diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:41:39 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:41:39 -0700 |
| commit | 6ab6631ae982d28d2972704a83bee87f99a67c35 (patch) | |
| tree | de0beac399d36d45b1ac543bd9d7f48080456ce7 | |
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 13224-0.txt | 14597 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/13224-8.txt | 14983 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/13224-8.zip | bin | 0 -> 224233 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/13224.txt | 14983 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/13224.zip | bin | 0 -> 224070 bytes |
8 files changed, 44579 insertions, 0 deletions
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/13224-0.txt b/13224-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..720b938 --- /dev/null +++ b/13224-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14597 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13224 *** + +[Illustration: MISS INGELOW'S FORMER HOME. + +BOSTON, LINCOLNSHIRE, ENG. + +ST. BOTOLPH'S CHURCH IN THE DISTANCE.] + + + + + +POEMS BY JEAN INGELOW + +VOLUME II. + + + + +_TO JEAN INGELOW. + + +When youth was high, and life was new +And days sped musical and fleet, +She stood amid the morning dew, +And sang her earliest measures sweet,-- +Sang as the lark sings, speeding fair +To touch and taste the purer air, +To gain a nearer view of Heaven; +'Twas then she sang "The Songs of Seven." + +Now, farther on in womanhood, +With trainèd voice and ripened art, +She gently stands where once she stood, +And sings from out her deeper heart. +Sing on, dear Singer! sing again; +And we will listen to the strain, +Till soaring earth greets bending Heaven, +And seven-fold songs grow seventy-seven. + +SUSAN COOLIDGE_ + + + + +POEMS + +BY + +JEAN INGELOW + +_IN TWO VOLUMES_ + +VOL. II. + + + + +BOSTON + +ROBERTS BROTHERS + +1896 + +AUTHOR'S COMPLETE EDITION. + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. II. + + +ROSAMUND +ECHO AND THE FERRY +PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING +KISMET +DORA +SPERANZA +THE BEGINNING +IN THE NURSERY +THE AUSTRALIAN BELL-BIRD +LOSS AND WASTE +ON A PICTURE +THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND +A MAID-MARTYR +A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST +LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE +THE WHITE MOON +AN ARROW-SLIT +WENDOVER +THE LOVER PLEADS +SONG IN THREE PARTS +'IF I FORGET THEE, O JERUSALEM' +NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE +PERDITA + + +SERIOUS POEMS, AND SONGS AND POEMS OF LOVE AND CHILDHOOD. + +LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING +THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN +THE SHEPHERD LADY + +POEMS ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. + HENRY + SAMUEL + KATIE + +THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT (IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL) + +HYMNS. + THE MEASURELESS GULFS OF AIR ARE FULL OF THEE + THOU WERT FAR OFF AND IN THE SIGHT OF HEAVEN + THICK ORCHARDS ALL IN WHITE + SWEET ARE HIS WAYS WHO RULES ABOVE + O NIGHT OF NIGHTS + DEAR IS THE LOST WIFE TO A LONE MAN'S HEART + WEEPING AND WAILING NEEDS MUST BE + JESUS, THE LAMB OF GOD + THOU HAST BEEN ALWAY GOOD TO ME + THOU THAT SLEEPEST NOT AFRAID + NOW WINTER PAST, THE WHITE-THORN BOWER + SUCH AS HAVE NOT GOLD TO BRING THEE + A MORN OF GUILT, AN HOUR OF DOOM + MARY OF MAGDALA + WOULD I, TO SAVE MY DEAR CHILD? + +AT ONE AGAIN + +SONNETS. + FANCY + COMPENSATION + LOOKING DOWN + WORK + WISHING + TO ---- + ON THE BORDERS OF CANNOCK CHASE + AN ANCIENT CHESS KING + COMFORT IN THE NIGHT + THOUGH ALL GREAT DEEDS + A SNOW MOUNTAIN + SLEEP + PROMISING + LOVE + FAILURE + +A BIRTHDAY WALK +NOT IN VAIN I WAITED +A GLEANING SONG +WITH A DIAMOND +MARRIED LOVERS +A WINTER SONG +BINDING SHEAVES +THE MARINER'S CAVE +A REVERIE +DEFTON WOOD +THE LONG WHITE SEAM +AN OLD WIFE'S SONG +COLD AND QUIET +SLEDGE BELLS +MIDSUMMER NIGHT, NOT DARK, NOT LIGHT +THE BRIDEGROOM TO HIS BRIDE +THE FAIRY WOMAN'S SONG +ABOVE THE CLOUDS +SLEEP AND TIME +BEES AND OTHER-FELLOW-CREATURES +THE GYPSY'S SELLING SONG +A WOOING SONG +A COURTING SONG +LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD +THE LEAVES OF LIGN ALOES +THE DAYS WITHOUT ALLOY +FEATHERS AND MOSS +ON THE ROCKS BY ABERDEEN +LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT +SONG FOR A BABE +GIVE US LOVE AND GIVE US PEACE + +THE TWO MARGARETS + MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE + MARGARET IN THE XEBEC + +A STORY OF DOOM + + + + +POEMS + + + + +ROSAMUND. + + +_His blew His winds, and they were scattered._ + +'One soweth and another reapeth.' + Ay, +Too true, too true. One soweth--unaware +Cometh a reaper stealthily while he dreams-- +Bindeth the golden sheaf, and in his bosom +As 't were between the dewfall and the dawn +Bears it away. Who other was to blame? +Is it I? Is it I?--No verily, not I, +'T was a good action, and I smart therefore; +Oblivion of a righteous enmity +Wrought me this wrong. I pay with my self ruth +That I had ruth toward mine enemy; +It needed not to slay mine enemy, +Only to let him lie and succourless +Drift to the foot o' the Everlasting Throne; +Being mine enemy, he had not accused +One of my nation there of unkind deeds +Or ought the way of war forbids. + Let be! +I will not think upon it. Yet she was-- +O, she was dear; my dutiful, dear child. +One soweth--Nay, but I will tell this out, +The first fyte was the best, I call it such +For now as some old song men think on it. + +I dwell where England narrows running north; +And while our hay was cut came rumours up +Humming and swarming round our heads like bees: + +'Drake from the bay of Cadiz hath come home, +And they are forth, the Spaniards with a force +Invincible.' + 'The Prince of Parma, couched +At Dunkirk, e'en by torchlight makes to toil +His shipwright thousands--thousands in the ports +Of Flanders and Brabant. An hundred hendes +Transports to his great squadron adding, all +For our confusion.' + 'England's great ally +Henry of France, by insurrection fallen, +Of him the said Prince Parma mocking cries, +He shall not help the Queen of England now +Not even with his tears, more needing them +To weep his own misfortune.' + Was that all +The truth? Not half, and yet it was enough +(Albeit not half that half was well believed), +For all the land stirred in the half belief +As dreamers stir about to wake; and now +Comes the Queen's message, all her lieges bid +To rise, 'lieftenants, and the better sort +Of gentlemen' whereby the Queen's grace meant, +As it may seem the sort that willed to rise +And arm, and come to aid her. + Distance wrought +Safety for us, my neighbours and near friends, +The peril lay along our channel coast +And marked the city, undefended fair +Rich London. O to think of Spanish mail +Ringing--of riotous conquerors in her street, +Chasing and frighting (would there were no more +To think on) her fair wives and her fair maids. +--But hope is fain to deem them forth of her. + +Then Spain to the sacking; then they tear away +Arras and carvèd work. O then they break +And toss, and mar her quaint orfèverie +Priceless--then split the wine kegs, spill the mead, +Trail out the pride of ages in the dust; +Turn over with pikes her silken merchandise, +Strip off the pictures of her kings, and spoil +Their palaces that nigh five hundred years +Have rued no alien footsteps on the floor, +And work--for the days of miracle are gone-- +All unimaginable waste and woe. + +Some cried, 'But England hath the better cause; +We think not those good days indeed are done; +We look to Heaven for aid on England's side.' +Then other, 'Nay, the harvest is above, +God comforts there His own, and ill men leaves +To run long scores up in this present world, +And pay in another. + Look not here for aid. +Latimer, poor old saint, died in the street +With nigh, men say, three hundred of his kind, +All bid to look for worse death after death, +Succourless, comfortless, unfriended, curst. +Mary, and Gardiner, and the Pope's man Pole +Died upon down, lulled in a silken shade, +Soothed with assurance of a waiting heaven, +And Peter peering through the golden gate, +With his gold key in 's hand to let them in.' + +'Nay, leave,' quoth I, 'the martyrs to their heaven, +And all who live the better that they died. +But look you now, a nation hath no heaven, +A nation's life and work and wickedness +And punishment--or otherwise, I say +A nation's life and goodness and reward +Are here. And in my nation's righteous cause +I look for aid, and cry, SO HELP ME GOD +As I will help my righteous nation now +With all the best I have, and know, and am, +I trust Thou wilt not let her light be quenched; +I go to aid, and if I fall--I fall, +And, God of nations, leave my soul to Thee.' + +Many did say like words, and all would give +Of gold, of weapons, and of horses that +They had to hand or on the spur o' the time +Could gather. My fair dame did sell her rings, +So others. And they sent us well equipped +Who minded to be in the coming fray +Whether by land or sea; my hope the last, +For I of old therewith was conversant. + +Then as we rode down southward all the land +Was at her harvesting. The oats were cut +Ere we were three days down, and then the wheat, +And the wide country spite of loathèd threat +Was busy. There was news to hearten us: +The Hollanders were coming roundly in +With sixty ships of war, all fierce, and full +Of spleen, for not alone our sake but theirs +Willing to brave encounter where they might. + +So after five days we did sight the Sound, +And look on Plymouth harbour from the hill. +Then I full glad drew bridle, lighted straight, +Ran down and mingled with a waiting crowd. + +Many stood gazing on the level deep +That scarce did tremble; 't was in hue as sloes +That hang till winter on a leafless bough, +So black bulged down upon it a great cloud +And probed it through and through with forkèd stabs +Incessant, and rolled on it thunder bursts +Till the dark water lowered as one afraid. + +That was afar. The land and nearer sea +Lay sweltering in hot sunshine. The brown beach +Scarce whispered, for a soft incoming tide +Was gentle with it. Green the water lapped +And sparkled at all edges. The night-heavens +Are not more thickly speckled o'er with stars +Than that fair harbour with its fishing craft. +And crowds of galleys shooting to and fro +Did feed the ships of war with their stout crews, +And bear aboard fresh water, furniture +Of war, much lesser victual, sallets, fruit, +All manner equipment for the squadron, sails, +Long spars. + Also was chaffering on the Hoe, +Buying and bargaining, taking of leave +With tears and kisses, while on all hands pushed +Tall lusty men with baskets on their heads +Piled of fresh bread, and biscuit newly drawn. + +Then shouts, 'The captains!' + Raleigh, Hawkins, Drake, +Old Martin Frobisher, and many more; +Howard, the Lord High Admiral, headed them-- +They coming leisurely from the bowling green, +Elbowed their way. For in their stoutness loth +To hurry when ill news first brake on them, +They playing a match ashore--ill news I say, +'The Spaniards are toward'--while panic-struck +The people ran about them, Drake cries out, +Knowing their fear should make the danger worse, +'Spaniards, my masters! Let the Spaniards wait. +Fall not a-shouting for the boats; is time +To play the match out, ay to win, and then +To beat the Spaniards.' + So the rest gave way +At his insistance, playing that afternoon +The bravest match (one saith) was ever scored. + +'T was no time lost; nay, not a moment lost; +For look you, when the winning cast was made, +The town was calm, the anchors were all up, +The boats were manned to row them each to his ship, +The lowering cloud in the offing had gone south +Against the wind, and all was work, stir, heed, +Nothing forgot, nor grudged, nor slurred, and most +Men easy at heart as those brave sailors seemed. + +And specially the women had put by +On a sudden their deep dread; yon Cornish coast +Neared of his insolency by the foe, +With his high seacastles numerous, seaforts +Many, his galleys out of number, manned +Each by three hundred slaves chained to the oar; +All his strong fleet of lesser ships, but great +As any of ours--why that same Cornish coast +Might have lain farther than the far west land, +So had a few stout-hearted looks and words +Wasted the meaning, chilled the menace of +That frightful danger, imminent, hard at hand. + +'The captains come, the captains!' and I turned +As they drew on. I marked the urgency +Flashing in each man's eye: fain to be forth +But willing to be held at leisure. Then +Cried a fair woman of the better sort +To Howard, passing by her pannier'd ass, +'Apples, Lord Admiral, good captains all, +Look you, red apples sharp and sweet are these,' + +Quoth he a little chafed, 'Let be, let be, +No time is this for bargaining, good