the old, +Sorrowful, hateful story!" + Muriel sighed, +With a dull patience that he marvelled at, +"Be plain with me. I know not what to think, +Unless you are his wife. Are you his wife? +Be plain with me." And all too quietly, +With running down of tears, the answer came, +"Ay, madam, ay! the worse for him and me." +Then Muriel heard her lover's foot anear, +And cried upon him with a bitter cry, +Sharp and despairing. And those two stood back, +With such affright, and violent anger stirred +He broke from out the thicket to her side, +Not knowing. But, her hands before her face, +She sat; and, stepping close, that woman came +And faced him. Then said Muriel, "O my heart, +Herbert!"--and he was dumb, and ground his teeth, +And lifted up his hand and looked at it, +And at the woman; but a man was there +Who whirled her from her place, and thrust himself +Between them; he was strong,--a stalwart man: +And Herbert thinking on it, knew his name. +"What good," quoth he, "though you and I should strive +And wrestle all this April day? A word, +And not a blow, is what these women want: +Master yourself, and say it." But he, weak +With passion and great anguish, flung himself +Upon the seat and cried, "O lost, my love! +O Muriel, Muriel!" And the woman spoke, +"Sir, 'twas an evil day you wed with me; +And you were young; I know it, sir, right well. +Sir, I have worked; I have not troubled you, +Not for myself, nor for your child. I know +We are not equal." "Hold!" he cried; "have done; +Your still, tame words are worse than hate or scorn. +Get from me! Ay, my wife, my wife, indeed! +All's done. You hear it, Muriel; if you can, +O sweet, forgive me." + Then the woman moved +Slowly away: her little singing child +Went in her wake: and Muriel dropped her hands, +And sat before these two that loved her so, +Mute and unheeding. There were angry words, +She knew, but yet she could not hear the words; +And afterwards the man she loved stooped down +And kissed her forehead once, and then withdrew +To look at her, and with a gesture pray +Her pardon. And she tried to speak, but failed, +And presently, and soon, O,--he was gone. + +She heard him go, and Laurance, still as stone, +Remained beside her; and she put her hand +Before her face again, and afterward +She heard a voice, as if a long way off, +Some one entreated, but she could not heed. +Thereon he drew her hand away, and raised +Her passive from her seat. So then she knew +That he would have her go with him, go home,-- +It was not far to go,--a dreary home. +A crippled aunt, of birth and lineage high, +Had in her youth, and for a place and home, +Married the stern old rector; and the girl +Dwelt with them: she was orphaned,--had no kin +Nearer than they. And Laurance brought her in, +And spared to her the telling of this woe. +He sought her kindred where they sat apart, +And laid before them all the cruel thing, +As he had seen it. After, he retired: +And restless, and not master of himself, +He day and night haunted the rectory lanes; +And all things, even to the spreading out +Of leaves, their flickering shadows on the ground, +Or sailing of the slow, white cloud, or peace +And glory and great light on mountain heads,-- +All things were leagued against him,--ministered +By likeness or by contrast to his love. + +But what was that to Muriel, though her peace +He would have purchased for her with all prayers, +And costly, passionate, despairing tears? +O what to her that he should find it worse +To bear her life's undoing than his own? + +She let him see her, and she made no moan, +But talked full calmly of indifferent things, +Which when he heard, and marked the faded eyes +And lovely wasted cheek, he started up +With "This I cannot bear!" and shamed to feel +His manhood giving way, and utterly +Subdued by her sweet patience and his pain, +Made haste and from the window sprang, and paced, +Battling and chiding with himself, the maze. + +She suffered, and he could not make her well +For all his loving;--he was naught to her. +And now his passionate nature, set astir, +Fought with the pain that could not be endured; +And like a wild thing suddenly aware +That it is caged, which flings and bruises all +Its body at the bars, he rose, and raged +Against the misery: then he made all worse +With tears. But when he came to her again, +Willing to talk as they had talked before, +She sighed, and said, with that strange quietness, +"I know you have been crying": and she bent +Her own fair head and wept. + She felt the cold-- +The freezing cold that deadened all her life-- +Give way a little; for this passionate +Sorrow, and all for her, relieved her heart, +And brought some natural warmth, some natural tears. + + +III. + +And after that, though oft he sought her door, +He might not see her. First they said to him, +"She is not well"; and afterwards, "Her wish +Is ever to be quiet." Then in haste +They took her from the place, because so fast +She faded. As for him, though youth and strength +Can bear the weight as of a world, at last +The burden of it tells,--he heard it said, +When autumn came, "The poor sweet thing will die: +That shock was mortal." And he cared no more +To hide, if yet he could have hidden, the blight +That was laying waste his heart. He journeyed south +To Devon, where she dwelt with other kin, +Good, kindly women; and he wrote to them, +Praying that he might see her ere she died. + +So in her patience she permitted him +To be about her, for it eased his heart; +And as for her that was to die so soon, +What did it signify? She let him weep +Some passionate tears beside her couch, she spoke +Pitying words, and then they made him go, +It was enough they said, her time was short, +And he had seen her. He HAD seen, and felt +The bitterness of death; but he went home, +Being satisfied in that great longing now, +And able to endure what might befall. + + And Muriel lay, and faded with the year; +She lay at the door of death, that opened not +To take her in; for when the days once more +Began a little to increase, she felt,-- +And it was sweet to her, she was so young,-- +She felt a longing for the time of flowers, +And dreamed that she was walking in that wood +With her two feet among the primroses. + +Then when the violet opened, she rose up +And walked: the tender leaf and tender light +Did solace her; but she was white and wan, +The shadow of that Muriel, in the wood +Who listened to those deadly words. + And now +Empurpled seas began to blush and bloom, +Doves made sweet moaning, and the guelder rose +In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped, +Her wealth about her feet, and there it lay, +And drifted not at all. The lilac spread +Odorous essence round her; and full oft, +When Muriel felt the warmth her pulses cheer, +She, faded, sat among the Maytide bloom, +And with a reverent quiet in her soul, +Took back--it was His will--her time, and sat +Learning again to live. + Thus as she sat +Upon a day, she was aware of one +Who at a distance marked her. This again +Another day, and she was vexed, for yet +She longed for quiet; but she heard a foot +Pass once again, and beckoned through the trees. +"Laurance!" And all impatient of unrest +And strife, ay, even of the sight of them, +When he drew near, with tired, tired lips, +As if her soul upbraided him, she said, +"Why have you done this thing?" He answered her, +"I am not always master in the fight: +I could not help it." + "What!" she sighed, "not yet! +O, I am sorry"; and she talked to him +As one who looked to live, imploring him,-- +"Try to forget me. Let your fancy dwell +Elsewhere, nor me enrich with it so long; +It wearies me to think of this your love. +Forget me!" + + He made answer, "I will try: +The task will take me all my life to learn, +Or were it learned, I know not how to live; +This pain is part of life and being now,-- +It is myself; but yet--but I will try." +Then she spoke friendly to him,--of his home, +His father, and the old, brave, loving folk; +She bade him think of them. And not her words, +But having seen her, satisfied his heart. +He left her, and went home to live his life, +And all the summer heard it said of her, +"Yet, she grows stronger"; but when autumn came +Again she drooped. + + A bitter thing it is +To lose at once the lover and the love; +For who receiveth not may yet keep life +In the spirit with bestowal. But for her, +This Muriel, all was gone. The man she loved, +Not only from her present had withdrawn, +But from her past, and there was no such man, +There never had been. + + He was not as one +Who takes love in, like some sweet bird, and holds +The winged fluttering stranger to his breast, +Till, after transient stay, all unaware +It leaves him: it has flown. No; this may live +In memory,--loved till death. He was not vile; +For who by choice would part with that pure bird, +And lose the exaltation of its song? +He had not strength of will to keep it fast, +Nor warmth of heart to keep it warm, nor life +Of thought to make the echo sound for him +After the song was done. Pity that man: +His music is all flown, and he forgets +The sweetness of it, till at last he thinks +'Twas no great matter. But he was not vile, +Only a thing to pity most in man, +Weak,--only poor, and, if he knew it, undone. +But Herbert! When she mused on it, her soul +Would fain have hidden him forevermore, +Even from herself: so pure of speech, so frank, +So full of household kindness. Ah, so good +And true! A little, she had sometimes thought, +Despondent for himself, but strong of faith +In God, and faith in her, this man had seemed. + +Ay, he was gone! and she whom he had wed, +As Muriel learned, was sick, was poor, was sad. +And Muriel wrote to comfort her, and send, +From her small store, money to help her need, +With, "Pray you keep it secret." Then the whole +Of the cruel tale was told. + What more? She died. +Her kin, profuse of thanks, not bitterly, +Wrote of the end. "Our sister fain had seen +Her husband; prayed him sore to come. But no. +And then she prayed him that he would forgive, +Madam, her breaking of the truth to you. +Dear madam, he was angry, yet we think +He might have let her see, before she died, +The words she wanted, but he did not write +Till she was gone--'I neither can forgive, +Nor would I if I could.'" + "Patience, my heart! +And this, then, is the man I loved!" + But yet +He sought a lower level, for he wrote +Telling the story with a different hue, +Telling of freedom. He desired to come, +"For now," said he, "O love, may all be well." +And she rose up against it in her soul, +For she despised him. And with passionate tears +Of shame, she wrote, and only wrote these words,-- +"Herbert, I will not see you." + Then she drooped +Again; it is so bitter to despise; +And all her strength, when autumn leaves down dropped, +Fell from her. "Ah!" she thought, "I rose up once, +I cannot rise up now; here is the end." +And all her kinsfolk thought, "It is the end." + +But when that other heard, "It is the end," +His heart was sick, and he, as by a power +Far stronger than himself, was driven to her. +Reason rebelled against it, but his will +Required it of him with a craving strong +As life, and passionate though hopeless pain. + +She, when she saw his face, considered him +Full quietly, let all excuses pass +Not answered, and considered yet again. + +"He had heard that she was sick; what could he do +But come, and ask her pardon that he came?" +What could he do, indeed?--a weak white girl +Held all his heartstrings in her small white hand; +His youth, and power, and majesty were hers, +And not his own. + + She looked, and pitied him. +Then spoke: "He loves me with a love that lasts. +Ah, me! that I might get away from it, +Or, better, hear it said that love IS NOT, +And then I could have rest. My time is short, +I think, so short." And roused against himself +In stormy wrath, that it should be his doom +Her to disquiet whom he loved; ay, her +For whom he would have given all his rest, +If there were any left to give; he took +Her words up bravely, promising once more +Absence, and praying pardon; but some tears +Dropped quietly upon her cheek. + + "Remain," +She said, "for there is something to be told, +Some words that you must hear. + + "And first hear this: +God has been good to me; you must not think +That I despair. There is a quiet time +Like evening in my soul. I have no heart, +For cruel Herbert killed it long ago, +And death strides on. Sit, then, and give your mind +To listen, and your eyes to look at me. +Look at my face, Laurance, how white it is; +Look at my hand,--my beauty is all gone." +And Laurance lifted up his eyes; he looked, +But answered, from their deeps that held no doubt, +Far otherwise than she had willed,--they said, +"Lovelier than ever." + + Yet her words went on, +Cold and so quiet, "I have suffered much, +And I would fain that none who care for me +Should suffer a like pang that I can spare. +Therefore," said she, and not at all could blush, +"I have brought my mind of late to think of this: +That since your life is spoilt (not willingly, +My God, not willingly by me), 'twere well +To give you choice of griefs. + + "Were it not best +To weep for a dead love, and afterwards +Be comforted the sooner, that she died +Remote, and left not in your house and life +Aught to remind you? That indeed were best. +But were it best to weep for a dead wife, +And let the sorrow spend and satisfy +Itself with all expression, and so end? +I think not so; but if for you 'tis best, +Then,--do not answer with too sudden words: +It matters much to you; not much, not much +To me,--then truly I will die your wife; +I will marry you." + + What was he like to say, +But, overcome with love and tears, to choose +The keener sorrow,--take it to his heart, +Cherish it, make it part of him, and watch +Those eyes that were his light till they should close? + +He answered her with eager, faltering words, +"I choose,--my heart is yours,--die in my arms." + +But was it well? Truly, at first, for him +It was not well: he saw her fade, and cried, +"When may this be?" She answered, "When you will," +And cared not much, for very faint she grew, +Tired and cold. Oft in her soul she thought, +"If I could slip away before the ring +Is on my hand, it were a blessed lot +For both,--a blessed thing for him, and me." + +But it was not so; for the day had come,-- +Was over: days and months had come, and Death,-- +Within whose shadow she had lain, which made +Earth and its loves, and even its bitterness, +Indifferent,--Death withdrew himself, and life +Woke up, and found that it was folded fast, +Drawn to another life forevermore. +O, what a waking! After it there came +Great silence. She got up once more, in spring, +And walked, but not alone, among the flowers. +She thought within herself, "What have I done? +How shall I do the rest?" And he, who felt +Her