dame. +Let be;' and pushing past, 'Beshrew thy heart +(And mine that I should say it), bargain! nay. +I meant not bargaining,' she falters; crying, +'I brought them my poor gift. Pray you now take, +Pray you.' + He stops, and with a childlike smile +That makes the dame amend, stoops down to choose, +While I step up that love not many words, +'What should he do,' quoth I, 'to help this need +That hath a bag of money, and good will?' +'Charter a ship,' he saith, nor e'er looks up, +'And put aboard her victual, tackle, shot, +Ought he can lay his hand on--look he give +Wide sea room to the Spanish hounds, make sail +For ships of ours, to ease of wounded men, +And succour with that freight he brings withal.' + +His foot, yet speaking, was aboard his boat, +His comrades, each red apples in the hand, +Come after, and with blessings manifold +Cheering, and cries, 'Good luck, good luck!' they speed. + +'T was three years three months past. + O yet methinks +I hear that thunder crash i' the offing; hear +Their words who when the crowd melted away +Gathered together. Comrades we of old, +About to adventure us at Howard's best +On the unsafe sea. For he, a Catholic, +As is my wife, and therefore my one child, +Detested and defied th' most Catholic King +Philip. He, trusted of her grace--and cause +She had, the nation following suit--he deemed, +'T was whisper'd, ay and Raleigh, and Francis Drake +No less, the event of battle doubtfuller +Than English tongue might own; the peril dread +As ought in this world ever can be deemed +That is not yet past praying for. + So far +So good. As birds awaked do stretch their wings +The ships did stretch forth sail, full clad they towered +And right into the sunset went, hull down +E'en with the sun. + To us in twilight left, +Glory being over, came despondent thought +That mocked men's eager act. From many a hill, +As if the land complained to Heaven, they sent +A towering shaft of murky incense high, +Livid with black despair in lieu of praise. +The green wood hissed at every beacon's edge +That widen'd fear. The smell of pitchpots fled +Far over the field, and tongues of fire leaped up, +Ay, till all England woke, and knew, and wailed. + +But we i' the night through that detested reek +Rode eastward. Every mariner's voice was given +'Gainst any fear for the western shires. The cry +Was all, 'They sail for Calais roads, and thence, +The goal is London.' + Nought slept, man nor beast. +Ravens and rooks flew forth, and with black wings, +Affrighted, swept our eyes. Pale eddying moths +Came by in crowds and whirled them on the flames. + +We rode till pierced those beacon fires the shafts +O' the sun, and their red smouldering ashes dulled. +Beside them, scorched, smoke-blackened, weary, leaned +Men that had fed them, dropped their tired arms +And dozed. + And also through that day we rode, +Till reapers at their nooning sat awhile +On the shady side of corn-shocks: all the talk +Of high, of low, or them that went or stayed +Determined but unhopeful; desperate +To strike a blow for England ere she fell. + +And ever loomed the Spaniard to our thought, +Still waxed the fame of that great Armament-- +New horsemen joining, swelled it more and more-- +Their bulky ship galleons having five decks, +Zabraes, pataches, galleys of Portugal, +Caravels rowed with oars, their galliasses +Vast, and complete with chapels, chambers, towers. +And in the said ships of free mariners +Eight thousand, and of slaves two thousand more, +An army twenty thousand strong. O then +Of culverin, of double culverin, +Ordnance and arms, all furniture of war, +Victual, and last their fierceness and great spleen, +Willing to founder, burn, split, wreck themselves, +But they would land, fight, overcome, and reign. + +Then would we count up England. Set by theirs, +Her fleet as walnut shells. And a few pikes +Stored in the belfries, and a few brave men +For wielding them. But as the morning wore, +And we went ever eastward, ever on, +Poured forth, poured down, a marching multitude +With stir about the towns; and waggons rolled +With offerings for the army and the fleet. +Then to our hearts valour crept home again, +The loathèd name of Alva fanning it; +Alva who did convert from our old faith +With many a black deed done for a white cause +(So spake they erewhile to it dedicate) +Them whom not death could change, nor fire, nor sword, +To thirst for his undoing. + +Ay, as I am a Christian man, our thirst +Was comparable with Queen Mary's. All +The talk was of confounding heretics, +The heretics the Spaniards. Yet methought, +'O their great multitude! Not harbour room +On our long coast for that great multitude. +They land--for who can let them--give us battle, +And after give us burial. Who but they, +For he that liveth shall be flying north +To bear off wife and child. Our very graves +Shall Spaniards dig, and in the daisied grass +Trample them down.' + Ay, whoso will be brave, +Let him be brave beforehand. After th' event +If by good pleasure of God it go as then +He shall be brave an' liketh him. I say +Was no man but that deadly peril feared. + +Nights riding two. Scant rest. Days riding three, +Then Foulkstone. Need is none to tell all forth +The gathering stores and men, the charter'd ship +That I, with two, my friends, got ready for sea. +Ready she was, so many another, small +But nimble; and we sailing hugged the shore, +Scarce venturing out, so Drake had willed, a league, +And running westward aye as best we might, +When suddenly--behold them! + On they rocked, +Majestical, slow, sailing with the wind. +O such a sight! O such a sight, mine eyes, +Never shall you see more! + In crescent form, +A vasty crescent nigh two leagues across +From horn to horn, the lesser ships within, +The great without, they did bestride as 't were +And make a township on the narrow seas. + +It was about the point of dawn: and light. +All grey the sea, and ghostly grey the ships; +And after in the offing rocked our fleet, +Having lain quiet in the summer dark. + +O then methought, 'Flash, blessed gold of dawn, +And touch the topsails of our Admiral, +That he may after guide an emulous flock, +Old England's innocent white bleating lambs. +Let Spain within a pike's length hear them bleat, +Delivering of their pretty talk in a tongue +Whose meaning cries not for interpreter.' + +And while I spoke, their topsails, friend and foe, +Glittered--and there was noise of guns; pale smoke +Lagged after, curdling on the sun-fleck'd main. +And after that? What after that, my soul? +Who ever saw weakling white butterflies +Chasing of gallant swans, and charging them, +And spitting at them long red streaks of flame? +We saw the ships of England even so +As in my vaunting wish that mocked itself +With 'Fool, O fool, to brag at the edge of loss.' +We saw the ships of England even so +Run at the Spaniards on a wind, lay to, +Bespatter them with hail of battle, then +Take their prerogative of nimble steerage, +Fly off, and ere the enemy, heavy in hand, +Delivered his reply to the wasteful wave +That made its grave of foam, race out of range, +Then tack and crowd all sail, and after them +Again. + So harassed they that mighty foe, +Moving in all its bravery to the east. +And some were fine with pictures of the saints, +Angels with flying hair and peakèd wings, +And high red crosses wrought upon their sails; +From every mast brave flag or ensign flew, +And their long silken pennons serpented +Loose to the morning. And the galley slaves, +Albeit their chains did clink, sang at the oar. + +The sea was striped e'en like a tiger skin +With wide ship wakes. + And many cried, amazed, +'What means their patience?' + 'Lo you,' others said, +'They pay with fear for their great costliness. +Some of their costliest needs must other guard; +Once guarded and in port look to yourselves, +They count one hundred and fifty. It behoves +Better they suffer this long running fight-- +Better for them than that they give us battle, +And so delay the shelter of their roads. + +'Two of their caravels we sank, and one +(Fouled with her consort in the rigging) took +Ere she could catch the wind when she rode free. +And we have riddled many a sail, and split +Of spars a score or two. What then? To-morrow +They look to straddle across the strait, and hold +Having aye Calais for a shelter--hold +Our ships in fight. To-morrow shall give account +For our to-day. They will not we pass north +To meddle with Parma's flotilla; their hope +Being Parma, and a convoy they would be +For his flat boats that bode invasion to us; +And if he reach to London--ruin, defeat.' + +Three fleets the sun went down on, theirs of fame +Th' Armada. After space old England's few; +And after that our dancing cockle-shells, +The volunteers. They took some pride in us, +For we were nimble, and we brought them powder, +Shot, weapons. They were short of these. Ill found, +Ill found. The bitter fruit of evil thrift. +But while obsequious, darting here and there, +We took their messages from ship to ship, +From ship to shore, the moving majesties +Made Calais Roads, cast anchor, all their less +In the middle ward; their greater ships outside +Impregnable castles fearing not assault. + +So did we read their thought, and read it wrong, +While after the running fight we rode at ease, +For many (as is the way of Englishmen) +Having made light of our stout deeds, and light +O' the effects proceeding, saw these spread +To view. The Spanish Admiral's mighty host, +Albeit not broken, harass'd. + Some did tow +Others that we had plagued, disabled, rent; +Many full heavily damaged made their berths. + +Then did the English anchor out of range. +To close was not their wisdom with such foe, +Rather to chase him, following in the rear. +Ay, truly they were giants in our eyes +And in our own. They took scant heed of us, +And we looked on, and knew not what to think, +Only that we were lost men, a lost Isle, +In every Spaniard's mind, both great and small. + +But no such thought had place in Howard's soul, +And when 't was dark, and all their sails were furled, +When the wind veered a few points to the west, +And the tide turned ruffling along the roads, +He sent eight fireships forging down to them. + +Terrible! Terrible! + Blood-red pillars of reek +They looked on that vast host and troubled it, +As on th' Egyptian host One looked of old. + +Then all the heavens were rent with a great cry, +The red avengers went right on, right on, +For none could let them; then was ruin, reek, flame; +Against th' unwieldy huge leviathans +They drave, they fell upon them as wild beasts, +And all together they did plunge and grind, +Their reefed sails set a-blazing, these flew loose +And forth like banners of destruction sped. +It was to look on as the body of hell +Seething; and some, their cables cut, ran foul +Of one the other, while the ruddy fire +Sped on aloft. One ship was stranded. One +Foundered, and went down burning; all the sea +Red as an angry sunset was made fell +With smoke and blazing spars that rode upright, +For as the fireships burst they scattered forth +Full dangerous wreckage. All the sky they scored +With flying sails and rocking masts, and yards +Licked of long flames. And flitting tinder sank +In eddies on the plagued mixed mob of ships +That cared no more for harbour, and were fain +At any hazard to be forth, and leave +Their berths in the blood-red haze. + + It was at twelve +O' the clock when this fell out, for as the eight +Were towed, and left upon the friendly tide +To stalk like evil angels over the deep +And stare upon the Spaniards, we did hear +Their midnight bells. It was at morning dawn +After our mariners thus had harried them +I looked my last upon their fleet,--and all, +That night had cut their cables, put to sea, +And scattering wide towards the Flemish coast +Did seem to make for Greveline. + + As for us, +The captains told us off to wait on them, +Bearers of wounded enemies and friends, +Bearers of messages, bearers of store. + +We saw not ought, but heard enough: we heard +(And God be thanked) of that long scattering chase +And driving of Sidonia from his hope, +Parma, who could not ought without his ships +And looked for them to break the Dutch blockade, +He meanwhile chafing lion-like in his lair. +We heard--and he--for all one summer day, +Fenning and Drake and Raynor, Fenton, Cross, +And more, by Greveline, where they once again +Did get the wind o' the Spaniards, noise of guns. +For coming with the wind, wielding themselves +Which way they listed (while in close array +The Spaniards stood but on defence), our own +Went at them, charged them high and charged them sore, +And gave them broadside after broadside. Ay, +Till all the shot was spent both great and small. +It failed; and in regard of that same want +They thought it not convenient to pursue +Their vessels farther. + They were huge withal, +And might not be encountered one to one, +But close conjoined they fought, and poured great store +Of ordnance at our ships, though many of theirs, +Shot thorow and thorow, scarce might keep afloat. + +Many were captured fighting, many sank. +This news they brought returned perforce, and left +The Spaniards forging north. Themselves did watch +The river mouth, till Howard, his new store +Gathered, encounter coveting, once more +Made after them with Drake. + And lo! the wind +Got up to help us. He yet flying north +(Their doughty Admiral) made all his wake +To smoke, and would not end to fight, but strewed +The ocean with his wreckage. And the wind +Drave him before it, and the storm was fell, +And he went up to th' uncouth northern sea. +There did our mariners leave him. Then did joy +Run like a sunbeam over the land, and joy +Rule in the stout heart of a regnant Queen. + +But now the counsel came, 'Every man home, +For after Scotland rounded, when he curves +Southward, and all the batter'd armament, +What hinders on our undefended coast +To land where'er he listeth? Every man +Home.' + And we mounted and did open forth +Like a great fan, to east, to north, to west, +And rumour met us flying, filtering +Down through the border. News of wicked joy, +The wreckers rich in the Faroes, and the Isles +Orkney, and all the clansmen full of gear +Gathered from helpless mariners tempted in +To their undoing; while a treacherous crew +Let the storm work upon their lives its will, +Spoiled them and gathered all their riches up. +Then did they meet like fate from Irish kernes, +Who dealt with them according to their wont. + +In a great storm of wind that tore green leaves +And dashed them wet upon me, came I home. +Then greeted me my dame, and Rosamund, +Our one dear child, the heir of these my fields-- +That I should sigh to think it! There, no more. + +Being right weary I betook me straight +To longed-for sleep, and I did dream and dream +Through all that dolourous storm; though noise of guns +Daunted the country in the moonless night, +Yet sank I deep and deeper in the dream +And took my fill of rest. + A voice, a touch, +'Wake.' Lo! my wife beside me, her wet hair +She wrung with her wet hands, and cried, 'A ship! +I have been down the beach. O pitiful! +A Spanish ship ashore between the rocks, +And none to guide our people. Wake.' + Then I +Raised on mine elbow looked; it was high day; +In the windy pother seas came in like smoke +That blew among the trees as fine small rain, +And then the broken water sun-besprent +Glitter'd, fell back and showed her high and fast +A caravel, a pinnace that methought +To some great ship had longed; her hap alone +Of all that multitude it was to drive +Between this land of England her right foe, +And that most cruel, where (for all their faith +Was one) no drop of water mote they drink +For love of God nor love of gold. + I rose +And hasted; I was soon among the folk, +But late for work. The crew, spent, faint, and bruised +Saved for the most part of our men, lay prone +In grass, and women served them bread and mead, +Other the sea laid decently alone +Ready for burial. And a litter stood +In shade. Upon it lying a goodly man, +The govourner or the captain as it seemed, +Dead in his stiff gold-broider'd bravery, +And epaulet and sword. They must have loved +That man, for many had died to bring him in, +Their boats stove in were stranded here and there. +In one--but how I know not--brought they him, +And he was laid upon a folded flag, +Many times doubled for his greater ease, +That was our thought--and we made signs to them +He should have sepulture. But when they knew +They must needs leave him, for some marched them off +For more safe custody, they made great moan. + +After, with two my neighbours drawing nigh, +One of them touched the Spaniard's hand and said, +'Dead is he but not cold;' the other then, +'Nay in good truth methinks he be not dead.' +Again the first, 'An' if he breatheth yet +He lies at his last gasp.' And this went off, +And left us two, that by the litter stayed, +Looking on one another, and we looked +(For neither willed to speak), and yet looked on. +Then would he have me know the meet was fixed +For nine o' the clock, and to be brief with you +He left me. And I had the Spaniard home. +What other could be done? I had him home. +Men on his litter bare him, set him down +In a fair chamber that was nigh the hall. + +And yet he waked not from his deathly swoon, +Albeit my wife did try her skill, and now +Bad lay him on a bed, when lo the folds +Of that great ensign covered store of gold, +Rich Spanish ducats, raiment, Moorish blades +Chased in right goodly wise, and missals rare, +And other gear. I locked it for my part +Into an armoury, and that fair flag +(While we did talk full low till he should end) +Spread over him. Methought, the man shall die +Under his country's colours; he was brave, +His deadly wound to that doth testify. + +And when 't was seemly order'd, Rosamund, +My daughter, who had looked not yet on death, +Came in, a face all marvel, pity, and dread-- +Lying against her shoulder sword-long flowers, +White hollyhocks to cross upon his breast. +Slowly she turned as of that sight afeard, +But while with daunted heart she moved anigh, +His eyelids quiver'd, quiver'd then the lip, +And he, reviving, with a sob looked up +And set on her the midnight of his eyes. + +Then she, in act to place the burial gift +Bending above him, and her flaxen hair +Fall'n to her hand, drew back and stood upright +Comely and tall, her innocent fair face +Cover'd with blushes more of joy than shame. +'Father,' she cried, 'O father, I am glad. +Look you! the enemy liveth.' ''T is enough, +My maiden,' quoth her mother, 'thou may'st forth, +But say an Avè first for him with me.' + +Then they with hands upright at foot o' his bed +Knelt, his dark dying eyes at gaze on them, +Till as I think for wonder at them, more +Than for his proper strength, he could not die. + +So in obedient wise my daughter risen, +And going, let a smile of comforting cheer +Lift her sweet lip, and that was all of her +For many a night and day that he beheld. + +And then withal my dame, a leech of skill, +Tended the Spaniard fain to heal his wound, +Her women aiding at their best. And he +'Twixt life and death awaken'd in the night +Full oft in his own tongue would make his moan, +And when he whisper'd any word I knew, +If I was present, for to pleasure him, +Then made I repetition of the same. +'Cordova,' quoth he faintly, 'Cordova,' +'T was the first word he mutter'd. 'Ay, we know,' +Quoth I, 'the stoutness of that fight ye made +Against the Moors and their Mahometry, +And dispossess'd the men of fame, the fierce +Khalifs of Cordova--thy home belike, +Thy city. A fair city Cordova.' + +Then after many days, while his wound healed, +He with abundant seemly sign set forth +His thanks, but as for language had we none, +And oft he strove and failed to let us know +Some wish he had, but could not, so a week, +Two weeks went by. Then Rosamund my girl, +Hearing her mother plain on this, she saith, +'So please you, madam, show the enemy +A Psalter in our English tongue, and fetch +And give him that same book my father found +Wrapped in the ensign. Are they not the same +Those holy words? The Spaniard being devout, +He needs must know them.' + 'Peace, thou pretty fool! +Is this a time to teach an alien tongue?' +Her mother made for answer. 'He is sick, +The Spaniard.' 'Cry you mercy,' quoth my girl, +'But I did think 't were easy to let show +How both the Psalters are of meaning like; +If he know Latin, and 't is like he doth, +So might he choose a verse to tell his thought.' + +Then said I (ay, I did!) 'The girl shall try,' +And straight I took her to the Spaniard's side, +And he, admiring at her, all his face +Changed to a joy that almost showed as fear, +So innocent holy she did look, so grave +Her pitiful eyes. + She sat beside his bed, +He covered with the ensign yet; and took +And showed the Psalters both, and she did speak +Her English words, but gazing was enough +For him at her sweet dimple, her blue eyes +That shone, her English blushes. Rosamund, +My beautiful dear child. He did but gaze, +And not perceive her meaning till she touched +His hand, and in her Psalter showed the word. + +Then was all light to him; he laughed for joy, +And took the Latin Missal. O full soon, +Alas, how soon, one read the other's thought! +Before she left him, she had learned his name +Alonzo, told him hers, and found the care +Made night and day uneasy--Cordova, +There dwelt his father, there his kin, nor knew +Whether he lived or died, whether in thrall +To the Islanders for lack of ransom pined +Or rued the galling yoke of slavery. + +So did he cast him on our kindness. I-- +And care not who may know it--I was kind, +And for that our stout Queen did think foul scorn +To kill the Spanish prisoners, and to guard +So many could not, liefer being to rid +Our country of them than to spite their own, +I made him as I might that matter learn, +Eking scant Latin with my daughter's wit, +And told him men let forth and driven forth +Did crowd our harbours for the ports of Spain, +By one of whom, he, with good aid of mine, +Should let his tidings go, and I plucked forth +His ducats that a meet reward might be. +Then he, the water standing in his eyes, +Made old King David's words due thanks convey. + +Then Rosamund, this all made plain, arose +And curtsey'd to the Spaniard. Ah, methinks +I yet behold her, gracious, innocent, +And flaxen-haired, and blushing maidenly, +When turning she retired, and his black eyes, +That hunger'd after her, did follow on; +And I bethought me, 'Thou shalt see no more, +Thou goodly enemy, my one ewe lamb.' + +O, I would make short work of this. The wound +Healed, and the Spaniard rose, then could he stand, +And then about his chamber walk at ease. + +Now we had counsell'd how to have him home, +And that same trading vessel beating up +The Irish Channel at my will, that same +I charter'd for to serve me in the war, +Next was I minded should mine enemy +Deliver to his father, and his land. +Daily we looked for her, till in our cove, +Upon that morn when first the Spaniard walked, +Behold her rocking; and I hasted down +And left him waiting in the house. + Woe 's me! +All being ready speed I home, and lo +My Rosamund, that by the Spaniard sat +Upon a cushion'd settle, book in hand. +I needs must think how in the deep alcove +Thick chequer'd shadows of the window-glass +Did fall across her kirtle and her locks, +For I did see her thus no more. + She held +Her Psalter, and he his, and slowly read +Till he would stop her at the needed word. +'O well is thee,' she read, my Rosamund, +'O well is thee, and happy shalt thou be. +Thy wife--' and there he stopped her, and he took +And kissed her hand, and show'd in 's own a ring, +Taking no heed of me, no heed at all. + +Then I burst forth, the choler red i' my face +When I did see her blush, and put it on. +'Give me,' quoth I, and Rosamund, afraid, +Gave me the ring. I set my heel on it, +Crushed it, and sent the rubies scattering forth, +And did in righteous anger storm at him. +'What! what!' quoth I, 'before her father's eyes, +Thou universal villain, thou ingrate, +Thou enemy whom I shelter'd, fed, restored, +Most basest of mankind!' And Rosamund, +Arisen, her forehead pressed against mine arm, +And 'Father,' cries she, 'father.' + And I stormed +At him, while in his Spanish he replied +As one would speak me fair. 'Thou Spanish hound!' +'Father,' she pleaded. 'Alien vile,' quoth I, +'Plucked from the death, wilt thou repay me thus? +It is but three times thou hast set thine eyes +On this my daughter.' 'Father,' moans my girl; +And I, not willing to be so withstood, +Spoke roughly to her. Then the Spaniard's eyes +Blazed--then he stormed at me in his own tongue, +And all his Spanish arrogance and pride +Broke witless on my wrathful English. Then +He let me know, for I perceived it well, +He reckon'd him mine equal, thought foul scorn +Of my displeasure, and was wroth with me +As I with him. 