inmost thought, was silent even as she. +"What have we done?" she thought. But as for him, +When she began to look him in the face, +Considering, "Thus and thus his features are," +For she had never thought on them before, +She read their grave repose aright. She knew +That in the stronghold of his heart, held back, +Hidden reserves of measureless content +Kept house with happy thought, for her sake mute. + +Most patient Muriel! when he brought her home, +She took the place they gave her,--strove to please +His kin, and did not fail; but yet thought on, +"What have I done? how shall I do the rest? +Ah! so contented, Laurance, with this wife +That loves you not, for all the stateliness +And grandeur of your manhood, and the deeps +In your blue eyes." And after that awhile +She rested from such thinking, put it by +And waited. She had thought on death before: +But no, this Muriel was not yet to die; +And when she saw her little tender babe, +She felt how much the happy days of life +Outweigh the sorrowful. A tiny thing, +Whom when it slept the lovely mother nursed +With reverent love, whom when it woke she fed +And wondered at, and lost herself in long +Rapture of watching, and contentment deep. + +Once while she sat, this babe upon her knee, +Her husband and his father standing nigh, +About to ride, the grandmother, all pride +And consequence, so deep in learned talk +Of infants, and their little ways and wiles, +Broke off to say, "I never saw a babe +So like its father." And the thought was new +To Muriel; she looked up, and when she looked, +Her husband smiled. And she, the lovely bloom +Flushing her face, would fain he had not known, +Nor noticed her surprise. But he did know; +Yet there was pleasure in his smile, and love +Tender and strong. He kissed her, kissed his babe, +With "Goody, you are left in charge, take care "-- +"As if I needed telling," quoth the dame; +And they were gone. + + Then Muriel, lost in thought, +Gazed; and the grandmother, with open pride, +Tended the lovely pair; till Muriel said, +"Is she so like? Dear granny, get me now +The picture that his father has"; and soon +The old woman put it in her hand. + + The wife, +Considering it with deep and strange delight, +Forgot for once her babe, and looked and learned. + + A mouth for mastery and manful work, +A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes, +A brow the harbor of grave thought, and hair +Saxon of hue. She conned; then blushed again, +Remembering now, when she had looked on him, +The sudden radiance of her husband's smile. + +But Muriel did not send the picture back; +She kept it; while her beauty and her babe +Flourished together, and in health and peace +She lived. + + Her husband never said to her, +"Love, are you happy?" never said to her, +"Sweet, do you love me?" and at first, whene'er +They rode together in the lanes, and paused, +Stopping their horses, when the day was hot, +In the shadow of a tree, to watch the clouds, +Ruffled in drifting on the jagged rocks +That topped the mountains,--when she sat by him, +Withdrawn at even while the summer stars +Came starting out of nothing, as new made, +She felt a little trouble, and a wish +That he would yet keep silence, and he did. +That one reserve he would not touch, but still +Respected. + + Muriel grew more brave in time, +And talked at ease, and felt disquietude +Fade. And another child was given to her. + +"Now we shall do," the old great-grandsire cried, +"For this is the right sort, a boy." "Fie, fie," +Quoth the good dame; "but never heed you, love, +He thinks them both as right as right can be." + +But Laurance went from home, ere yet the boy +Was three weeks old. It fretted him to go, +But still he said, "I must": and she was left +Much with the kindly dame, whose gentle care +Was like a mother's; and the two could talk +Sweetly, for all the difference in their years. + +But unaware, the wife betrayed a wish +That she had known why Laurance left her thus. +"Ay, love," the dame made answer; "for he said, +'Goody,' before he left, 'if Muriel ask +No question, tell her naught; but if she let +Any disquietude appear to you, +Say what you know.'" "What?" Muriel said, and laughed, +"I ask, then." + + "Child, it is that your old love, +Some two months past, was here. Nay, never start: +He's gone. He came, our Laurance met him near; +He said that he was going over seas, +'And might I see your wife this only once, +And get her pardon?'" + + "Mercy!" Muriel cried, +"But Laurance does not wish it?" + + "Nay, now, nay," +Quoth the good dame. + "I cannot," Muriel cried; +"He does not, surely, think I should." + + "Not he," +The kind old woman said, right soothingly. +"Does not he ever know, love, ever do +What you like best?" + + And Muriel, trembling yet, +Agreed. "I heard him say," the dame went on, +"For I was with him when they met that day, +'It would not be agreeable to my wife.'" + +Then Muriel, pondering,--"And he said no more? +You think he did not add, 'nor to myself?'" +And with her soft, calm, inward voice, the dame +Unruffled answered, "No, sweet heart, not he: +What need he care?" "And why not?" Muriel cried, +Longing to hear the answer. "O, he knows, +He knows, love, very well": with that she smiled. +"Bless your fair face, you have not really thought +He did not know you loved him?" + + Muriel said, +"He never told me, goody, that he knew." +"Well," quoth the dame, "but it may chance, my dear, +That he thinks best to let old troubles sleep: +Why need to rouse them? You are happy, sure? +But if one asks, 'Art happy?' why, it sets +The thoughts a-working. No, say I, let love, +Let peace and happy folk alone. + + "He said, +'It would not be agreeable to my wife.' +And he went on to add, in course of time +That he would ask you, when it suited you, +To write a few kind words." + + "Yes," Muriel said, +"I can do that." + + "So Laurance went, you see," +The soft voice added, "to take down that child. +Laurance had written oft about the child, +And now, at last, the father made it known +He could not take him. He has lost, they say, +His money, with much gambling; now he wants +To lead a good, true, working life. He wrote, +And let this so be seen, that Laurance went +And took the child, and took the money down +To pay." + + And Muriel found her talking sweet, +And asked once more, the rather that she longed +To speak again of Laurance, "And you think +He knows I love him?" + + "Ay, good sooth, he knows +No fear; but he is like his father, love. +His father never asked my pretty child +One prying question; took her as she was; +Trusted her; she has told me so: he knew +A woman's nature. Laurance is the same. +He knows you love him; but he will not speak; +No, never. Some men are such gentlemen!" + + + + +SONGS + +OF + +THE NIGHT WATCHES. + +[Illustration] + + + + +SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES, + +WITH AN INTRODUCTORY SONG OF EVENING, AND A +CONCLUDING SONG OF THE EARLY DAY. + + +INTRODUCTORY. + +(_Old English Manner._) + +APPRENTICED. + +Come out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet hoot, the owlet hoot; + Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim behind the tree, O! +The dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest lass, and sweetest + lass; + Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the croft with me, O!" + +"My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her reel, and drops her reel; + My father with his crony talks as gay as gay can be, O! +But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, ere light wax dim; + How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice lad, with +thee, O?" + +"And must ye bide, yet waiting's long, and love is strong, and love is + strong; + And O! had I but served the time, that takes so long to flee, O! +And thou, my lass, by morning's light wast all in white, wast all in + white, + And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me and thee, O." + + +THE FIRST WATCH. + +TIRED. + +I. + +O, I would tell you more, but I am tired; + For I have longed, and I have had my will; +I pleaded in my spirit, I desired: + "Ah! let me only see him, and be still +All my days after." + Rock, and rock, and rock, +Over the falling, rising watery world, + Sail, beautiful ship, along the leaping main; +The chirping land-birds follow flock on flock + To light on a warmer plain. +White as weaned lambs the little wavelets curled, + Fall over in harmless play, + As these do far away; +Sail, bird of doom, along the shimmering sea, +All under thy broad wings that overshadow thee. + +II. + + I am so tired, +If I would comfort me, I know not how, + For I have seen thee, lad, as I desired, +And I have nothing left to long for now. + + Nothing at all. And did I wait for thee, + Often and often, while the light grew dim, + And through the lilac branches I could see, + Under a saffron sky, the purple rim +O' the heaving moorland? Ay. And then would float +Up from behind as it were a golden boat, +Freighted with fancies, all o' the wonder of life, + Love--such a slender moon, going up and up, +Waxing so fast from night to night, +And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright, + Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup, +And hold to my two lips life's best of wine. + Most beautiful crescent moon, + Ship of the sky! + Across the unfurrowed reaches sailing high. + Methought that it would come my way full soon, +Laden with blessings that were all, all mine,-- + A golden ship, with balm and spiceries rife, + That ere its day was done should hear thee call me wife. + +III. + +All over! the celestial sign hath failed; +The orange flower-bud shuts; the ship hath sailed, + And sunk behind the long low-lying hills. +The love that fed on daily kisses dieth; +The love kept warm by nearness, lieth + Wounded and wan; + The love hope nourished bitter tears distils, + And faints with naught to feed upon. +Only there stirreth very deep below +The hidden beating slow, +And the blind yearning, and the long-drawn breath +Of the love that conquers death. + +IV. + +Had we not loved full long, and lost all fear, +My ever, my only dear? +Yes; and I saw thee start upon thy way, + So sure that we should meet + Upon our trysting-day. + And even absence then to me was sweet, + Because it brought me time to brood + Upon thy dearness in the solitude. + But ah! to stay, and stay, + And let that moon of April wane itself away, + And let the lovely May + Make ready all her buds for June; + And let the glossy finch forego her tune + That she brought with her in the spring, + And never more, I think, to me can sing; + And then to lead thee home another bride, + In the sultry summer tide, + And all forget me save for shame full sore, +That made thee pray me, absent, "See my face no more." + +V. + +O hard, most hard! But while my fretted heart + Shut out, shut down, and full of pain, + Sobbed to itself apart, + Ached to itself in vain, + One came who loveth me + As I love thee.... + And let my God remember him for this, + As I do hope He will forget thy kiss, + Nor visit on thy stately head +Aught that thy mouth hath sworn, or thy two eyes have said.... +He came, and it was dark. He came, and sighed +Because he knew the sorrow,--whispering low, +And fast, and thick, as one that speaks by rote: + "The vessel lieth in the river reach, + A mile above the beach, + And she will sail at the turning o' the tide." + He said, "I have a boat, + And were it good to go, + And unbeholden in the vessel's wake + Look on the man thou lovedst, and forgive, + As he embarks, a shamefaced fugitive. + Come, then, with me." + +VI. + + O, how he sighed! The little stars did wink, + And it was very dark. I gave my hand,-- + He led me out across the pasture land, + And through the narrow croft, + Down to the river's brink. +When thou wast full in spring, thou little sleepy thing, + The yellow flags that broidered thee would stand + Up to their chins in water, and full oft + WE pulled them and the other shining flowers, + That all are gone to-day: + WE two, that had so many things to say, + So many hopes to render clear: + And they are all gone after thee, my dear,-- + Gone after those sweet hours, + That tender light, that balmy rain; + Gone "as a wind that passeth away, + And cometh not again." + +VII. + + I only saw the stars,--I could not see + The river,--and they seemed to lie + As far below as the other stars were high. + I trembled like a thing about to die: + It was so awful 'neath the majesty + Of that great crystal height, that overhung + The blackness at our feet, + Unseen to fleet and fleet + The flocking stars among, + And only hear the dipping of the oar, +And the small wave's caressing of the darksome shore. + +VIII. + + Less real it was than any dream. +Ah me! to hear the bending willows shiver, +As we shot quickly from the silent river, + And felt the swaying and the flow +That bore us down the deeper, wider stream, + Whereto its nameless waters go: +O! I shall always, when I shut mine eyes, + See that weird sight again; + The lights from anchored vessels hung; + The phantom moon, that sprung +Suddenly up in dim and angry wise, + From the rim o' the moaning main, + And touched with elfin light + The two long oars whereby we made our flight, + Along the reaches of the night; + Then furrowed up a lowering cloud, + Went in, and left us darker than before, +To feel our way as the midnight watches wore, +And lie in HER lee, with mournful faces bowed, +That should receive and bear with her away +The brightest portion of my sunniest day,-- +The laughter of the land, the sweetness of the shore. + +IX. + +And I beheld thee: saw the lantern flash +Down on thy face, when thou didst climb the side. +And thou wert pale, pale as the patient bride + That followed; both a little sad, +Leaving of home and kin. Thy courage glad, + That once did bear thee on, +That brow of thine had lost; the fervor rash +Of unforeboding youth thou hadst foregone. +O, what a little moment, what a crumb +Of comfort for a heart to feed upon! + And that was all its sum; + A glimpse, and not a meeting,-- + A drawing near by night, +To sigh to thee an unacknowledged greeting, +And all between the flashing of a light + And its retreating. + +X. + +Then after, ere she spread her wafting wings, +The ship,--and weighed her anchor to depart, +We stole from her dark lee, like guilty things; + And there was silence in my heart, +And silence in the upper and the nether deep. + O sleep! O sleep! +Do not forget me. Sometimes come and sweep, +Now I have nothing left, thy healing hand +Over the lids that crave thy visits bland, + Thou kind, thou comforting one: + For I have seen his face, as I desired, + And all my story is done. + O, I am tired! + + +THE MIDDLE WATCH. + +I. + +I woke in the night, and the darkness was heavy and deep: + I had known it was dark in my sleep, + And I rose and looked