'Father,' sighed Rosamund. +'Go, get thee to thy mother, girl,' quoth I. +And slowly, slowly, she betook herself +Down the long hall; in lowly wise she went +And made her moans. + But when my girl was gone +I stood at fault, th' occasion master'd me; +Belike it master'd him, for both felt mute. +I calmed me, and he calmed him as he might. +For I bethought me I was yet an host, +And he bethought him on the worthiness +Of my first deeds. + So made I sign to him. +The tide was up, and soon I had him forth, +Delivered him his goods, commended him +To the captain o' the vessel, then plucked off +My hat, in seemly fashion taking leave, +And he was not outdone, but every way +Gave me respect, and on the deck we two +Parted, as I did hope, to meet no more. + +Alas! my Rosamund, my Rosamund! +She did not weep, no. Plain upon me, no. +Her eyes mote well have lost the trick of tears: +As new-washed flowers shake off the down-dropt rain, +And make denial of it, yet more blue +And fair of favour afterward, so they. +The wild woodrose was not more fresh of blee +Than her soft dimpled cheek: but I beheld, +Come home, a token hung about her neck, +Sparkling upon her bosom for his sake, +Her love, the Spaniard, she denied it not, +All unaware, good sooth, such love was bale. + +And all that day went like another day, +Ay, all the next; then was I glad at heart; +Methought, 'I am glad thou wilt not waste thy youth +Upon an alien man, mine enemy, +Thy nation's enemy. In truth, in truth, +This likes me very well. My most dear child, +Forget yon grave dark mariner. The Lord +Everlasting,' I besought, 'bring it to pass.' + +Stealeth a darker day within my hall, +A winter day of wind and driving foam. +They tell me that my girl is sick--and yet +Not very sick. I may not hour by hour, +More than one watching of a moon that wanes, +Make chronicle of change. A parlous change +When he looks back to that same moon at full. + +Ah! ah! methought, 't will pass. It did not pass, +Though never she made moan. I saw the rings +Drop from her small white wasted hand. And I, +Her father, tamed of grief, I would have given +My land, my name to have her as of old. +Ay, Rosamund I speak of with the small +White face. Ay, Rosamund. O near as white, +And mournfuller by much, her mother dear +Drooped by her couch; and while of hope and fear +Lifted or left, as by a changeful tide, +We thought 'The girl is better,' or we thought +'The girl will die,' that jewel from her neck +She drew, and prayed me send it to her love; +A token she was true e'en to the end. +What matter'd now? But whom to send, and how +To reach the man? I found an old poor priest, +Some peril 't was for him and me, she writ +My pretty Rosamund her heart's farewell, +She kissed the letter, and that old poor priest, +Who had eaten of my bread, and shelter'd him +Under my roof in troublous times, he took, +And to content her on this errand went, +While she as done with earth did wait the end. + +Mankind bemoan them on the bitterness +Of death. Nay, rather let them chide the grief +Of living, chide the waste of mother-love +For babes that joy to get away to God; +The waste of work and moil and thought and thrift +And father-love for sons that heed it not, +And daughters lost and gone. Ay, let them chide +These. Yet I chide not. That which I have done +Was rightly done; and what thereon befell +Could make no right a wrong, e'en were 't to do +Again. + I will be brief. The days drag on, +My soul forebodes her death, my lonely age. +Once I despondent in the moaning wood +Look out, and lo a caravel at sea, +A man that climbs the rock, and presently +The Spaniard! + I did greet him, proud no more. +He had braved durance, as I knew, ay death, +To land on th' Island soil. In broken words +Of English he did ask me how she fared. +Quoth I, 'She is dying, Spaniard; Rosamund +My girl will die;' but he is fain, saith he, +To talk with her, and all his mind to speak; +I answer, 'Ay, my whilome enemy, +But she is dying.' 'Nay, now nay,' quoth he, +'So be she liveth,' and he moved me yet +For answer; then quoth I, 'Come life, come death, +What thou wilt, say.' + Soon made we Rosamund +Aware, she lying on the settle, wan +As a lily in the shade, and while she not +Believed for marvelling, comes he roundly in, +The tall grave Spaniard, and with but one smile, +One look of ruth upon her small pale face, +All slowly as with unaccustom'd mouth, +Betakes him to that English he hath conned, +Setting the words out plain: + 'Child! Rosamund! +Love! An so please thee, I would be thy man. +By all the saints will I be good to thee. +Come.' + Come! what think you, would she come? Ay, ay. +They love us, but our love is not their life. +For the dark mariner's love lived Rosamund. +Soon for his kiss she bloomed, smiled for his smile. +(The Spaniard reaped e'en as th' Evangel saith, +And bore in 's bosom forth my golden sheaf.) +She loved her father and her mother well, +But loved the Spaniard better. It was sad +To part, but she did part; and it was far +To go, but she did go. The priest was brought, +The ring was bless'd that bound my Rosamund, +She sailed, and I shall never see her more. + +One soweth and another reapeth. Ay, +Too true! too true! + + + + +ECHO AND THE FERRY. + + +Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven; +He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood. +They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven! +A small guest at the farm); but he said, 'Oh, a girl was no good!' +So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood. +It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl--only seven! +At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out. +The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue birds flash'd about, +And they too were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven? +I thought so. Yes, everyone else was eleven--eleven! + +So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet, +And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was litter'd; +And under and over the branches those little birds twitter'd, +While hanging head downwards they scolded because I was seven. +A pity. A very great pity. One should be eleven. + +But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet, +And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old. +Then I knew! for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold! +Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter; +And then some one else--oh, how softly!--came after, came after +With laughter--with laughter came after. + +And no one was near us to utter that sweet mocking call, +That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall. +But this was the country--perhaps it was close under heaven; +Oh, nothing so likely; the voice might have come from it even. +I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of this +Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings not at all. +Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver: +She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small, +Then flashed down her hole like a dart--like a dart from the quiver. +And I waded atween the long grasses and felt it was bliss. + +--So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiver +And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall +White branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall-- +A little low wall--and looked over, and there was the river, +The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river +Clear shining and slow, she had far far to go from her snow; +But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow, +And she murmur'd, methought, with a speech very soft--very low. +'The ways will be long, but the days will be long,' quoth the river, +'To me a long liver, long, long!' quoth the river--the river. + +I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky, +The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under. +But at last--in a day or two namely--Eleven and I +Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder. +He said that was Echo. 'Was Echo a wise kind of bee +That had learned how to laugh: could it laugh in one's ear and then fly +And laugh again yonder?' 'No; Echo'--he whispered it low-- +'Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see +And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he, +But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder. +Yet I that had money--a shilling, a whole silver shilling-- +We might cross if I thought I would spend it.' 'Oh yes, I was willing'-- +And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry, +And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merry +When they called for the ferry; but oh! she was very--was very +Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when Oliver cried, +'Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry--the ferry!' +By the still water's side she was heard far and wide--she replied +And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, 'You man of the ferry, +You man of--you man of the ferry!' + +'Hie over!' he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling, +Across the clear reed-border'd river he ferried us fast;-- +Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpass'd +All measure her doubling--so close, then so far away falling, +Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware, +And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was there!), +Nor behold her wild eyes and her mystical countenance fair. + +We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead; +In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead; +By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow deep-nested, in brown-- +Not Echo, fair Echo! for Echo, sweet Echo! was flown. +So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call. +The church was among them, grey moss over roof, over wall. +Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green grassy mound +And looked in at a window, for Echo, perhaps, in her round +Might have come in to hide there. But no; every oak-carven seat +Was empty. We saw the great Bible--old, old, very old, +And the parson's great Prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beat +Of the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear gold +Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle and then waver and play +On the low chancel step and the railing, and Oliver said, +'Look, Katie! look, Katie! when Lettice came here to be wed +She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown; +And she stepped upon flowers they strew'd for her.' Then quoth small Seven: +'Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?' +All doubtful: 'It takes a long time to grow up,' quoth Eleven; +'You're so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never +Last on till you're tall.' And in whispers--because it was old +And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told, +Full of old parsons' prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk, +Neither heard nor beheld, but about us, in whispers we spoke. +Then we went from it softly and ran hand in hand to the strand, +While bleating of flocks and birds' piping made sweeter the land. +And Echo came back e'en as Oliver drew to the ferry, +'O Katie!' 'O Katie!' 'Come on, then!' 'Come on, then!' 'For, see, +The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree'--'by the tree.' +'By the tree.' Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and merry: +'Hie over!' 'Hie over!' 'You man of the ferry'--'the ferry.' + 'You man of the ferry-- + You man of--you man of--the ferry.' + +Ay, here--it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old; +All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told. +Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white +To that little low church? and will Oliver meet me anon? +Will it all seem an echo from childhood pass'd over--pass'd on? +Will the grave parson bless us? Hark, hark! in the dim failing light +I hear her! As then the child's voice clear and high, sweet and merry +Now she mocks the man's tone with 'Hie over! Hie over the ferry!' +'And, Katie.' 'And, Katie.' 'Art out with the glow-worms to-night, +My Katie?' 'My Katie?' For gladness I break into laughter +And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years; +Again, some one else--oh, how softly!--with laughter comes after, + Comes after--with laughter comes after. + + + + +PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. + + +_A Schoolroom._ + +_SCHOOLMASTER (_not certificated_), VICAR, _and_ CHILD. + + _VICAR_. Why did you send for me? I hope all's +right? + + _Schoolmaster_. Well, sir, we thought this end o' the room +was dark. + + _V_. Indeed! So 't is. There's my new study lamp-- + + _S_. 