out, +And the fathomless vault was all sparkling, set thick round about +With the ancient inhabiters silent, and wheeling too far +For man's heart, like a voyaging frigate, to sail, where remote + In the sheen of their glory they float, +Or man's soul, like a bird, to fly near, of their beams to partake, + And dazed in their wake, + Drink day that is born of a star. +I murmured, "Remoteness and greatness, how deep you are set, + How afar in the rim of the whole; +You know nothing of me, nor of man, nor of earth, O, nor yet + Of our light-bearer,--drawing the marvellous moons as they roll, + Of our regent, the sun." +I look on you trembling, and think, in the dark with my soul, +"How small is our place 'mid the kingdoms and nations of God: + These are greater than we, every one." +And there falls a great fear, and a dread cometh over, that cries, + "O my hope! Is there any mistake? +Did He speak? Did I hear? Did I listen aright, if He spake? +Did I answer Him duly? For surely I now am awake, + If never I woke until now." +And a light, baffling wind, that leads nowhither, plays on my brow. +As a sleep, I must think on my day, of my path as untrod, +Or trodden in dreams, in a dreamland whose coasts are a doubt; +Whose countries recede from my thoughts, as they grope round about, + And vanish, and tell me not how. +Be kind to our darkness, O Fashioner, dwelling in light, + And feeding the lamps of the sky; +Look down upon this one, and let it be sweet in Thy sight, + I pray Thee, to-night. +O watch whom Thou madest to dwell on its soil, Thou Most High! +For this is a world full of sorrow (there may be but one); +Keep watch o'er its dust, else Thy children for aye are undone, + For this is a world where we die. + +II. + +With that, a still voice in my spirit that moved and that yearned, + (There fell a great calm while it spake,) +I had heard it erewhile, but the noises of life are so loud, +That sometimes it dies in the cry of the street and the crowd: +To the simple it cometh,--the child, or asleep, or awake, +And they know not from whence; of its nature the wise never learned +By his wisdom; its secret the worker ne'er earned +By his toil; and the rich among men never bought with his gold; + Nor the times of its visiting monarchs controlled, + Nor the jester put down with his jeers + (For it moves where it will), nor its season the aged discerned + By thought, in the ripeness of years. + +O elder than reason, and stronger than will! + A voice, when the dark world is still: +Whence cometh it? Father Immortal, thou knowest! and we,-- +We are sure of that witness, that sense which is sent us of Thee; +For it moves, and it yearns in its fellowship mighty and dread, +And let down to our hearts it is touched by the tears that we shed; +It is more than all meanings, and over all strife; + On its tongue are the laws of our life, + And it counts up the times of the dead. + +III. + + I will fear you, O stars, never more. +I have felt it! Go on, while the world is asleep, + Golden islands, fast moored in God's infinite deep. +Hark, hark to the words of sweet fashion, the harpings of yore! +How they sang to Him, seer and saint, in the far away lands: + "The heavens are the work of Thy hands; + They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure; + Yea, they all shall wax old,-- +But Thy throne is established, O God, and Thy years are made sure; + They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure,-- + They shall pass like a tale that is told." + + Doth He answer, the Ancient of Days? + Will He speak in the tongue and the fashion of men? +(Hist! hist! while the heaven-hung multitudes shine in His praise, +His language of old.) Nay, He spoke with them first; it was then + They lifted their eyes to His throne; +"They shall call on Me, 'Thou art our Father, our God, Thou alone!' +For I made them, I led them in deserts and desolate ways; + I have found them a Ransom Divine; +I have loved them with love everlasting, the children of men; + I swear by Myself, they are Mine." + + +THE MORNING WATCH. + +THE COMING IN OF THE "MERMAIDEN." + +The moon is bleached as white as wool, + And just dropping under; +Every star is gone but three, + And they hang far asunder,-- +There's a sea-ghost all in gray, + A tall shape of wonder! + +I am not satisfied with sleep,-- + The night is not ended. +But look how the sea-ghost comes, + With wan skirts extended, +Stealing up in this weird hour, + When light and dark are blended. + +A vessel! To the old pier end + Her happy course she's keeping; +I heard them name her yesterday: + Some were pale with weeping; +Some with their heart-hunger sighed, + She's in,--and they are sleeping. + +O! now with fancied greetings blest, + They comfort their long aching: +The sea of sleep hath borne to them + What would not come with waking, +And the dreams shall most be true + In their blissful breaking. + +The stars are gone, the rose-bloom comes,-- + No blush of maid is sweeter; +The red sun, half way out of bed, + Shall be the first to greet her. +None tell the news, yet sleepers wake, + And rise, and run to meet her. + +Their lost they have, they hold; from pain + A keener bliss they borrow. +How natural is joy, my heart! + How easy after sorrow! +For once, the best is come that hope + Promised them "to-morrow." + + +CONCLUDING SONG OF DAWN. + +(_Old English Manner._) + +A MORN OF MAY. + +All the clouds about the sun lay up in golden creases, +(Merry rings the maiden's voice that sings at dawn of day;) +Lambkins woke and skipped around to dry their dewy fleeces, +So sweetly as she carolled, all on a morn of May. + +Quoth the Sergeant, "Here I'll halt; here's wine of joy for drinking; +To my heart she sets her hand, and in the strings doth play; +All among the daffodils, and fairer to my thinking, +And fresh as milk and roses, she sits this morn of May." + +Quoth the Sergeant, "Work is work, but any ye might make me, +If I worked for you, dear lass, I'd count my holiday. +I'm your slave for good and all, an' if ye will but take me, +So sweetly as ye carol upon this morn of May." + +"Medals count for worth," quoth she, "and scars are worn for honor; +But a slave an' if ye be, kind wooer, go your way." +All the nodding daffodils woke up and laughed upon her. +O! sweetly did she carol, all on that morn of May. + +Gladsome leaves upon the bough, they fluttered fast and faster, +Fretting brook, till he would speak, did chide the dull delay: +"Beauty! when I said a slave, I think I meant a master; +So sweetly as ye carol all on this morn of May. + +"Lass, I love you! Love is strong, and some men's hearts are tender." +Far she sought o'er wood and wold, but found not aught to say; +Mounting lark nor mantling cloud would any counsel render, +Though sweetly she had carolled upon that morn of May. + +Shy, she sought the wooer's face, and deemed the wooing mended; +Proper man he was, good sooth, and one would have his way: +So the lass was made a wife, and so the song was ended. +O! sweetly she did carol all on that morn of May. + + + + +CONTRASTED SONGS. + +[Illustration] + + + + +CONTRASTED SONGS. + + +SAILING BEYOND SEAS. + +(_Old Style._) + +Methought the stars were blinking bright, + And the old brig's sails unfurled; +I said, "I will sail to my love this night + At the other side of the world." +I stepped aboard,--we sailed so fast,-- + The sun shot up from the bourne; +But a dove that perched upon the mast + Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. + O fair dove! O fond dove! + And dove with the white breast, + Let me alone, the dream is my own, + And my heart is full of rest. + +My true love fares on this great hill, + Feeding his sheep for aye; +I looked in his hut, but all was still, + My love was gone away. +I went to gaze in the forest creek, + And the dove mourned on apace; +No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek + Rose up to show me his place. + O last love! O first love! + My love with the true heart, + To think I have come to this your home, + And yet--we are apart! + +My love! He stood at my right hand, + His eyes were grave and sweet. +Methought he said, "In this far land, + O, is it thus we meet! +Ah, maid most dear, I am not here; + I have no place,--no part,-- +No dwelling more by sea or shore, + But only in thy heart." + O fair dove! O fond dove! + Till night rose over the bourne, + The dove on the mast, as we sailed fast, + Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. + + +REMONSTRANCE. + +Daughters of Eve! your mother did not well: + She laid the apple in your father's hand, +And we have read, O wonder! what befell,-- + The man was not deceived, nor yet could stand: +He chose to lose, for love of her, his throne,-- + With her could die, but could not live alone. + +Daughters of Eve! he did not fall so low, + Nor fall so far, as that sweet woman fell; +For something better, than as gods to know, + That husband in that home left off to dwell: +For this, till love be reckoned less than lore, +Shall man be first and best for evermore. + +Daughters of Eve! it was for your dear sake + The world's first hero died an uncrowned king; +But God's great pity touched the grand mistake, + And made his married love a sacred thing: +For yet his nobler sons, if aught be true, +Find the lost Eden in their love to you. + + +SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF CHRIST'S RESURRECTION. + +(_A Humble Imitation._) + +"And birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave." + + It is the noon of night, + And the world's Great Light + Gone out, she widow-like doth carry her: + The moon hath veiled her face, + Nor looks on that dread place + Where He lieth dead in sealed sepulchre; + And heaven and hades, emptied, lend +Their flocking multitudes to watch and wait the end. + + Tier above tier they rise, + Their wings new line the skies, + And shed out comforting light among the stars; + But they of the other place + The heavenly signs deface, + The gloomy brand of hell their brightness mars; + Yet high they sit in throned state,-- +It is the hour of darkness to them dedicate. + + And first and highest set, + Where the black shades are met, + The lord of night and hades leans him down; + His gleaming eyeballs show + More awful than the glow, + Which hangeth by the points of his dread crown; + And at his feet, where lightnings play, +The fatal sisters sit and weep, and curse their day. + + Lo! one, with eyes all wide, + As she were sight denied, + Sits blindly feeling at her distaff old; + One, as distraught with woe, + Letting the spindle go, + Her star y-sprinkled gown doth shivering fold; + And one right mournful hangs her head, +Complaining, "Woe is me! I may not cut the thread. + + "All men of every birth, + Yea, great ones of the earth, + Kings and their councillors, have I drawn down; + But I am held of Thee,-- + Why dost Thou trouble me, + To bring me up, dead King, that keep'st Thy crown? + Yet for all courtiers hast but ten +Lowly, unlettered, Galilean fishermen. + + "Olympian heights are bare + Of whom men worshipped there, + Immortal feet their snows may print no more; + Their stately powers below + Lie desolate, nor know + This thirty years Thessalian grove or shore; + But I am elder far than they;-- +Where is the sentence writ that I must pass away? + + "Art thou come up for this, + Dark regent, awful Dis? + And hast thou moved the deep to mark our ending? + And stirred the dens beneath, + To see us eat of death, + With all the scoffing heavens toward us bending? + Help! powers of ill, see not us die!" +But neither demon dares, nor angel deigns, reply. + + Her sisters, fallen on sleep, + Fade in the upper deep, + And their grim lord sits on, in doleful trance; + Till her black veil she rends, + And with her death-shriek bends + Downward the terrors of her countenance; + Then, whelmed in night and no more seen, +They leave the world a doubt if ever such have been. + + And the winged armies twain + Their awful watch maintain; + They mark the earth at rest with her Great Dead. + Behold, from antres wide, + Green Atlas heave his side; + His moving woods their scarlet clusters shed, + The swathing coif his front that cools, +And tawny lions lapping at his palm-edged pools. + + Then like a heap of snow, + Lying where grasses grow, + See glimmering, while the moony lustres creep, + Mild mannered Athens, dight + In dewy marbles white, + Among her goddesses and gods asleep; + And swaying on a purple sea, +The many moored galleys clustering at her quay. + + Also, 'neath palm-trees' shade, + Amid their camels laid, + The pastoral tribes with all their flocks at rest; + Like to those old-world folk, + With whom two angels broke + The bread of men at Abram's courteous 'quest, + When, listening as they prophesied, +His desert princess, being reproved, her laugh denied. + + Or from the Morians' land + See worshipped Nilus bland, + Taking the silver road he gave the world, + To wet his ancient shrine + With waters held divine, + And touch his temple steps with wavelets curled, + And list, ere darkness change to gray, +Old minstrel-throated Memnon chanting in the day. + + Moreover, Indian glades, + Where kneel the sun-swart maids, + On Gunga's flood their votive flowers to throw, + And launch i' the sultry night + Their burning cressets bright, + Most like a fleet of stars that southing go, + Till on her bosom prosperously +She floats them shining forth to sail the lulled sea. + + Nor bend they not their eyne + Where the watch-fires shine, + By shepherds fed, on hills of Bethlehem: + They mark, in goodly wise, + The city of David rise, + The gates and towers of rare Jerusalem; + And hear the 'scaped Kedron fret, +And night dews dropping from the leaves of Olivet. + + But now the setting moon + To curtained lands must soon, + In her obedient fashion, minister; + She first, as loath to go, + Lets her last silver flow + Upon her Master's sealed sepulchre; + And trees that in the gardens spread, +She kisseth all for sake of His low-lying head, + + Then 'neath the rim goes down; + And night with darker frown + Sinks on the fateful garden watched long; + When some despairing eyes, + Far in the murky skies, + The unwished waking by their gloom foretell; + And blackness up the welkin swings, +And drinks the mild effulgence from celestial wings. + + Last, with amazed cry, + The hosts asunder fly, + Leaving an empty gulf of blackest hue; + Whence straightway shooteth down, + By the Great Father thrown, + A mighty angel, strong and dread to view; + And at his fall the rocks are rent, +The waiting world doth quake with mortal tremblement; + + The regions far and near + Quail with a pause of fear, + More terrible than aught since time began; + The winds, that dare not fleet, + Drop at his awful feet, + And in its bed wails the wide ocean; + The flower of dawn forbears to blow, +And the oldest running river cannot skill to flow. + + At stand, by that dread place, + He lifts his radiant face, + And looks to heaven with reverent love and fear; + Then, while the welkin quakes, + The muttering thunder breaks, + And lightnings shoot and ominous meteors drear, + And all the daunted earth doth moan, +He from the doors of death rolls back the sealed stone.