'T would stand, sir, well beside yon laurel wreath. +Shall I go fetch it? + + _V._ Do, we must not fail. +Bring candles also. + +[_Exit Schoolmaster. Vicar arranges chairs._ + + Now, small six years old, +And why may you be here? + + _Child._ I'm helping father; +But, father, why d'you take such pains? + + _V._ Sweet soul, +That's what I'm for! + + _C._ What, and for nothing else? + + _V._ Yes! I'm to bring thee up to be a man. + + _C._ And what am I for? + + _V._ There, I'm busy now. + + _C._ Am I to bring you up to be a child? + + _V._ Perhaps! Indeed, I have heard it said thou art. + + _C._ Then when may I begin? + + _V._ I'm busy, I say. +Begin to-morrow an thou canst, my son, +And mind to do it well. + +[_Exit Vicar and Child._ + +_Enter a group of women, and some children._ + + _Mrs. Thorpe._ Fine lot o' lights! + + _Mrs. Jillifer._ Should be! Would folk put on their Sunday best +I' the week unless they looked to have it seen? +What, you here, neighbour! + + _Mrs. Smith._ Ay, you may say that. +Old Madam called; said she, 'My son would feel +So sorry if you did not come,' and slipped +The penny in my hand, she did; said I, +'Ma'am, that's not it. In short, some say your last +Was worth the penny and more. I know a man, +A sober man, who said, and stuck to it, +_Worth a good twopence_. But I'm strange, I'm shy.' +'We hope you'll come for once,' said she. In short, +I said I would to oblige 'em. + + _Mrs. Green_. Ah, 't was well. + + _Mrs. S_. But I feel strange, and music gets i' my throat, +It always did. And singers be so smart, +Ladies and folk from other parishes, +Candles and cheering, greens and flowers and all +I was not used to such in my young day; +We kept ourselves at home. + + _Mrs. J_. Never say 'used,' +The most of us have many a thing to do +We were not used to. If you come to that, +Why none of us are used to growing old, +It takes us by surprise, as one may say, +That work, when we begin 't, and yet 't is work +That all of us must do. + + _Mrs. G_. Nay, nay, not all. + + _Mrs. J_. I ask your pardon, neighbour; you be right. Not all. + + _Mrs. G_. And my sweet maid scarce three months dead. + + _Mrs. J_. I ask your pardon truly. + + _Mrs. G_. No, my dear, +Thou'lt never see old days. I cannot stint +To fret, the maiden was but twelve years old, +So toward, such a scholar. + + _Mrs. S._ Ay, when God, +That knows, comes down to choose, He'll take the best. + + _Mrs. T._ But I'm right glad you came, it pleases _them_. +My son, that loves his book, 'Mother,' said he, +'Go to the Reading when you have a chance, +For there you get a change, and you see life.' +But Reading or no Reading, I am slow +To learn. When parson after comes his rounds, +'Did it,' to ask with a persuading smile, +'Open your mind?' the woman doth not live +Feels more a fool. + + _Mrs. J._ I always tell him 'Yes,' +For he means well. Ay, and I like the songs. +Have you heard say what they shall read to-night? + + _Mrs. S._. Neighbour, I hear 'tis something of the East. +But what, I ask you, is the East to us, +And where d'ye think it lies? + + _Mrs. J._ The children know, +At least they say they do; there's nothing deep +Nor nothing strange but they get hold on it. + +_Enter Schoolmaster and a dozen children._ + + _S._ Now ladies, ladies, you must please to sit +More close; the room fills fast, and all these lads +And maidens either have to sing before +The Reading, or else after. By your leave +I'll have them in the front, I want them here. + +[_The women make room._ + +_Enter ploughmen, villagers, servants, and children._ + +And mark me, boys, if I hear cracking o' nuts, +Or see you flicking acorns and what not +While folks from other parishes observe, +You'll hear on it when you don't look to. Tom +And Jemmy and Roger, sing as loud's ye can, +Sing as the maidens do, are they afraid? +And now I'm stationed handy facing you, +Friends all, I'll drop a word by your good leave. + + _Young ploughman._ Do, master, do, we like your words a vast. +Though there be nought to back 'em up, ye see, +As when we were smaller. + + _S._ Mark me, then, my lads. +When Lady Laura sang, 'I don't think much,' +Says her fine coachman, 'of your manners here. +We drove eleven miles in the dark, it rained, +And ruts in your cross roads are deep. We're here, +My lady sings, they sit all open-mouthed, +And when she's done they never give one cheer.' + + _Old man._ Be folks to clap if they don't like the song? + + _S._ Certain, for manners. + +_Enter_ VICAR, _wife, various friends with violins and a flute. +They come to a piano, and one begins softly to tune his +violin, while the Vicar speaks_. + +_V_. Friends, since there is a place where you must hear +When I stand up to speak, I would not now +If there were any other found to bid +You welcome. Welcome, then; these with me ask +No better than to please, and in good sooth +I ever find you willing to be pleased. +When I demand not more, but when we fain +Would lead you to some knowledge fresh, and ask +Your careful heed, I hear that some of you +Have said, 'What good to know, what good to us? +He puts us all to school, and our school days +Should be at end. Nay, if they needs must teach, +Then let them teach us what shall mend our lot; +The laws are strict on us, the world is hard.' +You friends and neighbours, may I dare to speak? +I know the laws are strict, and the world hard, +For ever will the world help that man up +That is already coming up, and still +And ever help him down that's going down. +Yet say, 'I will take the words out of thy mouth, +O world, being yet more strict with mine own life. +Thou law, to gaze shall not be worth thy while +On whom beyond thy power doth rule himself.' +Yet seek to know, for whoso seek to know +They seek to rise, and best they mend their lot. +Methinks, if Adam and Eve in their garden days +Had scorned the serpent, and obediently +Continued God's good children, He Himself +Had led them to the Tree of Knowledge soon +And bid them eat the fruit thereof, and yet +Not find it apples of death. + + _Vicar's wife (aside)._ Now, dearest John, +We're ready. Lucky too! you always go +Above the people's heads. + +_Young farmer stands forward. Vicar presenting him._ + + +SONG. + + I. + + Sparkle of snow and of frost, + Blythe air and the joy of cold, + Their grace and good they have lost, + As print o' her foot by the fold. + Let me back to yon desert sand, + Rose-lipped love--from the fold, + Flower-fair girl--from the fold, + Let me back to the sultry land. + The world is empty of cheer, + Forlorn, forlorn, and forlorn, + As the night-owl's sob of fear, + As Memnon moaning at morn. + For love of thee, my dear, + I have lived a better man, + O my Mary Anne, + My Mary Anne. + + II. + + Away, away, and away, + To an old palm-land of tombs, + Washed clear of our yesterday + And where never a snowdrop blooms, + Nor wild becks talk as they go + Of tender hope we had known, + Nor mosses of memory grow + All over the wayside stone. + + III. + + Farewell, farewell, and farewell, + As voice of a lover's sigh + In the wind let yon willow wave + 'Farewell, farewell, and farewell.' + The sparkling frost-stars brave + On thy shrouded bosom lie; + Thou art gone apart to dwell, + But I fain would have said good-bye. + For love of thee in thy grave + I have lived a better man, + O my Mary Anne, + My Mary Anne. + + + _Mrs. Thorpe (aside)._ O hearts! why, what a song! +To think on it, and he a married man! + + _Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ Bless you, that makes for nothing, nothing at + all, +They take no heed upon the words. His wife, +Look you, as pleased as may be, smiles on him. + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ Neighbours, there's one thing beats me. We've enough +O' trouble in the world; I've cried my fill +Many and many a time by my own fire: +Now why, I'll ask you, should it comfort me +And ease my heart when, pitiful and sweet, +One sings of other souls and how they mourned? +A body would have thought that did not know +Songs must be merry, full of feast and mirth. +Or else would all folk flee away from them. + + _Mrs. S. (aside)._ 'Tis strange, and I too love the sad ones best. + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ Ay, how they clap him! +'Tis as who should say, +Sing! we were pleased; sing us another song; +As if they did not know he loves to sing. +Well may he, not an organ pipe they blow +On Sunday in the church is half so sweet; +But he's a hard man. + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Mark me, neighbours all, +Hard though he be--ay, and the mistress hard-- +If he do sing 'twill be a sorrowful +Sad tale of sweethearts, that shall make you wish +Your own time would come over again, although +Were partings in 't and tears. Hist! now he sings. + +_Young farmer sings again._ + + +'Come hither, come hither.' The broom was in blossom all over yon rise; + There went a wide murmur of brown bees about it with songs from the wood. +'We shall never be younger! O love, let us forth, for the world 'neath our + eyes, + Ay, the world is made young e'en as we, and right fair is her youth and + right good.' + +Then there fell the great yearning upon me, that never yet went into words; + While lovesome and moansome thereon spake and falter'd the dove to the + dove. +And I came at her calling, 'Inherit, inherit, and sing with the birds;' + I went up to the wood with the child of my heart and the wife of my love. + +O pure! O pathetic! Wild hyacinths drank it, the dream light, apace + Not a leaf moved at all 'neath the blue, they hung waiting for messages + kind; +Tall cherry-trees dropped their white blossom that drifted no whit from + its place, + For the south very far out to sea had the lulling low voice of the + wind. + +And the child's dancing foot gave us part in the ravishment almost a pain, + An infinite tremor of life, a fond murmur that cried out on time, +Ah short! must all end in the doing and spend itself sweetly in vain, + And the promise be only fulfilment to lean from the height of its prime? + +'We shall never be younger;' nay, mock me not, fancy, none call from yon + tree; + They have thrown me the world they went over, went up, and, alas! For + my part +I am left to grow old, and to grieve, and to change; but they change not + with me; + They will never be older, the child of my love, and the wife of my + heart. + + + _Mrs. J. I_ told you so! + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ That did you, neighbour. Ay, +Partings, said you, and tears: I liked the song. + + _Mrs. G_. Who be these coming to the front to sing? + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Why, neighbour, these be sweethearts, so 'tis said, +And there was much ado to make her sing; +She would, and would not; and he wanted her, +And, mayhap, wanted to be seen with her. +'Tis Tomlin's pretty maid, his only one. + + _Mrs. G. (aside)._ I did not know the maid, so fair she looks. + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ He's a right proper man she has at last; +Walks over many a mile (and counts them nought) +To court her after work hours, that he doth, +Not like her other--why, he'd let his work +Go all to wrack, and lay it to his love, +While he would sit and look, and look and sigh. +Her father sent him to the right-about. +'If love,' said he, 'won't make a man of you, +Why, nothing will! 'Tis mainly that love's for. +The right sort makes,' said he, 'a lad a man; +The wrong sort makes,' said he, 'a man a fool.' + + _Vicar presents a young man and a girl._ + + +DUET. + + _She_. While he dreams, mine old grand sire, + And yon red logs glow, + Honey, whisper by the fire, + Whisper, honey low. + + _He_. Honey, high's yon weary hill, + Stiff's yon weary loam; + Lacks the work o' my goodwill, + Fain I'd take thee home. + O how much longer, and longer, and longer, + An' how much longer shall the waiting last? + Berries red are grown, April birds are flown, + Martinmas gone over, ay, and harvest past. + + _She_. Honey, bide, the time's awry, + Bide awhile, let be. + _He_. Take my wage then, lay it by, + Till 't come back with thee. + The red money, the white money, + Both to thee I bring-- + _She_. Bring ye ought beside, honey? + _He_. Honey, ay, the ring. + + _Duet_. But how much longer, and longer, and longer, + O how much longer shall the waiting last? + Berries red are grown, April birds are flown, + Martinmas gone over, and the harvest past. + + + [_Applause._ + + _Mrs. S. (aside)._ O she's a pretty maid, and sings so small + And high, 'tis like a flute. And she must blush + Till all her face is roses newly blown. + How folks do clap. She knows not where to look. +There now she's off; he standing like a man +To face them. + + _Mrs. G. (aside)._ Makes his bow, and after her; +But what's the good of clapping when they're gone? + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ Why 'tis a London fashion as I'm told, +And means they'd have 'em back to sing again. + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Neighbours, look where her father, red as fire, +Sits pleased and 'shamed, smoothing his Sunday hat; +And Parson bustles out. Clap on, clap on. +Coming? Not she! There comes her sweetheart though. + +_Vicar presents the young man again_. + + +SONG. + +I. + +Rain clouds flew beyond the fell, + No more did thunders lower, +Patter, patter, on the beck + Dropt a clearing shower. +Eddying floats of creamy foam + Flecked the waters brown, +As we rode up to cross the ford, + Rode up from yonder town. + Waiting on the weather, + She and I together, + Waiting on the weather, + Till the flood went down. + +II. + +The sun came out, the wet leaf shone, + Dripped the wild wood vine. +Betide me well, betide me woe, + That hour's for ever mine. +With thee Mary, with thee Mary, + Full oft I pace again, +Asleep, awake, up yonder glen, + And hold thy bridle rein. + Waiting on the weather, + Thou and I together, + Waiting on the weather, + Till the flood shall wane. + +III. + +And who, though hope did come to nought, + Would memory give away? +I lighted