-- + + --In regal quiet deep, + Lo, One new waked from sleep! + Behold, He standeth in the rock-hewn door! + Thy children shall not die,-- + Peace, peace, thy Lord is by! + He liveth!--they shall live for evermore. + Peace! lo, He lifts a priestly hand, +And blesseth all the sons of men in every land. + + Then, with great dread and wail, + Fall down, like storms of hail, + The legions of the lost in fearful wise; + And they whose blissful race + Peoples the better place, + Lift up their wings to cover their fair eyes, + And through the waxing saffron brede, +Till they are lost in light, recede, and yet recede. + + So while the fields are dim, + And the red sun his rim + First heaves, in token of his reign benign, + All stars the most admired, + Into their blue retired, + Lie hid,--the faded moon forgets to shine,-- + And, hurrying down the sphery way, +Night flies, and sweeps her shadows from the paths of day. + + But look! the Saviour blest, + Calm after solemn rest, + Stands in the garden 'neath His olive boughs; + The earliest smile of day + Doth on His vesture play, + And light the majesty of His still brows; + While angels hang with wings outspread, +Holding the new-won crown above His saintly head. + + +SONG OF MARGARET. + +Ay, I saw her, we have met,-- + Married eyes how sweet they be,-- +Are you happier, Margaret, + Than you might have been with me? +Silence! make no more ado! + Did she think I should forget? +Matters nothing, though I knew, + Margaret, Margaret. + +Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy, + Told a certain thing to mine; +What they told me I put by, + O, so careless of the sign. +Such an easy thing to take, + And I did not want it then; +Fool! I wish my heart would break, + Scorn is hard on hearts of men. + +Scorn of self is bitter work,-- + Each of us has felt it now: +Bluest skies she counted mirk, + Self-betrayed of eyes and brow; +As for me, I went my way, + And a better man drew nigh, +Fain to earn, with long essay, + What the winner's hand threw by. + +Matters not in deserts old, + What was born, and waxed, and yearned, +Year to year its meaning told, + I am come,--its deeps are learned,-- +Come, but there is naught to say,-- + Married eyes with mine have met. +Silence! O, I had my day, + Margaret, Margaret. + + +SONG OF THE GOING AWAY. + +"Old man, upon the green hillside, + With yellow flowers besprinkled o'er, +How long in silence wilt thou bide + At this low stone door? + +"I stoop: within 'tis dark and still; + But shadowy paths methinks there be, +And lead they far into the hill?" + "Traveller, come and see." + +"'Tis dark, 'tis cold, and hung with gloom; + I care not now within to stay; +For thee and me is scarcely room, + I will hence away." + +"Not so, not so, thou youthful guest, + Thy foot shall issue forth no more: +Behold the chamber of thy rest, + And the closing door!" + +"O, have I 'scaped the whistling ball, + And striven on smoky fields of fight, +And scaled the 'leaguered city's wall + In the dangerous night; + +"And borne my life unharmed still + Through foaming gulfs of yeasty spray, +To yield it on a grassy hill + At the noon of day?" + +"Peace! Say thy prayers, and go to sleep, + Till _some time_, ONE my seal shall break, +And deep shall answer unto deep, + When He crieth, 'AWAKE!'" + + +A LILY AND A LUTE. + +(_Song of the uncommunicated Ideal._) + +I. + +I opened the eyes of my soul. + And behold, +A white river-lily: a lily awake, and aware,-- +For she set her face upward,--aware how in scarlet and gold +A long wrinkled cloud, left behind of the wandering air, + Lay over with fold upon fold, + With fold upon fold. + +And the blushing sweet shame of the cloud made her also ashamed, +The white river-lily, that suddenly knew she was fair; +And over the far-away mountains that no man hath named, + And that no foot hath trod, +Flung down out of heavenly places, there fell, as it were, +A rose-bloom, a token of love, that should make them endure, +Withdrawn in snow silence forever, who keep themselves pure, + And look up to God. +Then I said, "In rosy air, +Cradled on thy reaches fair, +While the blushing early ray +Whitens into perfect day, +River-lily, sweetest known, +Art thou set for me alone? +Nay, but I will bear thee far, +Where yon clustering steeples are, +And the bells ring out o'erhead, +And the stated prayers are said; +And the busy farmers pace, +Trading in the market-place; +And the country lasses sit, +By their butter, praising it; +And the latest news is told, +While the fruit and cream are sold; +And the friendly gossips greet, +Up and down the sunny street. +For," I said, "I have not met, +White one, any folk as yet +Who would send no blessing up, +Looking on a face like thine; +For thou art as Joseph's cup, +And by thee might they divine. + +"Nay! but thou a spirit art; +Men shall take thee in the mart +For the ghost of their best thought, +Raised at noon, and near them brought; +Or the prayer they made last night, +Set before them all in white." + +And I put out my rash hand, +For I thought to draw to land +The white lily. Was it fit +Such a blossom should expand, +Fair enough for a world's wonder, +And no mortal gather it? +No. I strove, and it went under, +And I drew, but it went down; +And the waterweeds' long tresses, +And the overlapping cresses, +Sullied its admired crown. +Then along the river strand, +Trailing, wrecked, it came to land, +Of its beauty half despoiled, +And its snowy pureness soiled: +O! I took it in my hand,-- +You will never see it now, +White and golden as it grew: +No, I cannot show it you, +Nor the cheerful town endow +With the freshness of its brow. + +If a royal painter, great +With the colors dedicate +To a dove's neck, a sea-bight, +And the flickering over white +Mountain summits far away,-- +One content to give his mind +To the enrichment of mankind, +And the laying up of light +In men's houses,--on that day, +Could have passed in kingly mood, +Would he ever have endued +Canvas with the peerless thing, +In the grace that it did bring, +And the light that o'er it flowed, +With the pureness that it showed, +And the pureness that it meant? +Could he skill to make it seen +As he saw? For this, I ween, +He were likewise impotent. + +II. + +I opened the doors of my heart. + And behold, +There was music within and a song, +And echoes did feed on the sweetness, repeating it long. +I opened the doors of my heart: and behold, +There was music that played itself out in aeolian notes; +Then was heard, as a far-away bell at long intervals tolled, + That murmurs and floats, +And presently dieth, forgotten of forest and wold, +And comes in all passion again, and a tremblement soft, + That maketh the listener full oft +To whisper, "Ah! would I might hear it for ever and aye, + When I toil in the heat of the day, + When I walk in the cold." + + I opened the door of my heart. And behold, + There was music within, and a song. +But while I was hearkening, lo, blackness without, thick and strong, +Came up and came over, and all that sweet fluting was drowned, + I could hear it no more; +For the welkin was moaning, the waters were stirred on the shore, + And trees in the dark all around +Were shaken. It thundered. "Hark, hark! there is thunder to-night! +The sullen long wave rears her head, and comes down with a will; +The awful white tongues are let loose, and the stars are all dead;-- +There is thunder! it thunders! and ladders of light + Run up. There is thunder!" I said, +"Loud thunder! it thunders! and up in the dark overhead, +A down-pouring cloud, (there is thunder!) a down-pouring cloud +Hails out her fierce message, and quivers the deep in its bed, +And cowers the earth held at bay; and they mutter aloud, +And pause with an ominous tremble, till, great in their rage, +The heavens and earth come together, and meet with a crash; +And the fight is so fell as if Time had come down with the flash, + And the story of life was all read, + And the Giver had turned the last page. + + "Now their bar the pent water-floods lash, +And the forest trees give out their language austere with great age; + And there flieth o'er moor and o'er hill, + And there heaveth at intervals wide, +The long sob of nature's great passion as loath to subside, + Until quiet drop down on the tide, + And mad Echo had moaned herself still." + + Lo! or ever I was 'ware, + In the silence of the air, + Through my heart's wide-open door, + Music floated forth once more, + Floated to the world's dark rim, + And looked over with a hymn; + Then came home with flutings fine, + And discoursed in tones divine + Of a certain grief of mine; + And went downward and went in, +Glimpses of my soul to win, +And discovered such a deep +That I could not choose but weep, +For it lay, a land-locked sea, +Fathomless and dim to me. + +O, the song! it came and went, + Went and came. + I have not learned +Half the lore whereto it yearned, +Half the magic that it meant. +Water booming in a cave; +Or the swell of some long wave, +Setting in from unrevealed +Countries; or a foreign tongue, +Sweetly talked and deftly sung, +While the meaning is half sealed; +May be like it. You have heard +Also;--can you find a word +For the naming of such song? +No; a name would do it wrong. +You have heard it in the night, +In the dropping rain's despite, +In the midnight darkness deep, +When the children were asleep, +And the wife,--no, let that be; +SHE asleep! She knows right well +What the song to you and me, +While we breathe, can never tell; +She hath heard its faultless flow, +Where the roots of music grow. + +While I listened, like young birds, +Hints were fluttering; almost words,-- +Leaned and leaned, and nearer came;-- +Everything had changed its name. + +Sorrow was a ship, I found, +Wrecked with them that in her are, +On an island richer far +Than the port where they were bound. +Fear was but the awful boom +Of the old great bell of doom, +Tolling, far from earthly air, +For all worlds to go to prayer. +Pain, that to us mortal clings, +But the pushing of our wings, +That we have no use for yet, +And the uprooting of our feet +From the soil where they are set, +And the land we reckon sweet. +Love in growth, the grand deceit +Whereby men the perfect greet; +Love in wane, the blessing sent +To be (howsoe'er it went) +Never more with earth content. +O, full sweet, and O, full high, +Ran that music up the sky; +But I cannot sing it you, +More than I can make you view, +With my paintings labial, +Sitting up in awful row, +White old men majestical, +Mountains, in their gowns of snow, +Ghosts of kings; as my two eyes, +Looking over speckled skies, +See them now. About their knees, +Half in haze, there stands at ease +A great army of green hills, +Some bareheaded; and, behold, +Small green mosses creep on some. +Those be mighty forests old; +And white avalanches come +Through yon rents, where now distils +Sheeny silver, pouring down +To a tune of old renown, +Cutting narrow pathways through +Gentian belts of airy blue, +To a zone where starwort blows, +And long reaches of the rose. + +So, that haze all left behind, +Down the chestnut forests wind, +Past yon jagged spires, where yet +Foot of man was never set; +Past a castle yawning wide, +With a great breach in its side, +To a nest-like valley, where, +Like a sparrow's egg in hue, +Lie two lakes, and teach the true +Color of the sea-maid's hair. + +What beside? The world beside! +Drawing down and down, to greet +Cottage clusters at our feet,-- +Every scent of summer tide,-- +Flowery pastures all aglow +(Men and women mowing go +Up and down them); also soft +Floating of the film aloft, +Fluttering of the leaves alow. +Is this told? It is not told. +Where's the danger? where's the cold +Slippery danger up the steep? +Where yon shadow fallen asleep? +Chirping bird and tumbling spray, +Light, work, laughter, scent of hay, +Peace, and echo, where are they? + +Ah, they sleep, sleep all untold; +Memory must their grace enfold +Silently; and that high song +Of the heart, it doth belong +To the hearers. Not a whit, +Though a chief musician heard, +Could he make a tune for it. + +Though a bird of sweetest throat, +And some lute full clear of note, +Could have tried it,--O, the lute +For that wondrous song were mute, +And the bird would do her part, +Falter, fail, and break her heart,-- +Break her heart, and furl her wings, +On those unexpressive strings. + + + + +GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. + +(_On the Advantages of the Poetical Temperament_.) + +AN IMPERFECT FABLE WITH A DOUBTFUL MORAL. + + +O happy Gladys! I rejoice with her, +For Gladys saw the island. + It was thus: +They gave a day for pleasure in the school +Where Gladys taught; and all the other girls +Were taken out, to picnic in a wood. +But it was said, "We think it were not well +That little Gladys should acquire a taste +For pleasure, going about, and needless change. +It would not suit her station: discontent +Might come of it; and all her duties now +She does so pleasantly, that we were best +To keep her humble." So they said to her, +"Gladys, we shall not want you, all to-day. +Look, you are free; you need not sit at work: +No, you may take a long and pleasant walk +Over the sea-cliff, or upon the beach +Among the visitors." + Then Gladys blushed +For joy, and thanked them. What! a holiday, +A whole one, for herself! How good, how kind! +With that, the marshalled carriages drove off; +And Gladys, sobered with her weight of joy, +Stole out beyond the groups upon the beach-- +The children with their wooden spades, the band +That played for lovers, and the sunny stir +Of cheerful life and leisure--to the rocks, +For these she wanted most, and there was time +To mark them; how like ruined organs prone +They lay, or leaned their giant fluted pipes, +And let the great white-crested reckless wave +Beat out their booming melody. + The sea +Was filled with light; in clear blue caverns curled +The breakers, and they ran, and seemed to romp, +As playing at some rough and dangerous game, +While all the nearer waves rushed in to help, +And all the farther heaved their heads to peep, +And tossed the fishing boats. Then Gladys laughed, +And said, "O, happy tide, to be so lost +In sunshine, that one dare not look at it; +And lucky cliffs, to be so brown and warm; +And yet how lucky are the shadows, too, +That lurk beneath their ledges. It is strange, +That in remembrance though I lay them up, +They are forever, when I come to them, +Better than I had thought. O, something yet +I had forgotten. Oft I say, 'At least +This picture is imprinted; thus and thus, +The sharpened serried jags run up, run out, +Layer on layer.' And I look--up--up-- +High, higher up again, till far aloft +They cut into their ether,--brown, and clear, +And perfect. And I, saying, 'This is mine, +To keep,' retire; but shortly come again, +And they confound me with a glorious change. +The low sun out of rain-clouds stares at them; +They redden, and their edges drip with--what? +I know not, but 't is red. It leaves no stain, +For the next morning they stand up like ghosts +In a sea-shroud and fifty thousand mews +Sit there, in long white files, and chatter on, +Like silly school-girls in their silliest mood. + +"There is the boulder where we always turn. +O! I have longed to pass it; now I will. +What would THEY say? for one must slip and spring; +'Young ladies! Gladys! I am shocked. My dears, +Decorum, if you please: turn back at once. +Gladys, we blame you most; you should have looked +Before you.' Then they sigh,--how kind they are!