down, she leaned full low, + Nor chid that hour's delay. +With thee Mary, with thee Mary, + Methought my life to crown, +But we ride up, but we ride up, + No more from yonder town. + Waiting on the weather, + Thou and I together, + Waiting on the weather, + Till the flood go down. + + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Well, very well; but what of fiddler Sam? +I ask you, neighbours, if't be not his turn. +An honest man, and ever pays his score; +Born in the parish, old, blind as a bat, +And strangers sing before him; 't is a shame! + + _Mrs. S. (aside)._ Ay, but his daughter-- + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Why, the maid's a maid +One would not set to guide the chant in church, +But when she sings to earn her father's bread, +The mildest mother's son may cry 'Amen.' + + _Mrs. S. (aside)._ They say he plays not always true. + + _Mrs. J. (aside)_ What then? + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ Here comes my lady. She's too fat by half +For love songs. O! the lace upon her gown, +I wish I had the getting of it up, +'T would be a pretty penny in my pouch. + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Be quiet now for manners. + +_Vicar presents a lady, who sings_. + + +I + +Dark flocks of wildfowl riding out the storm + Upon a pitching sea, +Beyond grey rollers vex'd that rear and form, +When piping winds urge on their destiny, +To fall back ruined in white continually. +And I at our trysting stone, +Whereto I came down alone, +Was fain o' the wind's wild moan. +O, welcome were wrack and were rain +And beat of the battling main, +For the sake of love's sweet pain, +For the smile in two brown eyes, +For the love in any wise, +To bide though the last day dies; +For a hand on my wet hair, +For a kiss e'en yet I wear, +For--bonny Jock was there. + +II. + +Pale precipices while the sun lay low + Tinct faintly of the rose, +And mountain islands mirror'd in a flow, +Forgotten of all winds (their manifold +Peaks, reared into the glory and the glow), + Floated in purple and gold. + And I, o'er the rocks alone, + Of a shore all silent grown, + Came down to our trysting stone, + And sighed when the solemn ray + Paled in the wake o' the day. + 'Wellaway, wellaway,-- + Comfort is not by the shore, + Going the gold that it wore, + Purple and rose are no more, + World and waters are wan, + And night will be here anon, + And--bonny Jock's gone.' + + + _[Moderate applause, and calls for fiddler Sam_. + + _Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ Now, neighbours, call again and be not shamed; +Stand by the parish, and the parish folk, +Them that are poor. I told you! here he comes. +Parson looks glum, but brings him and his girl. + +_The fiddler Sam plays, and his daughter sings_. + + + Touch the sweet string. Fly forth, my heart, + Upon the music like a bird; + The silvery notes shall add their part, + And haply yet thou shalt be heard. + Touch the sweet string. + + The youngest wren of nine + Dimpled, dark, and merry, + Brown her locks, and her two eyne + Browner than a berry. + + When I was not in love + Maidens met I many; + Under sun now walks but one, + Nor others mark I any. + +Twin lambs, a mild-eyed ewe, + That would her follow bleating, +A heifer white as snow + I'll give to my sweet sweeting. + +Touch the sweet string. If yet too young, + O love of loves, for this my song, +I'll pray thee count it all unsung, + And wait thy leisure, wait it long. + Touch the sweet string. + + + [_Much applause_. + + _Vicar_. You hear them, Sam. You needs must play + again, +Your neighbours ask it. + + _Fiddler_. Thank ye, neighbours all, +I have my feelings though I be but poor; +I've tanged the fiddle here this forty year, +And I should know the trick on 't. + +_The fiddler plays, and his daughter sings_. + + +For Exmoor-- +For Exmoor, where the red deer run, my weary heart + doth cry. +She that will a rover wed, far her foot shall his. +Narrow, narrow, shows the street, dull the narrow sky. +_(Buy my cherries, whiteheart cherries, good my masters_, + _buy_.) + +For Exmoor-- +O he left me, left alone, aye to think and sigh, +'Lambs feed down yon sunny coombe, hind and yearling + shy, +Mid the shrouding vapours walk now like ghosts on high.' +(_Buy my cherries, blackheart cherries, lads and lassies, buy_.) + +For Exmoor-- +Dear my dear, why did ye so? Evil days have I, +Mark no more the antler'd stag, hear the curlew cry. +Milking at my father's gate while he leans anigh. +(_Buy my cherries, whiteheart, blackheart, golden girls, O buy._) + + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ I've known him play that Exmoor + song afore. +'Ah me! and I'm from Exmoor. I could wish +To hear 't no more. + + _Mrs. S. (aside)._ Neighbours, 't is mighty hot. +Ay, now they throw the window up, that's well, +A body could not breathe. + + [_The fiddler and his daughter go away._ + + _Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ They'll hear no parson's preaching, + no not they! +But innocenter songs, I do allow, +They could not well have sung than these to-night. +That man knows just so well as if he saw +They were not welcome. + +_The Vicar stands up, on the point of beginning to read, when the tuning +and twang of the fiddle is heard close outside the open window, and the +daughter sings in a clear cheerful voice. A little tittering is heard +in the room, and the Vicar pauses discomfited_. + + +I. + +O my heart! what a coil is here! +Laurie, why will ye hold me dear? +Laurie, Laurie, lad, make not wail, +With a wiser lass ye'll sure prevail, +For ye sing like a woodland nightingale. +And there's no sense in it under the sun; +For of three that woo I can take but one, +So what's to be done--what's to be done? + And +There's no sense in it under the sun. + +II. + +Hal, brave Hal, from your foreign parts +Come home you'll choose among kinder hearts. +Forget, forget, you're too good to hold +A fancy 't were best should faint, grow cold, +And fade like an August marigold; +For of three that woo I can take but one, +And what's to be done--what's to be done? +There's no sense in it under the sun, + And +Of three that woo I can take but one. + +III. + +Geordie, Geordie, I count you true, +Though language sweet I have none for you. +Nay, but take me home to the churning mill +When cherry boughs white on yon mounting hill +Hang over the tufts o' the daffodil. +For what's to be done--what's to be done? +Of three that woo I must e'en take one, +Or there's no sense in it under the sun, + And +What's to be done--what's to be done? + + _V_. (_aside_). What's to be done, indeed! + + _Wife_ (_aside_). Done! nothing, love. +Either the thing has done itself, or _they_ +Must undo. Did they call for fiddler Sam? +Well, now they have him. + + + [_More tuning heard outside_. + + _Mrs. J_. (_aside_). Live and let live's my motto. + + _Mrs. T_. So 't is mine. +Who's Sam, that he must fly in Parson's face? +He's had his turn. He never gave these lights, +Cut his best flowers-- + + _Mrs. S_. (_aside_). He takes no pride in us. +Speak up, good neighbour, get the window shut. + + _Mrs. J_. (_rising_). I ask your pardon truly, that I do-- +La! but the window--there's a parlous draught; +The window punishes rheumatic folk-- +We'd have it shut, sir. + + _Others_. Truly, that we would. + + _V_. Certainly, certainly, my friends, you shall. + + [_The window is shut, and the Reading begins amid marked + attention_. + + + + +KISMET. + + +Into the rock the road is cut full deep, + At its low ledges village children play, +From its high rifts fountains of leafage weep, + And silvery birches sway. + +The boldest climbers have its face forsworn, + Sheer as a wall it doth all daring flout; +But benchlike at its base, and weather-worn, + A narrow ledge leans out. + +There do they set forth feasts in dishes rude + Wrought of the rush--wild strawberries on the bed +Left into August, apples brown and crude, + Cress from the cold well-head. + +Shy gamesome girls, small daring imps of boys, + But gentle, almost silent at their play-- +Their fledgling daws, for food, make far more noise + Ranged on the ledge than they. + +The children and the purple martins share + (Loveliest of birds) possession of the place; +They veer and dart cream-breasted round the fair + Faces with wild sweet grace. + +Fresh haply from Palmyra desolate, + Palmyra pale in light and storyless-- +From perching in old Tadmor mate by mate + In the waste wilderness. + +These know the world; what do the children know? + They know the woods, their groaning noises weird, +They climb in trees that overhang the slow + Deep mill-stream, loved and feared. + +Where shaken water-wheels go creak and clack, + List while a lorn thrush calls and almost speaks; +See willow-wrens with elderberries black + Staining their slender beaks. + +They know full well how squirrels spend the day; + They peeped when field-mice stole and stored the seed, +And voles along their under-water way + Donned collars of bright beads. + +Still from the deep-cut road they love to mark + Where set, as in a frame, the nearer shapes +Rise out of hill and wood; then long downs dark + As purple bloom on grapes. + +But farms whereon the tall wheat musters gold, + High barley whitening, creases in bare hills, +Reed-feathered, castle-like brown churches old, + Nor churning water-mills, + +Shall make ought seem so fair as that beyond-- + Beyond the down, which draws their fealty; +Blow high, blow low, some hearts do aye respond + The wind is from the sea. + +Above the steep-cut steps as they did grow, + The children's cottage homes embowered are seen; +Were this a world unfallen, they scarce could show + More beauteous red and green. + +Milk-white and vestal-chaste the hollyhock + Grows tall, clove, sweetgale nightly shed forth spice, +Long woodbines leaning over scent the rock + With airs of Paradise. + +Here comforted of pilot stars they lie + In charmèd dreams, but not of wold nor lea. +Behold a ship! her wide yards score the sky; + She sails a steel-blue sea. + +As turns the great amassment of the tide, + Drawn of the silver despot to her throne, +So turn the destined souls, so far and wide + The strong deep claims its own. + +Still the old tale; these dreaming islanders, + Each with hot Sunderbunds a somewhat owns +That calls, the grandsire's blood within them stirs + Dutch Java guards his bones. + +And these were orphan'd when a leak was sprung + Far out from land when all the air was balm; +The shipmen saw their faces as they hung, + And sank in the glassy calm. + +These, in an orange-sloop their father plied, + Deck-laden deep she sailed from Cadiz town, +A black squall rose, she turned upon her side, + Drank water and went down. + +They too shall sail. High names of alien lands + Are in the dream, great names their fathers knew; +Madras, the white surf rearing on her sands, + E'en they shall breast it too. + +See threads of scarlet down fell Roa creep, + When moaning winds rend back her vapourous veil; +Wild Orinoco wedge-like split the deep, + Raging forth passion-pale; + +Or a blue berg at sunrise glittering tall, + Great as a town adrift come shining on +With sharp spires, gemlike as the mystical + Clear city of Saint John. + +Still the old tale; but they are children yet; + O let their mothers have them while they may! +Soon it shall work, the strange mysterious fret + That mars both toil and play. + +The sea will claim its own; and some shall mourn; + They also, they, but yet will surely go; +So surely as the planet to its bourne, + The chamois to his snow. + +'Father, dear father, bid us now God-speed; + We cannot choose but sail, it thus befell.' +'Mother, dear mother--' 'Nay, 't is all decreed. +Dear hearts, farewell, farewell!' + + + + +DORA. + + +A waxing moon that, crescent yet, +In all its silver beauty set, +And rose no more in the lonesome night +To shed full-orbed its longed-for light. +Then was it dark; on wold and lea, + In home, in heart, the hours were drear. +Father and mother could no light see, + And the hearts trembled and there was fear. +--So on the mount, Christ's chosen three, +Unware that glory it did shroud, +Feared when they entered into the cloud. + +She was the best part of love's fair +Adornment, life's God-given care, +As if He bade them guard His own, +Who should be soon anear His throne. +Dutiful, happy, and who say +When childhood smiles itself away, +'More fair than morn shall prove the day.' +Sweet souls so nigh to God that rest, +How shall be bettering of your best! +That promise heaven alone shall view, +That hope can ne'er with us come true, +That prophecy life hath not skill, +No, nor time leave that it fulfil. + +There is but heaven, for childhood never +Can yield the all it meant, for ever. +Or is there earth, must wane to less +What dawned so close by perfectness. + +How guileless, sweet, by gift divine, +How beautiful, dear child, was thine-- +Spared all their grief of thee bereaven. +Winner, who had not greatly striven, +Hurts of sin shall not thee soil, +Carking care thy beauty spoil. +So early blest, so young forgiven. + +Among the meadows fresh to view, +And in the woodland ways she grew, +On either side a hand to hold, +Nor the world's worst of evil knew, +Nor rued its miseries manifold, +Nor made discovery of its cold. +What more, like one with morn content. +Or of the morrow diffident, +Unconscious, beautiful she stood, +Calm, in young stainless maidenhood. +Then, with the last steps childhood trod, +Took up her fifteen years to God. + +Farewell, sweet hope, not long to last, +All life is better for thy past. +Farewell till love with sorrow meet, +To learn that tears are obsolete. + + + + +SPERANZA. + + +_Her younger sister, that Speranza hight_. + +England puts on her purple, and pale, pale + With too much light, the primrose doth but wait +To meet the hyacinth; then bower and dale + Shall lose her and each fairy woodland mate. +April forgets them, for their utmost sum +Of gift was silent, and the birds are come. + +The world is stirring, many voices blend, + The English are at work in field and way; +All the good finches on their wives attend, + And emmets their new towns lay out in clay; +Only the cuckoo-bird only doth say +Her beautiful name, and float at large all day. + +Everywhere ring sweet clamours, chirrupping, + Chirping, that comes before the grasshopper; +The wide woods, flurried with the pulse of spring, + Shake out their wrinkled buds with tremor and stir; +Small noises, little cries, the ear receives +Light as a rustling foot on last year's leaves. + +All in deep dew the satisfied deep grass + Looking straight upward stars itself with white, +Like ships in heaven full-sailed do long clouds pass + Slowly o'er this great peace, and wide sweet light. +While through moist meads draws down yon rushy mere + Influent waters, sobbing, shining, clear. + +Almost is rapture poignant; somewhat ails + The heart and mocks the morning; somewhat sighs, +And those sweet foreigners, the nightingales, + Made restless with their love, pay down its price, +Even the pain; then all the story unfold +Over and over again--yet 't is not told. + +The mystery of the world whose name is life + (One of the names of God) all-conquering wends +And works for aye with rest and cold at strife. + Its pedigree goes up to Him and ends. +For it the lucent heavens are clear o'erhead, +And all the meads are made its natal bed. + +Dear is the light, and eye-sight ever sweet, + What see they all fair lower things that nurse, +No wonder, and no doubt? Truly their meat, +Their kind, their field, their foes; man's eyes are more; + Sight is man's having of the universe, +His pass to the majestical far shore. + +But it is not enough, ah! not enough + To look upon it and be held away, +And to be sure that, while we tread the rough, + Remote, dull paths of this dull world, no ray +Shall pierce to us from the inner soul of things, +Nor voice thrill out from its deep master-strings. + +'To show the skies, and tether to the sod! + A daunting gift!' we mourn in our long strife. +And God is more than all our thought of God; + E'en life itself more than our thought of life, +And that is all we know--and it is noon, +Our little day will soon be done--how soon! + +O let us to ourselves be dutiful: + We are not satisfied, we have wanted all, +Not alone beauty, but that Beautiful; + A lifted veil, an answering mystical. +Ever men plead, and plain, admire, implore, +'Why gavest Thou so much--and yet--not more? + +We are but let to look, and Hope is weighed.' + Yet, say the Indian words of sweet renown, +'The doomèd tree withholdeth not her shade + From him that bears the axe to cut her down;' +Is hope cut down, dead, doomed, all is vain: +The third day dawns, she too has risen again + +(For Faith is ours by gift, but Hope by right), + And walks among us whispering as of yore: +'Glory and grace are thrown thee with the light; + Search, if not yet thou touch the mystic shore; +Immanent beauty and good are nigh at hand, +For infants laugh and snowdrops bloom in the land. + +Thou shalt have more anon.' What more? in sooth, + The mother of to-morrow is to-day, +And brings forth after her kind. There is no ruth +On the heart's sigh, that 'more' is hidden away, +And man's to-morrow yet shall pine and yearn; +He shall surmise, and he shall not discern, + +But list the lark, and want the rapturous cries + And passioning of morning stars that sing +Together; mark the meadow-orchis rise + And think it freckled after an angel's wing; +Absent desire his land, and feel this, one +With the great drawing of the central sun. + +But not to all such dower, for there be eyes + Are colour-blind, and souls are spirit-blind. +Those never saw the blush in sunset skies, +Nor the others caught a sense not made of words + As if were spirits about, that sailed the wind +And sank and settled on the boughs like birds. + +Yet such for aye divided from us are + As other galaxies that seem no more +Than a little golden millet-seed afar. + Divided; swarming down some flat lee shore, +Then risen, while all the air that takes no word +Tingles, and trembles as with cries not heard. + +For they can come no nearer. There is found + No meeting point. We have pierced the lodging-place +Of stars that cluster'd with their peers lie bound, + Embedded thick, sunk in the seas of space, +Fortunate orbs that know not night, for all +Are suns;--but we have never heard that call, + +Nor learned it in our world, our citadel + With outworks of a Power about it traced; +Nor why we needs must sin who would do well, + Nor why the want of love, nor why its waste, +Nor how by dying of One should all be sped, +Nor where, O Lord, thou hast laid up our dead. + +But Hope is ours by right, and Faith by gift. + Though Time be as a moon upon the wane, +Who walk with Faith far up the azure lift + Oft hear her talk of lights to wax again. +'If man be lost,' she cries, 'in this vast sea +Of being,--lost--he would be lost with Thee + +Who for his sake once, as he hears, lost all. + For Thou wilt find him at the end of the days: +Then shall the flocking souls that thicker fall + Than snowflakes on the everlasting ways +Be counted, gathered, claimed.--Will it be long? +Earth has begun already her swan-song. + +Who, even that might, would dwell for ever pent + In this fair frame that doth the spirit inhearse, +Nor at the last grow weary and content, + Die, and break forth into the universe, +And yet man would not all things--all--were new.' +Then saith the other, that one robed in blue: + +'What if with subtle change God touch their eyes + When he awakes them,--not far off, but here +In a new earth, this: not in any wise + Strange, but more homely sweet, more heavenly dear, +Or if He roll away, as clouds disperse +Somewhat, and lo, that other universe. + +O how 't were sweet new waked in some good hour, + Long time to sit on a hillside green and high +There like a honeybee domed in a flower + To feed unneath the azure bell o' the sky, +Feed in the midmost home and fount of light +Sown thick with stars at noonday as by night + +To watch the flying faultless ones wheel down, + Alight, and run along some ridged peak, +Their feet adust from orbs of old renown, + Procyon or Mazzaroth, haply;--when they speak +Other-world errands wondrous, all discern +That would be strange, there would be much to learn. + +Ay, and it would be sweet to share unblamed + Love's shining truths that tell themselves in tears, +Or to confess and be no more ashamed + The wrongs that none can right through earthly years; +And seldom laugh, because the tenderness +Calm, perfect, would be more than joy--would bless. + +I tell you it were sweet to have enough, + And be enough. Among the souls forgiven +In presence of all worlds, without rebuff + To move, and feel the excellent safety leaven +With peace that awe must loss and the grave survive-- +But palpitating moons that are alive + +Nor shining fogs swept up together afar, + Vast as a thought of God, in the firmament; +No, and to dart as light from star to star + Would not long time man's yearning soul content: +Albeit were no more ships and no more sea, +He would desire his new earth presently. + +Leisure to learn it. Peoples would be here; + They would come on in troops, and take at will +The forms, the faces they did use to wear + With life's first splendours--raiment rich with skill +Of broidery, carved adornments, crowns of gold; +Still would be sweet to them the life of old. + +Then might be gatherings under golden shade, + Where dust of water drifts from some sheer fall, +Cooling day's ardour. There be utterance made + Of comforted love, dear freedom after thrall, +Large longings of the Seer, through earthly years +An everlasting burden, but no tears. + +Egypt's adopted child might tell of lore + They taught him underground in shrines all dim, +And of the live tame reptile gods that wore + Gold anklets on their feet. And after him, +With fairest eyes ere met of mortal ken, +Glorious, forgiven, might speak the mother of men. + +Talk of her apples gather'd by the marge + Of lapsing Gihon. 'Thus one spoke, I stood, +I ate.' Or next the mariner-saint enlarge + Right quaintly on his ark of gopher wood +To wandering men through high grass meads that ran +Or sailed the sea Mediterranean. + +It might be common--earth afforested + Newly, to follow her great ones to the sun, +When from transcendent aisles of gloom they sped + Some work august (there would be work) now done. +And list, and their high matters strive to scan + The seekers after God, and lovers of man, + +Sitting together in amity on a hill, + The Saint of Visions from Greek Patmos come-- +Aurelius, lordly, calm-eyed, as of will + Austere, yet having rue on lost, lost Rome, +And with them One who drank a fateful bowl, +And to the unknown God trusted his soul. + +The mitred Cranmer pitied even there + (But could it be?) for that false hand which signed +O, all pathetic--no. But it might bear + To soothe him marks of fire--and gladsome kind +The man, as all of joy him well beseemed +Who 'lighted on a certain place and dreamed.' + +And fair with the meaning of life their divine brows, + The daughters of well-doing famed in song; +But what! could old-world love for child, for spouse, + For land, content through lapsing eons long? +Oh for a watchword strong to bridge the deep +And satisfy of fulness after sleep. + +What know we? Whispers fall, '_And the last first, + And the first last._' The child before the king? +The slave before that man a master erst? + The woman before her lord? Shall glory fling +The rolls aside--time raze out triumphs past? +They sigh, '_And the last first, and the first last._' + +Answers that other, 'Lady, sister, friend, + It is enough, for I have worshipped Life; +With Him that is the Life man's life shall blend, + E'en now the sacred heavens do help his strife. +There do they knead his bread and mix his cup, +And all the stars have leave to bear him up. + +Yet must he sink and fall away to a sleep, + As did his Lord. This Life his worshipped +Religion, Life. The silence may be deep, + Life listening, watching, waiting by His dead, +Till at the end of days they wake full fain +Because their King, the Life, doth love and reign. + +I know the King shall come to that new earth, + And His feet stand again as once they stood, +In His man's eyes will shine Time's end and worth + The chiefest beauty and the chiefest good, +And all shall have the all and in it bide, +And every soul of man be satisfied. + + + + +THE BEGINNING. + + +They tell strange things of the primeval earth, +But things that be are never strange to those +Among them. And we know what it was like, +Many are sure they walked in it; the proof +This, the all gracious, all admired whole +Called life, called world, called thought, was all as one. +Nor yet divided more than that old earth +Among the tribes. Self was not fully come-- +Self was asleep, embedded in the whole. + +I too dwelt once in a primeval world, +Such as they tell of, all things wonderful; +Voices, ay visions, people grand and tall +Thronged in it, but their talk was overhead +And bore scant meaning, that one wanted not +Whose thought was sight as yet unbound of words, +This kingdom of heaven having entered through +Being a little child. + + Such as can see, +Why should they doubt? The childhood of a race. +The childhood of a soul, hath neither doubt +Nor fear. Where all is super-natural +The guileless heart doth feed on it, no more +Afraid than angels are of heaven. + + Who saith +Another life, the next one shall not have +Another childhood growing gently thus, +Able to bear the poignant sweetness, take +The rich long awful measure of its peace, +Endure the presence sublime. + + I saw +Once in that earth primeval, once--a face, +A little face that yet I dream upon.' + +'Of this world was it?' + 'Not of this world--no, +In the beginning--for methinks it was +In the