-- +'What will become of you, if all your life +You look a long way off?--look anywhere, +And everywhere, instead of at your feet, +And where they carry you!' Ah, well, I know +It is a pity," Gladys said; "but then +We cannot all be wise: happy for me, +That other people are. + + "And yet I wish,-- +For sometimes very right and serious thoughts +Come to me,--I do wish that they would come +When they are wanted!--when I teach the sums +On rainy days, and when the practising +I count to, and the din goes on and on, +Still the same tune and still the same mistake, +Then I am wise enough: sometimes I feel +Quite old. I think that it will last, and say, +'Now my reflections do me credit! now +I am a woman!' and I wish they knew +How serious all my duties look to me. +And how, my heart hushed down and shaded lies, +Just like the sea when low, convenient clouds, +Come over, and drink all its sparkles up. +But does it last? Perhaps, that very day, +The front door opens: out we walk in pairs; +And I am so delighted with this world, +That suddenly has grown, being new washed, +To such a smiling, clean, and thankful world, +And with a tender face shining through tears, +Looks up into the sometime lowering sky, +That has been angry, but is reconciled, +And just forgiving her, that I,--that I,-- +O, I forget myself: what matters how! +And then I hear (but always kindly said) +Some words that pain me so,--but just, but true; +'For if your place in this establishment +Be but subordinate, and if your birth +Be lowly, it the more behooves,--well, well, +No more. We see that you are sorry.' Yes! +I am always sorry THEN; but now,--O, now, +Here is a bight more beautiful than all." + +"And did they scold her, then, my pretty one? +And did she want to be as wise as they, +To bear a bucklered heart and priggish mind? +Ay, you may crow; she did! but no, no, no, +The night-time will not let her, all the stars +Say nay to that,--the old sea laughs at her. +Why, Gladys is a child; she has not skill +To shut herself within her own small cell, +And build the door up, and to say, 'Poor me! +I am a prisoner'; then to take hewn stones, +And, having built the windows up, to say, +'O, it is dark! there is no sunshine here; +There never has been.'" + + Strange! how very strange! +A woman passing Gladys with a babe, +To whom she spoke these words, and only looked +Upon the babe, who crowed and pulled her curls, +And never looked at Gladys, never once. +"A simple child," she added, and went by, +"To want to change her greater for their less; +But Gladys shall not do it, no, not she; +We love her--don't we?--far too well for that." + +Then Gladys, flushed with shame and keen surprise, +"How could she be so near, and I not know? +And have I spoken out my thought aloud? +I must have done, forgetting. It is well +She walks so fast, for I am hungry now, +And here is water cantering down the cliff, +And here a shell to catch it with, and here +The round plump buns they gave me, and the fruit. +Now she is gone behind the rock. O, rare +To be alone!" So Gladys sat her down, +Unpacked her little basket, ate and drank, +Then pushed her hands into the warm dry sand, +And thought the earth was happy, and she too +Was going round with it in happiness, +That holiday. "What was it that she said?" +Quoth Gladys, cogitating; "they were kind, +The words that woman spoke. She does not know! +'Her greater for their less,'--it makes me laugh,-- +But yet," sighed Gladys, "though it must be good +To look and to admire, one should not wish +To steal THEIR virtues, and to put them on, +Like feathers from another wing; beside, +That calm, and that grave consciousness of worth, +When all is said, would little suit with me, +Who am not worthy. When our thoughts are born, +Though they be good and humble, one should mind +How they are reared, or some will go astray +And shame their mother. Cain and Abel both +Were only once removed from innocence. +Why did I envy them? That was not good; +Yet it began with my humility." + +But as she spake, lo, Gladys raised her eyes, +And right before her, on the horizon's edge, +Behold, an island! First, she looked away +Along the solid rocks and steadfast shore, +For she was all amazed, believing not, +And then she looked again, and there again +Behold, an island! And the tide had turned, +The milky sea had got a purple rim, +And from the rim that mountain island rose, +Purple, with two high peaks, the northern peak +The higher, and with fell and precipice, +It ran down steeply to the water's brink; +But all the southern line was long and soft, +Broken with tender curves, and, as she thought, +Covered with forest or with sward. But, look! +The sun was on the island; and he showed +On either peak a dazzling cap of snow. +Then Gladys held her breath; she said, "Indeed, +Indeed it is an island: how is this, +I never saw it till this fortunate +Rare holiday?" And while she strained her eyes, +She thought that it began to fade; but not +To change as clouds do, only to withdraw +And melt into its azure; and at last, +Little by little, from her hungry heart, +That longed to draw things marvellous to itself, +And yearned towards the riches and the great +Abundance of the beauty God hath made, +It passed away. Tears started in her eyes, +And when they dropt, the mountain isle was gone; +The careless sea had quite forgotten it, +And all was even as it had been before. + +And Gladys wept, but there was luxury +In her self-pity, while she softly sobbed, +"O, what a little while! I am afraid +I shall forget that purple mountain isle, +The lovely hollows atween her snow-clad peaks, +The grace of her upheaval where she lay +Well up against the open. O, my heart, +Now I remember how this holiday +Will soon be done, and now my life goes on +Not fed; and only in the noonday walk +Let to look silently at what it wants, +Without the power to wait or pause awhile, +And understand and draw within itself +The richness of the earth. A holiday! +How few I have! I spend the silent time +At work, while all THEIR pupils are gone home, +And feel myself remote. They shine apart; +They are great planets, I a little orb; +My little orbit far within their own +Turns, and approaches not. But yet, the more +I am alone when those I teach return; +For they, as planets of some other sun, +Not mine, have paths that can but meet my ring +Once in a cycle. O, how poor I am! +I have not got laid up in this blank heart +Any indulgent kisses given me +Because I had been good, or yet more sweet, +Because my childhood was itself a good +Attractive thing for kisses, tender praise, +And comforting. An orphan-school at best +Is a cold mother in the winter time +('Twas mostly winter when new orphans came), +An unregarded mother in the spring. + +"Yet once a year (I did mine wrong) we went +To gather cowslips. How we thought on it +Beforehand, pacing, pacing the dull street, +To that one tree, the only one we saw +From April,--if the cowslips were in bloom +So early; or if not, from opening May +Even to September. Then there came the feast +At Epping. If it rained that day, it rained +For a whole year to us; we could not think +Of fields and hawthorn hedges, and the leaves +Fluttering, but still it rained, and ever rained. + +"Ah, well, but I am here; but I have seen +The gay gorse bushes in their flowering time; +I know the scent of bean-fields; I have heard +The satisfying murmur of the main." + +The woman! She came round the rock again +With her fair baby, and she sat her down +By Gladys, murmuring, "Who forbade the grass +To grow by visitations of the dew? +Who said in ancient time to the desert pool, +'Thou shalt not wait for angel visitors +To trouble thy still water?' Must we bide +At home? The lore, beloved, shall fly to us +On a pair of sumptuous wings. Or may we breathe +Without? O, we shall draw to us the air +That times and mystery feed on. This shall lay +Unchidden hands upon the heart o' the world, +And feel it beating. Rivers shall run on, +Full of sweet language as a lover's mouth, +Delivering of a tune to make her youth +More beautiful than wheat when it is green. + +"What else?--(O, none shall envy her!) The rain +And the wild weather will be most her own, +And talk with her o' nights; and if the winds +Have seen aught wondrous, they will tell it her +In a mouthful of strange moans,--will bring from far, +Her ears being keen, the lowing and the mad +Masterful tramping of the bison herds, +Tearing down headlong with their bloodshot eyes, +In savage rifts of hair; the crack and creak +Of ice-floes in the frozen sea, the cry +Of the white bears, all in a dim blue world +Mumbling their meals by twilight; or the rock +And majesty of motion, when their heads +Primeval trees toss in a sunny storm, +And hail their nuts down on unweeded fields. +No holidays," quoth she; "drop, drop, O, drop, +Thou tired skylark, and go up no more; +You lime-trees, cover not your head with bees, +Nor give out your good smell. She will not look; +No, Gladys cannot draw your sweetness in, +For lack of holidays." So Gladys thought, +"A most strange woman, and she talks of me." +With that a girl ran up; "Mother," she said, +"Come out of this brown bight, I pray you now, +It smells of fairies." Gladys thereon thought, +"The mother will not speak to me, perhaps +The daughter may," and asked her courteously, +"What do the fairies smell of?" But the girl +With peevish pout replied, "You know, you know." +"Not I," said Gladys; then she answered her, +"Something like buttercups. But, mother, come, +And whisper up a porpoise from the foam, +Because I want to ride." + + Full slowly, then, +The mother rose, and ever kept her eyes +Upon her little child. "You freakish maid," +Said she, "now mark me, if I call you one, +You shall not scold nor make him take you far." + +"I only want,--you know I only want," +The girl replied, "to go and play awhile +Upon the sand by Lagos." Then she turned +And muttered low, "Mother, is this the girl +Who saw the island?" But the mother frowned. +"When may she go to it?" the daughter asked. +And Gladys, following them, gave all her mind +To hear the answer. "When she wills to go; +For yonder comes to shore the ferry boat." +Then Gladys turned to look, and even so +It was; a ferry boat, and far away +Reared in the offing, lo, the purple peaks +Of her loved island. + + Then she raised her arms, +And ran toward the boat, crying out, "O rare, +The island! fair befall the island; let +Me reach the island." And she sprang on board, +And after her stepped in the freakish maid +And the fair mother, brooding o'er her child; +And this one took the helm, and that let go +The sail, and off they flew, and furrowed up +A flaky hill before, and left behind +A sobbing snake-like tail of creamy foam; +And dancing hither, thither, sometimes shot +Toward the island; then, when Gladys looked, +Were leaving it to leeward. And the maid +Whistled a wind to come and rock the craft, +And would be leaning down her head to mew +At cat-fish, then lift out into her lap +And dandle baby-seals, which, having kissed, +She flung to their sleek mothers, till her own +Rebuked her in good English, after cried, +"Luff, luff, we shall be swamped." "I will not luff," +Sobbed the fair mischief; "you are cross to me." +"For shame!" the mother shrieked; "luff, luff, my dear; +Kiss and be friends, and thou shalt have the fish +With the curly tail to ride on." So she did, +And presently a dolphin bouncing up, +She sprang upon his slippery back,--"Farewell," +She laughed, was off, and all the sea grew calm. + +Then Gladys was much happier, and was 'ware +In the smooth weather that this woman talked +Like one in sleep, and murmured certain thoughts +Which seemed to be like echoes of her own. +She nodded, "Yes, the girl is going now +To her own island. Gladys poor? Not she! +Who thinks so? Once I met a man in white, +Who said to me, 'The thing that might have been +Is called, and questioned why it hath not been; +And can it give good reason, it is set +Beside the actual, and reckoned in +To fill the empty gaps of life.' Ah, so +The possible stands by us ever fresh, +Fairer than aught which any life hath owned, +And makes divine amends. Now this was set +Apart from kin, and not ordained a home; +An equal;--and not suffered to fence in +A little plot of earthly good, and say, +'Tis mine'; but in bereavement of the part, +O, yet to taste the whole,--to understand +The grandeur of the story, not to feel +Satiate with good possessed, but evermore +A healthful hunger for the great idea, +The beauty and the blessedness of life. + +"Lo, now, the shadow!" quoth she, breaking off, +"We are in the shadow." Then did Gladys turn, +And, O, the mountain with the purple peaks +Was close at hand. It cast a shadow out, +And they were in it: and she saw the snow, +And under that the rocks, and under that +The pines, and then the pasturage; and saw +Numerous dips, and undulations rare, +Running down seaward, all astir with lithe +Long canes, and lofty feathers; for the palms +And spice trees of the south, nay, every growth, +Meets in that island. + + So that woman ran +The boat ashore, and Gladys set her foot +Thereon. Then all at once much laughter rose; +Invisible folk set up exultant shouts, +"It all belongs to Gladys"; and she ran +And hid herself among the nearest trees +And panted, shedding tears. + + So she looked round, +And saw that she was in a banyan grove, +Full of wild peacocks,--pecking on the grass, +A flickering mass of eyes, blue, green, and gold, +Or reaching out their jewelled necks, where high +They sat in rows along the boughs. No tree +Cumbered with creepers let the sunshine through, +But it was caught in scarlet cups, and poured +From these on amber tufts of bloom, and dropped +Lower on azure stars. The air was still, +As if awaiting somewhat, or asleep, +And Gladys was the only thing that moved, +Excepting,--no, they were not birds,--what then? +Glorified rainbows with a living soul? +While they passed through a sunbeam they were seen, +Not otherwhere, but they were present yet +In shade. They were at work, pomegranate fruit +That lay about removing,--purple grapes, +That clustered in the path, clearing aside. +Through a small spot of light would pass and go, +The glorious happy mouth and two fair eyes +Of somewhat that made rustlings where it went; +But when a beam would strike the ground sheer down, +Behold them! they had wings, and they would pass +One after other with the sheeny fans, +Bearing them slowly, that their hues were seen, +Tender as russet crimson dropt on snows, +Or where they turned flashing with gold and dashed +With purple glooms. And they had feet, but these +Did barely touch the ground. And they took heed +Not to disturb the waiting quietness; +Nor rouse up fawns, that slept beside their dams; +Nor the fair leopard, with her sleek paws laid +Across her little drowsy cubs; nor swans, +That, floating, slept upon a glassy pool; +Nor rosy cranes, all slumbering in the reeds, +With heads beneath their wings. For this, you know, +Was Eden. She was passing through the trees +That made a ring about it, and she caught +A glimpse of glades beyond. All she had seen +Was nothing to them; but words are not made +To tell that tale. No wind was let to blow, +And all the doves were bidden to hold their peace. +Why? One was working in a valley near, +And none might look that way. It was understood +That He had nearly ended that His work; +For two shapes met, and one to other spake, +Accosting him with, "Prince, what worketh He?" +Who whispered, "Lo! He fashioneth red clay." +And all at once a little trembling stir +Was felt in the earth, and every creature woke, +And laid its head down, listening. It was known +Then that the work was done; the new-made king +Had risen, and set his feet upon his realm, +And it acknowledged him. + + But in her path +Came some one that withstood her, and he said, +"What doest thou here?" Then she did turn and flee, +Among those colored spirits, through the grove, +Trembling for haste; it was not well with her +Till she came forth of those thick banyan-trees, +And set her feet upon the common grass, +And felt the common wind. + + Yet once beyond, +She could not choose but cast a backward glance. +The lovely matted growth stood like a wall, +And means of entering were not evident,-- +The gap had closed. But Gladys laughed for joy: +She said, "Remoteness and a multitude +Of years are counted nothing here. Behold, +To-day I have been in Eden. O, it blooms +In my own island." + + And she wandered on, +Thinking, until she reached a place of palms, +And all the earth was sandy where she walked,-- +Sandy and dry,--strewed with papyrus leaves, +Old idols, rings and pottery, painted lids +Of mummies (for perhaps it was the way +That leads to dead old Egypt), and withal +Excellent sunshine cut out sharp and clear +The hot prone pillars, and the carven plinths,-- +Stone lotus cups, with petals dipped in sand, +And wicked gods, and sphinxes bland, who sat +And smiled upon the ruin. O how still! +Hot, blank, illuminated with the clear +Stare of an unveiled sky. The dry stiff leaves +Of palm-trees never rustled, and the soul +Of that dead ancientry was itself dead. +She was above her ankles in the sand, +When she beheld a rocky road, and, lo! +It bare in it the ruts of chariot wheels, +Which erst had carried to their pagan prayers +The brown old Pharaohs; for the ruts led on +To a great cliff, that either was a cliff +Or some dread shrine in ruins,--partly reared +In front of that same cliff, and partly hewn +Or excavate within its heart. Great heaps +Of sand and stones on either side there lay; +And, as the girl drew on, rose out from each, +As from a ghostly kennel, gods unblest, +Dog-headed, and behind them winged things +Like angels; and this carven multitude +Hedged in, to right and left, the rocky road. + +At last, the cliff,--and in the cliff a door +Yawning: and she looked in, as down the throat +Of some stupendous giant, and beheld +No floor, but wide, worn, flights of steps, that led +Into a dimness. When the eyes could bear +That change to gloom, she saw flight after flight, +Flight after flight, the worn long stair go down, +Smooth with the feet of nations dead and gone. +So she did enter; also she went down +Till it was dark, and yet again went down, +Till, gazing upward at that yawning door, +It seemed no larger, in its height remote, +Than a pin's head. But while, irresolute, +She doubted of the end, yet farther down +A slender ray of lamplight fell away +Along the stair, as from a door ajar: +To this again she felt her way, and stepped +Adown the hollow stair, and reached the light; +But fear fell on her, fear; and she forbore +Entrance, and listened. Ay! 'twas even so,-- +A sigh; the breathing as of one who slept +And was disturbed. So she drew back awhile, +And trembled; then her doubting hand she laid +Against the door, and pushed it; but the light +Waned, faded, sank; and as she came within-- +Hark, hark! A spirit was it, and asleep? +A spirit doth not breathe like clay. There hung +A cresset from the roof, and thence appeared +A flickering speck of light, and disappeared; +Then dropped along the floor its elfish flakes, +That fell on some one resting, in the gloom,-- +Somewhat, a spectral shadow, then a shape +That loomed. It was a heifer, ay, and white, +Breathing and languid through prolonged repose. + + Was it a heifer? all the marble floor +Was milk-white also, and the cresset paled, +And straight their whiteness grew confused and mixed. + + But when the cresset, taking heart, bloomed out,-- +The whiteness,--and asleep again! but now +It was a woman, robed, and with a face +Lovely and dim. And Gladys while she gazed +Murmured, "O terrible! I am afraid +To breathe among these intermittent lives, +That fluctuate in mystic solitude, +And change and fade. Lo! where the goddess sits +Dreaming on her dim throne; a crescent moon +She wears upon her forehead. Ah! her frown +Is mournful, and her slumber is not sweet. +What dost thou hold, Isis, to thy cold breast? +A baby god with finger on his lips, +Asleep, and dreaming of departed sway? +Thy son. Hush, hush; he knoweth all the lore +And sorcery of old Egypt; but his mouth +He shuts; the secret shall be lost with him, +He will not tell." + + The woman coming down! +"Child, what art doing here?" the woman said; +"What wilt thou of Dame Isis and her bairn?" +(_Ay, ay, we see thee breathing in thy shroud,-- +pretty shroud, all frilled and furbelowed._) +The air is dim with dust of spiced bones. +I mark a crypt down there. Tier upon tier +Of painted coffers fills it. What if we, +Passing, should slip, and crash into their midst,-- +Break the frail ancientry, and smothered lie, +Tumbled among the ribs of queens and kings, +And all the gear they took to bed with them! +Horrible! Let us hence. + + And Gladys said, +"O, they are rough to mount, those stairs"; but she +Took her and laughed, and up the mighty flight +Shot like a meteor with her. "There," said she; +"The light is sweet when one has smelled of graves, +Down in unholy heathen gloom; farewell." +She pointed to a gateway, strong and high, +Reared of hewn stones; but, look! in lieu of gate, +There was a glittering cobweb drawn across, +And on the lintel there were writ these words: +"Ho, every one that cometh, I divide +What hath been from what might be, and the line +Hangeth before thee as a spider's web; +Yet, wouldst thou enter thou must break the line, +Or else forbear the hill." + + The maiden said, +"So, cobweb, I will break thee." And she passed +Among some oak-trees on the farther side, +And waded through the bracken round their bolls, +Until she saw the open, and drew on +Toward the edge o' the wood, where it was mixed +With pines and heathery places wild and fresh. +Here she put up a creature, that ran on +Before her, crying, "Tint, tint, tint," and turned, +Sat up, and stared at her with elfish eyes, +Jabbering of gramarye, one Michael Scott, +The wizard that wonned somewhere underground, +With other talk enough to make one fear +To walk in lonely places. After passed +A man-at-arms, William of Deloraine; +He shook his head, "An' if I list to tell," +Quoth he, "I know, but how it matters not"; +Then crossed himself, and muttered of a clap +Of thunder, and a shape in amice gray, +But still it mouthed at him, and whimpered, "Tint, +Tint, tint." "There shall be wild work some day soon," +Quoth he, "thou limb of darkness: he will come, +Thy master, push a hand up, catch thee, imp, +And so good Christians shall have peace, perdie." + +Then Gladys was so frightened, that she ran, +And got away, towards a grassy down, +Where sheep and lambs were feeding, with a boy +To tend them. 'Twas the boy who wears that herb +Called heart's-ease in his bosom, and he sang +So sweetly to his flock, that she stole on +Nearer to listen. "O Content, Content, +Give me," sang he, "thy tender company. +I feed my flock among the myrtles; all +My lambs are twins, and they have laid them down +Along the slopes of Beulah. Come, fair love, +From the other side the river, where their harps +Thou hast been helping them to tune. O come, +And pitch thy tent by mine; let me behold +Thy mouth,--that even in slumber talks of peace,-- +Thy well-set locks, and dove-like countenance." + +And Gladys hearkened, couched upon the grass, +Till she had rested; then did ask the boy, +For it was afternoon, and she was fain +To reach the shore, "Which is the path, I pray, +That leads one to the water?" But he said, +"Dear lass, I only know the narrow way, +The path that leads one to the golden gate +Across the river." So she wandered on; +And presently her feet grew cool, the grass +Standing so high, and thyme being thick and soft. +The air was full of voices, and the scent +Of mountain blossom loaded all its wafts; +For she was on the slopes of a goodly mount, +And reared in such a sort that it looked down +Into the deepest valleys, darkest glades, +And richest plains o' the island. It was set +Midway between the snows majestical +And a wide level, such as men would choose +For growing wheat; and some one said to her, +"It is the hill Parnassus." So she walked +Yet on its lower slope, and she could hear +The calling of an unseen multitude +To some upon the mountain, "Give us more"; +And others said, "We are tired of this old world: +Make it look new again." Then there were some +Who answered lovingly--(the dead yet speak +From that high mountain, as the living do); +But others sang desponding, "We have kept +The vision for a chosen few: we love +Fit audience better than a rough huzza +From the unreasoning crowd." + + Then words came up: +"There was a time, you poets, was a time +When all the poetry was ours, and made +By some who climbed the mountain from our midst. +We loved it then, we sang it in our streets. +O, it grows obsolete! Be you as they: +Our heroes die and drop away from us; +Oblivion folds them 'neath her dusky wing, +Fair copies wasted to the hungering world. +Save them. We fall so low for lack of them, +That many of us think scorn of honest trade, +And take no pride in our own shops; who care +Only to quit a calling, will not make +The calling what it might be; who despise +Their work, Fate laughs at, and doth let the work +Dull, and degrade them." + + Then did Gladys smile: +"Heroes!" quoth she; "yet, now I think on it, +There was the jolly goldsmith, brave Sir Hugh, +Certes, a hero ready-made. Methinks +I see him burnishing of golden gear, +Tankard and charger, and a-muttering low, +'London is thirsty'--(then he weighs a chain): +''Tis an ill thing, my masters. I would give +The worth of this, and many such as this, +To bring it water.' + + "Ay, and after him +There came up Guy of London, lettered son +O' the honest lighterman. I'll think on him, +Leaning upon the bridge on summer eves, +After his shop was closed: a still, grave man, +With melancholy eyes. 'While these are hale,' +He saith, when he looks down and marks the crowd +Cheerily working; where the river marge +Is blocked with ships and boats; and all the wharves +Swarm, and the cranes swing in with merchandise,-- +'While these are hale, 'tis well, 'tis very well. +But, O good Lord,' saith he, 'when these are sick,-- +I fear me, Lord, this excellent workmanship +Of Thine is counted for a cumbrance then. +Ay, ay, my hearties! many a man of you, +Struck down, or maimed, or fevered, shrinks away, +And, mastered in that fight for lack of aid, +Creeps shivering to a corner, and there dies.' +Well, we have heard the rest. + + "Ah, next I think +Upon the merchant captain, stout of heart +To dare and to endure. 'Robert,' saith he, +(The navigator Knox to his manful son,) +'I sit a captive from the ship detained; +This heathenry doth let thee visit her. +Remember, son, if thou, alas! shouldst fail +To ransom thy poor father, they are free +As yet, the mariners; have wives at home, +As I have; ay, and liberty is sweet +To all men. For the ship, she is not ours, +Therefore, 'beseech thee, son, lay on the mate +This my command, to leave me, and set sail. +As for thyself--' 'Good father,' saith the son; +'I will not, father, ask your blessing now, +Because, for fair, or else for evil, fate +We two shall meet again.' And so they did. +The dusky men, peeling off cinnamon, +And beating nutmeg clusters from the tree, +Ransom and bribe contemned. The good ship sailed,-- +The son returned to share his father's cell. + +"O, there are many such. Would I had wit +Their worth to sing!" With that, she turned her feet, +"I am tired now," said Gladys, "of their talk +Around this hill Parnassus." And, behold, +A piteous sight--an old, blind, graybeard king +Led by a fool with bells. Now this was loved +Of the crowd below the hill; and when he called +For his lost kingdom, and bewailed his age, +And plained on his unkind daughters, they were known +To say, that if the best of gold and gear +Could have bought him back his kingdom, and made kind +The hard hearts which had broken his erewhile, +They would have gladly paid it from their store +Many times over. What is done is done, +No help. The ruined majesty passed on. +And look you! one who met her as she walked +Showed her a mountain nymph lovely as light +Her name Oenone; and she mourned and mourned, +"O Mother Ida," and she could not cease, +No, nor be comforted. + + And after this, +Soon there came by, arrayed in Norman cap +And kirtle, an Arcadian villager, +Who said, "I pray you, have you chanced to meet +One Gabriel?" and she sighed; but Gladys took +And kissed her hand: she could not answer her, +Because she guessed the end. + + With that it drew +To evening; and as Gladys wandered on +In the calm weather, she beheld the wave, +And she ran down to set her feet again +On the sea margin, which was covered thick +With white shell-skeletons. The sky was red +As wine. The water played among bare ribs +Of many wrecks, that lay half buried there +In the sand. She saw a cave, and moved thereto +To ask her way, and one so innocent +Came out to meet her, that, with marvelling mute, +She gazed and gazed into her sea-blue eyes, +For in them beamed the untaught ecstasy +Of childhood, that lives on though youth be come, +And love just born. + +She could not choose but name her shipwrecked prince, +All blushing. She told Gladys many things +That are not in the story,--things, in sooth, +That Prospero her father knew. But now +'Twas evening, and the sun drooped; purple stripes +In the sea were copied from some clouds that lay +Out in the west. And lo! the boat, and more, +The freakish thing to take fair Gladys home +She mowed at her, but Gladys took the helm: +"Peace, peace!" she said; "be good: you shall not steer, +For I am your liege lady." Then she sang +The sweetest songs she knew all the way home. + +So Gladys set her feet upon the sand; +While in the sunset glory died away +The peaks of that blest island. + + "Fare you well. +My country, my own kingdom," then she said, +"Till I go visit you again, farewell." + +She looked toward their house with whom she dwelt,-- +The carriages were coming. Hastening up, +She was in time to meet them at the door, +And lead the sleepy little ones within; +And some were cross and shivered, and her dames +Were weary and right hard to please; but she +Felt like a beggar suddenly endowed +With a warm cloak to 'fend her from the cold. +"For, come what will," she said, "I had _to-day_. +There is an island." + + _The Moral._ + +What is the moral? Let us think awhile, +Taking the editorial WE to help, +It sounds respectable. + + The moral; yes. +We always read, when any fable ends, +"Hence we may learn." A moral must be found. +What do you think of this? "Hence we may learn +That dolphins swim about the coast of Wales, +And Admiralty maps should now be drawn +By teacher-girls, because their sight is keen, +And they can spy out islands." Will that do? +No, that is far too plain,--too evident. + +Perhaps a general moralizing vein-- +(We know we have a happy knack that way. +We have observed, moreover, that young men +Are fond of good advice, and so are girls; +Especially of that meandering kind, +Which winding on so sweetly, treats of all +They ought to be and do and think and wear, +As one may say, from creeds to comforters. +Indeed, we much prefer that sort ourselves, +So soothing). Good, a moralizing vein; +That is the thing; but how to manage it? +"_Hence we may learn_," if we be so inclined, +That life goes best with those who take it best; +That wit can spin from work a golden robe +To queen it in; that who can paint at will +A private picture gallery, should not cry +For shillings that will let him in to look +At some by others painted. Furthermore, +Hence we may learn, you poets,--(_and we count +For poets all who ever felt that such +They were, and all who secretly have known +That such they could be; ay, moreover, all +Who wind the robes of ideality +About the bareness of their lives, and hang +Comforting curtains, knit of fancy's yarn, +Nightly betwixt them and the frosty world_),-- +Hence we may learn, you poets, that of all +We should be most content. The earth is given +To us: we reign by virtue of a sense +Which lets us hear the rhythm of that old verse, +The ring of that old tune whereto she spins. +Humanity is given to us: we reign +By virtue of a sense, which lets us in +To know its troubles ere they have been told, +And take them home and lull them into rest +With mournfullest music. Time is given to us,-- +Time past, time future. Who, good sooth, beside +Have seen it well, have walked this empty world +When she went steaming, and from pulpy hills +Have marked the spurting of their flamy crowns? + + Have we not seen the tabernacle pitched, +And peered between the linen curtains, blue, +Purple, and scarlet, at the dimness there, +And, frighted, have not dared to look again? +But, quaint antiquity! beheld, we thought, +A chest that might have held the manna pot +And Aaron's rod that budded. Ay, we leaned +Over the edge of Britain, while the fleet +Of Caesar loomed and neared; then, afterwards, +We saw fair Venice looking at herself +In the glass below her, while her Doge went forth +In all his bravery to the wedding. + + This, +However, counts for nothing to the grace +We wot of in time future:--therefore add, +And afterwards have done: "_Hence we may learn_," +That though it be a grand and comely thing +To be unhappy,--(and we think it is, +Because so many grand and clever folk +Have found out reasons for unhappiness, +And talked about uncomfortable things,-- +Low motives, bores, and shams, and hollowness, +The hollowness o' the world, till we at last +Have scarcely dared to jump or stamp, for fear, +Being so hollow, it should break some day, +And let us in),--yet, since we are not grand, +O, not at all, and as for cleverness, +That may be or may not be,--it is well +For us to be as happy as we can! + +Agreed: and with a word to the noble sex, +As thus: we pray you carry not your guns +On the full-cock; we pray you set your pride +In its proper place, and never be ashamed +Of any honest calling,--let us add, +And end; for all the rest, hold up your heads +And mind your English. + + +Note to "GLADYS AND HER ISLAND." + + +The woman is Imagination; she is brooding over what she brought forth. + +The two purple peaks represent the domains of Poetry and of History. + +The girl is Fancy. + + + + +SONGS WITH PRELUDES. + +[Illustration] + + + + +SONGS WITH PRELUDES. + + +WEDLOCK. + +The sun was streaming in: I woke, and said, +"Where is my wife,--that has been made my wife +Only this year?" The casement stood ajar: +I did but lift my head: The pear-tree dropped, +The great white pear-tree dropped with dew from leaves +And blossom, under heavens of happy blue. + +My wife had wakened first, and had gone down +Into the orchard. All the air was calm; +Audible humming filled it. At the roots +Of peony bushes lay in rose-red heaps, +Or snowy, fallen bloom. The crag-like hills +Were tossing down their silver messengers, +And two brown foreigners, called cuckoo-birds, +Gave them good answer; all things else were mute; +An idle world lay listening to their talk, +They had it to themselves. + What ails my wife? +I know not if aught ails her; though her step +Tell of a conscious quiet, lest I wake. +She moves atween the almond boughs, and bends +One thick with bloom to look on it. "O love! +A little while thou hast withdrawn thyself, +At unaware to think thy thoughts alone: +How sweet, and yet pathetic to my heart +The reason. Ah! thou art no more thine own. +Mine, mine, O love! Tears gather 'neath my lids,-- +Sorrowful tears for thy lost liberty, +Because it was so sweet. Thy liberty, +That yet, O love, thou wouldst not have again. +No; all is right. But who can give, or bless, +Or take a blessing, but there comes withal +Some pain?" + She walks beside the lily bed, +And holds apart her gown; she would not hurt +The leaf-enfolded buds, that have not looked +Yet on the daylight. O, thy locks are brown,-- +Fairest of colors!--and a darker brown +The beautiful, dear, veiled, modest eyes. +A bloom as of blush roses covers her +Forehead, and throat, and cheek. Health breathes with her, +And graceful vigor. Fair and wondrous soul! +To think that thou art mine! + My wife came in, +And moved into the chamber. As for me, +I heard, but lay as one that nothing hears, +And feigned to be asleep. + +I. + +The racing river leaped, and sang + Full blithely in the perfect weather, +All round the mountain echoes rang, + For blue and green were glad together. + +II. + +This rained out light from every part, + And that with songs of joy was thrilling; +But, in the hollow of my heart, + There ached a place that wanted filling. + +III. + +Before the road and river meet, + And stepping-stones are wet and glisten, +I heard a sound of laughter sweet, + And paused to like it, and to listen. + +IV. + +I heard the chanting waters flow, + The cushat's note, the bee's low humming,-- +Then turned the hedge, and did not know,-- + How could I?--that my time was coming. + +V. + +A girl upon the nighest stone, + Half doubtful of the deed, was standing, +So far the shallow flood had flown + Beyond the 'customed leap of landing. + +VI. + +She knew not any need of me, + Yet me she waited all unweeting; +We thought not I had crossed the sea, + And half the sphere to give her meeting. + +VII. + +I waded out, her eyes I met, + I wished the moment had been hours; +I took her in my arms, and set + Her dainty feet among the flowers. + +VIII. + +Her fellow maids in copse and lane, + Ah! still, methinks, I hear them calling; +The wind's soft whisper in the plain, + The cushat's coo, the water's falling. + +IX. + +But now it is a year ago, + But now possession crowns endeavor; +I took her in my heart, to grow + And fill the hollow place forever. + + +REGRET. + +O that word REGRET! +There have been nights and morns when we have sighed, +"Let us alone, Regret! We are content +To throw thee all our past, so thou wilt sleep +For aye." But it is patient, and it wakes; +It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep, +But plaineth on the bed that it is hard. + +We did amiss when we did wish it gone +And over: sorrows humanize our race; +Tears are the showers that fertilize this world; +And memory of things precious keepeth warm +The heart that once did hold them. + They are poor +That have lost nothing; they are poorer far +Who, losing, have forgotten; they most poor +Of all, who lose and wish they MIGHT forget. + +For life is one, and in its warp and woof +There runs a thread of gold that glitters fair, +And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet +Where there are sombre colors. It is true +That we have wept. But O! this thread of gold, +We would not have it tarnish; let us turn +Oft and look back upon the wondrous web, +And when it shineth sometimes we shall know +That memory is possession. + +I. + +When I remember something which I had, + But which is gone, and I must do without, +I sometimes wonder how I can be glad, + Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout; +It makes me sigh to think on it,--but yet +My days will not be better days, should I forget. + +II. + +When I remember something promised me, + But which I never had, nor can have now, +Because the promiser we no more see + In countries that accord with mortal vow; +When I remember this, I mourn,--but yet +My happier days are not the days when I forget. + + +LAMENTATION. + +I read upon that book, +Which down the golden gulf doth let us look +On the sweet days of pastoral majesty; + I read upon that book + How, when the Shepherd Prince did flee + (Red Esau's twin), he desolate took +The stone for a pillow: then he fell on sleep. +And lo! there was a ladder. Lo! there hung +A ladder from the star-place, and it clung +To the earth: it tied her so to heaven; and O! + There fluttered wings; +Then were ascending and descending things + That stepped to him where he lay low; +Then up the ladder would a-drifting go +(This feathered brood of heaven), and show +Small as white flakes in winter that are blown +Together, underneath the great white throne. + + When I had shut the book, I said, +"Now, as for me, my dreams upon my bed + Are not like Jacob's dream; +Yet I have got it in my life; yes, I, +And many more: it doth not us beseem, + Therefore, to sigh. +Is there not hung a ladder in our sky? +Yea; and, moreover, all the way up on high +Is thickly peopled with the prayers of men. + We have no dream! What then? +Like winged wayfarers the height they scale +(By Him that offers them they shall prevail),-- + The prayers of men. + But where is found a prayer for me; + How should I pray? + My heart is sick, and full of strife. +I heard one whisper with departing breath, +'Suffer us not, for any pains of death, + To fall from Thee.' +But O, the pains of life! the pains of life! + There is no comfort now, and naught to win, + But yet,--I will begin." + +I. + +"Preserve to me my wealth," I do not say, + For that is wasted away; +And much of it was cankered ere it went. +"Preserve to me my health." I cannot say, + For that, upon a day, +Went after other delights to banishment. + +II. + +What can I pray? "Give me forgetfulness"? + No, I would still possess +Past away smiles, though present fronts be stern. +"Give me again my kindred?" Nay; not so, + Not idle prayers. We know +They that have crossed the river cannot return. + +III. + +I do not pray, "Comfort me! comfort me!" + For how should comfort be? +O,--O that cooing mouth,--that little white head! +No; but I pray, "If it be not too late, + Open to me the gate, +That I may find my babe when I am dead. + +IV. + +"Show me the path. I had forgotten Thee + When I was happy and free, +Walking down here in the gladsome light o' the sun; +But now I come and mourn; O set my feet + In the road to Thy blest seat, +And for the rest, O God, Thy will be done." + + +DOMINION. + +When found the rose delight in her fair hue? +Color is nothing to this world; 'tis I +That see it. Farther, I have found, my soul, +That trees are nothing to their fellow trees; +It is but I that love their stateliness, +And I that, comforting my heart, do sit +At noon beneath their shadow. I will step +On the ledges of this world, for it is mine; +But the other world ye wot of, shall go too; +I will carry it in my bosom. O my world, +That was not built with clay! + Consider it +(This outer world we tread on) as a harp,-- +A gracious instrument on whose fair strings +We learn those airs we shall be set to play +When mortal hours are ended. Let the wings, +Man, of thy spirit move on it as wind, +And draw forth melody. Why shouldst thou yet +Lie grovelling? More is won than e'er was lost: +Inherit. Let thy day be to thy night +A teller of good tidings. Let thy praise +Go up as birds go up that, when they wake, +Shake off the dew and soar. + So take Joy home, +And make a place in thy great heart for her, +And give her time to grow, and cherish her; +Then will she come, and oft will sing to thee, +When thou art working in the furrows; ay, +Or weeding in the sacred hour of dawn. +It is a comely fashion to be glad,-- +Joy is the grace we say to God. + Art tired? +There is a rest remaining. Hast thou sinned? +There is a Sacrifice. Lift up thy head, +The lovely world, and the over-world alike, +Ring with a song eterne, a happy rede, +"THY FATHER LOVES THEE." + +I. + +Yon moored mackerel fleet + Hangs thick as a swarm of bees, +Or a clustering village street + Foundationless built on the seas. + +II. + +The mariners ply their craft, + Each set in his castle frail; +His care is all for the draught, + And he dries the rain-beaten sail. + +III. + +For rain came down in the night, + And thunder muttered full oft, +But now the azure is bright. + And hawks are wheeling aloft. + +IV. + +I take the land to my breast, + In her coat with daisies fine; +For me are the hills in their best, + And all that's made is mine. + +V. + +Sing high! "Though the red sun dip, + There yet is a day for me; +Nor youth I count for a ship + That long ago foundered at sea. + +VI. + +"Did the lost love die and depart? + Many times since we have met; +For I hold the years in my heart, + And all that was--is yet. + +VII. + +"I grant to the king his reign; + Let us yield him homage due; +But over the lands there are twain, + O king, I must rule as you. + +VIII. + +"I grant to the wise his meed, + But his yoke I will not brook, +For God taught ME to read,-- + He lent me the world for a book." + + +FRIENDSHIP. + +ON A SUN-PORTRAIT OF HER HUSBAND, SENT BY HIS +WIFE TO THEIR FRIEND. + +Beautiful eyes,--and shall I see no more +The living thought when it would leap from them, +And play in all its sweetness 'neath their lids? + +Here was a man familiar with fair heights +That poets climb. Upon his peace the tears +And troubles of our race deep inroads made, +Yet life was sweet to him; he kept his heart +At home. Who saw his wife might well have thought,-- +"God loves this man. He chose a wife for him,-- +The true one!" O sweet eyes, that seem to live, +I know so much of you, tell me the rest! +Eyes full of fatherhood and tender care +For small, young children. Is a message here +That you would fain have sent, but had not time? +If such there be, I promise, by long love +And perfect friendship, by all trust that comes +Of understanding, that I will not fail, +No, nor delay to find it. + O, my heart +Will often pain me as for some strange fault,-- +Some grave defect in nature,--when I think +How I, delighted, 'neath those olive-trees, +Moved to the music of the tideless main, +While, with sore weeping, in an island home +They laid that much-loved head beneath the sod, +And I did not know. + +I. + +I stand on the bridge where last we stood + When young leaves played at their best. +The children called us from yonder wood, + And rock-doves crooned on the nest. + +II. + +Ah, yet you call,--in your gladness call,-- + And I hear your pattering feet; +It does not matter, matter at all, + You fatherless children sweet,-- + +III. + +It does not matter at all to you, + Young hearts that pleasure besets; +The father sleeps, but the world is new, + The child of his love forgets. + +IV. + +I too, it may be, before they drop, + The leaves that flicker to-day, +Ere bountiful gleams make ripe the crop, + Shall pass from my place away: + +V. + +Ere yon gray cygnet puts on her white, + Or snow lies soft on the wold, +Shall shut these eyes on the lovely light, + And leave the story untold. + +VI. + +Shall I tell it there? Ah, let that be, + For the warm pulse beats so high; +To love to-day, and to breathe and see,-- + To-morrow perhaps to die,-- + +VII. + +Leave it with God. But this I have known, + That sorrow is over soon; +Some in dark nights, sore weeping alone, + Forget by full of the moon. + +VIII. + +But if all loved, as the few can love, + This world would seldom be well; +And who need wish, if he dwells above, + For a deep, a long death knell. + +IX. + +There are four or five, who, passing this place, + While they live will name me yet; +And when I am gone will think on my face, + And feel a kind of regret. + + + + +WINSTANLEY. + + +_THE APOLOGY._ + +_Quoth the cedar to the reeds and rushes, + "Water-grass, you know not what I do; +Know not of my storms, nor of my hushes. + And--I know not you." + +Quoth the reeds and rushes, "Wind! O waken! + Breathe, O wind, and set our answer free, +For we have no voice, of you forsaken, + For the cedar-tree." + +Quoth the earth at midnight to the ocean, + "Wilderness of water, lost to view, +Naught you are to me but sounds of motion; + I am naught to you." + +Quoth the ocean, "Dawn! O fairest, clearest, + Touch me with thy golden fingers bland; +For I have no smile till thou appearest + For the lovely land."_ + +_Quoth the hero dying, whelmed in glory + "Many blame me, few have understood; +Ah, my folk, to you I leave a story,-- + Make its meaning good." + +Quoth the folk, "Sing, poet! teach us, prove us + Surely we shall learn the meaning then; +Wound us with a pain divine, O move us, + For this man of men."_ + + * * * * * + +Winstanley's deed, you kindly folk, + With it I fill my lay, +And a nobler man ne'er walked the world, + Let his name be what it may. + +The good ship "Snowdrop" tarried long, + Up at the vane looked he; +"Belike," he said, for the wind had dropped, + "She lieth becalmed at sea." + +The lovely ladies flocked within, + And still would each one say, +"Good mercer, be the ships come up?" + But still he answered "Nay." + +Then stepped two mariners down the street, + With looks of grief and fear: +"Now, if Winstanley be your name, + We bring you evil cheer! + +"For the good ship 'Snowdrop' struck,--she struck + On the rock,--the Eddystone, +And down she went with threescore men, + We two being left alone. + +"Down in the deep, with freight and crew, + Past any help she lies, +And never a bale has come to shore + Of all thy merchandise." + +"For cloth o' gold and comely frieze," + Winstanley said, and sighed, +"For velvet coif, or costly coat, + They fathoms deep may bide. + +"O thou brave skipper, blithe and kind, + O mariners, bold and true, +Sorry at heart, right sorry am I, + A-thinking of yours and you. + +"Many long days Winstanley's breast + Shall feel a weight within, +For a waft of wind he shall be 'feared + And trading count but sin. + +"To him no more it shall be joy + To pace the cheerful town, +And see the lovely ladies gay + Step on in velvet gown." + +The "Snowdrop" sank at Lammas tide, + All under the yeasty spray; +On Christmas Eve the brig "Content" + Was also cast away. + +He little thought o' New Year's night, + So jolly as he sat then, +While drank the toast and praised the roast + The round-faced Aldermen,-- + +While serving lads ran to and fro, + Pouring the ruby wine, +And jellies trembled on the board, + And towering pasties fine,-- + +While loud huzzas ran up the roof + Till the lamps did rock o'erhead, +And holly-boughs from rafters hung + Dropped down their berries red,-- + +He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, + With every rising tide, +How the wave washed in his sailor lads, + And laid them side by side. + +There stepped a stranger to the board: + "Now, stranger, who be ye?" +He looked to right, he looked to left, + And "Rest you merry," quoth he; + +"For you did not see the brig go down, + Or ever a storm had blown; +For you did not see the white wave rear + At the rock,--the Eddystone. + +"She drave at the rock with sternsails set; + Crash went the masts in twain; +She staggered back with her mortal blow, + Then leaped at it again. + +"There rose a great cry, bitter and strong, + The misty moon looked out! +And the water swarmed with seamen's heads, + And the wreck was strewed about. + +"I saw her mainsail lash the sea + As I clung to the rock alone; +Then she heeled over, and down she went, + And sank like any stone. + +"She was a fair ship, but all's one! + For naught could bide the shock." +"I will take horse," Winstanley said, + "And see this deadly rock." + +"For never again shall bark o' mine + Sail over the windy sea, +Unless, by the blessing of God, for this + Be found a remedy." + +Winstanley rode to Plymouth town + All in the sleet and the snow, +And he looked around on shore and sound + As he stood on Plymouth Hoe. + +Till a pillar of spray rose far away, + And shot up its stately head, +Reared and fell over, and reared again: + "'Tis the rock! the rock!" he said. + +Straight to the Mayor he took his way, + "Good Master Mayor," quoth he, +"I am a mercer of London town, + And owner of vessels three,-- + +"But for your rock of dark renown, + I had five to track the main." +"You are one of many," the old Mayor said, + "That on the rock complain. + +"An ill rock, mercer! your words ring right, + Well with my thoughts they chime, +For my two sons to the world to come + It sent before their time." + +"Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor, + And a score of shipwrights free, +For I think to raise a lantern tower + On this rock o' destiny." + +The old Mayor laughed, but sighed also; + "Ah, youth," quoth he, "is rash; +Sooner, young man, thou'lt root it out + From the sea that doth it lash. + +"Who sails too near its jagged teeth, + He shall have evil lot; +For the calmest seas that tumble there + Froth like a boiling pot. + +"And the heavier seas few look on nigh, + But straight they lay him in dead; +A seventy-gun-ship, sir!--they'll shoot + Higher than her mast-head. + +"O, beacons sighted in the dark, + They are right welcome things, +And pitchpots flaming on the shore + Show fair as angel wings. + +"Hast gold in hand? then light the land, + It 'longs to thee and me; +But let alone the deadly rock + In God Almighty's sea." + +Yet said he, "Nay,--I must away, + On the rock to set my feet; +My debts are paid, my will I made, + Or ever I did thee greet. + +"If I must die, then let me die + By the rock and not elsewhere; +If I may live, O let me live + To mount my lighthouse stair." + +The old Mayor looked him in the face, + And answered, "Have thy way; +Thy heart is stout, as if round about + It was braced with an iron stay: + +"Have thy will, mercer! choose thy men, + Put off from the storm-rid shore; +God with thee be, or I shall see + Thy face and theirs no more." + +Heavily plunged the breaking wave, + And foam flew up the lea, +Morning and even the drifted snow + Fell into the dark gray sea. + +Winstanley chose him men and gear; + He said, "My time I waste," +For the seas ran seething up the shore, + And the wrack drave on in haste. + +But twenty days he waited and more, + Pacing the strand alone, +Or ever he sat his manly foot + On the rock,--the Eddystone. + +Then he and the sea began their strife, + And worked with power and might: +Whatever the man reared up by day + The sea broke down by night. + +He wrought at ebb with bar and beam, + He sailed to shore at flow; +And at his side, by that same tide, + Came bar and beam also. + +"Give in, give in," the old Mayor cried, + "Or thou wilt rue the day." +"Yonder he goes," the townsfolk sighed, + "But the rock will have its way. + +"For all his looks that are so stout, + And his speeches brave and fair, +He may wait on the wind, wait on the wave, + But he'll build no lighthouse there." + +In fine weather and foul weather + The rock his arts did flout, +Through the long days and the short days, + Till all that year ran out. + +With fine weather and foul weather + Another year came in; +"To take his wage," the workmen said, + "We almost count a sin." + +Now March was gone, came April in, + And a sea-fog settled down, +And forth sailed he on a glassy sea, + He sailed from Plymouth town. + +With men and stores he put to sea, + As he was wont to do; +They showed in the fog like ghosts full faint,-- + A ghostly craft and crew. + +And the sea-fog lay and waxed alway, + For a long eight days and more; +"God help our men," quoth the women then; + "For they bide long from shore." + +They paced the Hoe in doubt and dread: + "Where may our mariners be?" +But the brooding fog lay soft as down + Over the quiet sea. + +A Scottish schooner made the port, + The thirteenth day at e'en; +"As I am a man," the captain cried, + "A strange sight I have seen: + +"And a strange sound heard, my masters all, + At sea, in the fog and the rain, +Like shipwrights' hammers tapping low, + Then loud, then low again. + +"And a stately house one instant showed, + Through a rift, on the vessel's lee; +What manner of creatures may be those + That build upon the sea?" + +Then sighed the folk, "The Lord be praised!" + And they flocked to the shore amain; +All over the Hoe that livelong night, + Many stood out in the rain. + +It ceased, and the red sun reared his head, + And the rolling fog did flee; +And, lo! in the offing faint and far + Winstanley's house at sea! + +In fair weather with mirth and cheer + The stately tower uprose; +In foul weather, with hunger and cold, + They were content to close; + +Till up the stair Winstanley went, + To fire the wick afar; +And Plymouth in the silent night + Looked out, and saw her star. + +Winstanley set his foot ashore; + Said he, "My work is done; +I hold it strong to last as long + As aught beneath the sun. + +"But if it fail, as fail it may, + Borne down with ruin and rout, +Another than I shall rear it high, + And brace the girders stout. + +"A better than I shall rear it high, + For now the way is plain, +And tho' I were dead," Winstanley said, + "The light would shine again. + +"Yet, were I fain still to remain, + Watch in my tower to keep, +And tend my light in the stormiest night + That ever did move the deep; + +"And if it stood, why then 'twere good, + Amid their tremulous stirs, +To count each stroke when the mad waves broke, + For cheers of mariners. + +"But if it fell, then this were well, + That I should with it fall; +Since, for my part, I have built my heart + In the courses of its wall. + +"Ay! I were fain, long to remain, + Watch in my tower to keep, +And tend my light in the stormiest night + That ever did move the deep." + +With that Winstanley went his way, + And left the rock renowned, +And summer and winter his pilot star + Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound. + +But it fell out, fell out at last, + That he would put to sea, +To scan once more his lighthouse tower + On the rock o' destiny. + +And the winds woke, and the storm broke, + And wrecks came plunging in; +None in the town that night lay down + Or sleep or rest to win. + +The great mad waves were rolling graves, + And each flung up its dead; +The seething flow was white below, + And black the sky o'erhead. + +And when the dawn, the dull, gray dawn,-- + Broke on the trembling town, +And men looked south to the harbor mouth, + The lighthouse tower was down. + +Down in the deep where he doth sleep, + Who made it shine afar, +And then in the night that drowned its light, + Set, with his pilot star. + +_Many fair tombs in the glorious glooms + At Westminster they show; +The brave and the great lie there in state: + Winstanley lieth low._ + +[Illustration] + + + + +END OF VOL. I. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, +Volume I., by Jean Ingelow + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS BY JEAN INGELOW, I. *** + +***** This file should be named 13223.txt or 13223.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/2/2/13223/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland and PG Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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