beginning but an if you ask +How long ago, time was not then, nor date +For marking. It was always long ago, +E'en from the first recalling of it, long +And long ago. + + And I could walk, and went, +Led by the hand through a long mead at morn, +Bathed in a ravishing excess of light. +It throbbed, and as it were fresh fallen from heaven, +Sank deep into the meadow grass. The sun +Gave every blade a bright and a dark side, +Glitter'd on buttercups that topped them, slipped +To soft red puffs, by some called holy-hay. +The wide oaks in their early green stood still +And took delight in it. Brown specks that made +Very sweet noises quivered in the blue; +Then they came down and ran along the brink +Of a long pool, and they were birds. + + The pool +Pranked at the edges with pale peppermint, +A rare amassment of veined cuckoo flowers +And flags blue-green was lying below. This all +Was sight it condescended not to words +Till memory kissed the charmed dream. + + The mead +Hollowing and heaving, in the hollows fair +With dropping roses fell away to it, +A strange sweet place; upon its further side +Some people gently walking took their way +Up to a wood beyond; and also bells +Sang, floated in the air, hummed--what you will.' + +'Then it was Sunday?' + 'Sunday was not yet; +It was a holiday, for all the days +Were holy. It was not our day of rest +(The earth for all her rolling asks not rest, +For she was never weary). + + It was sweet, +Full of dear leisure and perennial peace, +As very old days when life went easily, +Before mankind had lost the wise, the good +Habit of being happy. + + For the pool +A beauteous place it was as might be seen, +That led one down to other meads, and had +Clouds and another sky. I thought to go +Deep down in it, and walk that steep clear slope. + +Then she who led me reached the brink, her foot +Staying to talk with one who met her there. +Here were fresh marvels, sailing things whose vans +Floated them on above the flowering flags. +We moved a little onward, paused again, +And here there was a break in these, and here +There came the vision; for I stooped to gaze +So far as my small height would let me--gaze +Into that pool to see the fishes dart, +And in a moment from her under hills +Came forth a little child who lived down there, +Looked up at me and smiled. We could not talk, +But looked and loved each other. I a hand +Held out to her, so she to me, but ah, +She would not come. Her home, her little bed, +Was doubtless under that soft shining thing +The water, and she wanted not to run +Among red sorrel spires, and fill her hand +In the dry warmed grass with cowslip buds. +Awhile our feeding hearts all satisfied, +Took in the blue of one another's eyes, +Two dimpled creatures, rose-lipped innocent. +But when we fain had kissed--O! the end came, +For snatched aloft, held in the nurse's arms, +She parting with her lover I was borne +Far from that little child. + + And no one knew +She lived down there, but only I; and none +Sought for her, but I yearned for her and left +Part of myself behind, as the lambs leave +Their wool upon a thorn.' + + 'And was she seen +Never again, nor known for what she was?' + +'Never again, for we did leave anon +The pasture and the pool. I know not where +They lie, and sleep a heaven on earth, but know +From thenceforth yearnings for a lost delight; +On certain days I dream about her still.' + + + + +IN THE NURSERY. + + +Where do you go, Bob, when you 're fast asleep?' +'Where? O well, once I went into a deep +Mine, father told of, and a cross man said +He'd make me help to dig, and eat black bread. +I saw the Queen once, in her room, quite near. +She said, "You rude boy, Bob, how came you here?"' + +'Was it like mother's boudoir?' + + 'Grander far, +Gold chairs and things--all over diamonds--Ah!' + +'You're sure it was the Queen?' + 'Of course, a crown +Was on her, and a spangly purple gown.' + +'I went to heaven last night.' + + 'O Lily, no, +How could you?' + + 'Yes I did, they told me so, +And my best doll, my favourite, with the blue +Frock, Jasmine, I took her to heaven too.' +'What was it like?' + + 'A kind of--I can't tell-- +A sort of orchard place in a long dell, +With trees all over flowers. And there were birds +Who could do talking, say soft pretty words; +They let me stroke them, and I showed it all +To Jasmine. And I heard a blue dove call, +"Child, this is heaven." I was not frightened when +It spoke, I said "Where are the angels then?"' + +'Well.' + + 'So it said, "Look up and you shall see." +There were two angels sitting in the tree, +As tall as mother; they had long gold hair. +They let drop down the fruit they gather'd there +And little angels came for it--so sweet. +Here they were beggar children in the street, +And the dove said they had the prettiest things, +And wore their best frocks every day.' + + 'And wings, +Had they no wings?' + + 'O yes, and lined with white +Like swallow wings, so soft--so very light +Fluttering about.' + + 'Well.' + + 'Well, I did not stay, +So that was all.' + + 'They made you go away?' + + +'I did not go--but--I was gone.' + + 'I know.' + +'But it's a pity, Bob, we never go +Together.' + + 'Yes, and have no dreams to tell, +But the next day both know it all quite well.' + +'And, Bob, if I could dream you came with me +You would be there perhaps.' + + 'Perhaps--we'll see.' + + + + +THE AUSTRALIAN BELL-BIRD. + + +Toll-- + Toll.' 'The bell-bird sounding far away, + Hid in a myall grove.' He raised his head, +The bush glowed scarlet in descending day, + A masterless wild country--and he said, +My father ('Toll.') 'Full oft by her to stray, + As if a spirit called, have I been led; +Oft seems she as an echo in my soul +('Toll.') from my native towers by Avon ('Toll'). + +('Toll.') Oft as in a dream I see full fain + The bell-tower beautiful that I love well, +A seemly cluster with her churches twain. + I hear adown the river faint and swell +And lift upon the air that sound again, + It is, it is--how sweet no tongue can tell, +For all the world-wide breadth of shining foam, +The bells of Evesham chiming "Home, sweet home." + +The mind hath mastery thus--it can defy + The sense, and make all one as it DID HEAR-- +Nay, I mean more; the wraiths of sound gone by + Rise; they are present 'neath this dome all clear. +ONE, sounds the bird--a pause--then doth supply + Some ghost of chimes the void expectant ear; +Do they ring bells in heaven? The learnedest soul +Shall not resolve me such a question. ('Toll.') + +('Toll.') Say I am a boy, and fishing stand + By Avon ('Toll.') on line and rod intent, +How glitters deep in dew the meadow land-- + What, dost thou flit, thy ministry all spent, +Not many days we hail such visits bland, + Why steal so soon the rare enravishment? +Ay gone! the soft deceptive echoes roll +Away, and faint into remoteness.' ('Toll.') + +While thus he spoke the doom'd sun touched his bed + In scarlet, all the palpitating air +Still loyal waited on. He dipped his head, + Then all was over, and the dark was there; +And northward, lo! a star, one likewise red + But lurid, starts from out her day-long lair, +Her fellows trail behind; she bears her part, +The balefullest star that shines, the Scorpion's heart + +Or thus of old men feigned, and then did fear, + Then straight crowd forth the great ones of the sky +In flashing flame at strife to reach more near. + The little children of Infinity, +They next look down as to report them 'Here,' + From deeps all thoughts despair and heights past high, +Speeding, not sped, no rest, no goal, no shore, +Still to rush on till time shall be no more. + +'Loved vale of Evesham, 'tis a long farewell, + Not laden orchards nor their April snow +These eyes shall light upon again; the swell + And whisper of thy storied river know, +Nor climb the hill where great old Montfort fell + In a good cause hundreds of years ago; +So fall'n, elect to live till life's ally, +The river of recorded deeds, runs dry. + +This land is very well, this air,' saith he, + 'Is very well, but we want echoes here. +Man's past to feed the air and move the sea; + Ages of toil make English furrows dear, +Enriched by blood shed for his liberty, + Sacred by love's first sigh and life's last fear, +We come of a good nest, for it shall yearn +Poor birds of passage, but may not return, + +Spread younger wings, and beat the winds afar. + There sing more poets in that one small isle +Than all isles else can show--of such you are; + Remote things come to you unsought erewhile, +Near things a long way round as by a star. + Wild dreams!' He laughed, 'A sage right infantile; +With sacred fear behold life's waste deplored, +Undaunted by the leisure of the Lord. + +Ay go, the island dream with eyes make good, + Where Freedom rose, a lodestar to your race; +And Hope that leaning on her anchor stood + Did smile it to her feet: a right small place. +Call her a mother, high such motherhood, + Home in her name and duty in her face; +Call her a ship, her wide arms rake the clouds, +And every wind of God pipes in her shrouds. + +Ay, all the more go you. But some have cried + "The ship is breaking up;" they watch amazed +While urged toward the rocks by some that guide; + Bad steering, reckless steering, she all dazed +Tempteth her doom; yet this have none denied + Ships men have wrecked and palaces have razed, +But never was it known beneath the sun, +They of such wreckage built a goodlier one. + +God help old England an't be thus, nor less + God help the world.' Therewith my mother spake, +'Perhaps He will! by time, by faithlessness, + By the world's want long in the dark awake, +I think He must be almost due: the stress + Of the great tide of life, sharp misery's ache, +In a recluseness of the soul we rue +Far off, but yet--He must be almost due. + +God manifest again, the coming King.' + Then said my father, 'I beheld erewhile, +Sitting up dog-like to the sunrising, + The giant doll in ruins by the Nile, +With hints of red that yet to it doth cling, + Fell, battered, and bewigged its cheeks were vile, +A body of evil with its angel fled, +Whom and his fellow fiends men worshipped. + +The gods die not, long shrouded on their biers, + Somewhere they live, and live in memory yet; +Were not the Israelites for forty years + Hid from them in the desert to forget-- +Did they forget? no more than their lost feres + Sons of to-day with faces southward set, +Who dig for buried lore long ages fled, +And sift for it the sand and search the dead. + +Brown Egypt gave not one great poet birth, + But man was better than his gods, with lay +He soothed them restless, and they zoned the earth, + And crossed the sea; there drank immortal praise; +Then from his own best self with glory and worth + And beauty dowered he them for dateless days. +Ever "their sound goes forth" from shore to shore, +When was there known an hour that they lived more. + +Because they are beloved and not believed, + Admired not feared, they draw men to their feet; +All once, rejected, nothing now, received + Where once found wanting, now the most complete; +Man knows to-day, though manhood stand achieved, + His cradle-rockers made a rustling sweet; +That king reigns longest which did lose his crown, +Stars that by poets shine are stars gone down. + +Still drawn obedient to an unseen hand, + From purer heights comes down the yearning west, +Like to that eagle in the morning land, + That swooping on her predatory quest, +Did from the altar steal a smouldering brand, + The which she bearing home it burned her nest, +And her wide pinions of their plumes bereaven. +Spoiled for glad spiring up the steeps of heaven. + +I say the gods live, and that reign abhor, + And will the nations it should dawn? Will they +Who ride upon the perilous edge of war? + Will such as delve for gold in this our day? +Neither the world will, nor the age will, nor + The soul--and what, it cometh now? Nay, nay, +The weighty sphere, unready for release, +Rolls far in front of that o'ermastering peace. + +Wait and desire it; life waits not, free there + To good, to evil, thy right perilous-- +All shall be fair, and yet it is not fair. + I thank my God He takes th'advantage thus; +He doth not greatly hide, but still declare + Which side He is on and which He loves, to us, +While life impartial aid to both doth lend, +And heed not which the choice nor what the end. + +Among the few upright, O to be found, + And ever search the nobler path, my son, +Nor say 'tis sweet to find me common ground + Too high, too good, shall leave the hours alone-- +Nay, though but one stood on the height renowned, + Deny not hope or will, to be that one. +Is it the many fall'n shall lift the land, +The race, the age!--Nay, 't is the few that stand.' + +While in the lamplight hearkening I sat mute, + Methought 'How soon this fire must needs burn out' +Among the passion flowers and passion fruit + That from the wide verandah hung, misdoubt +Was mine. 'And wherefore made I thus long suit + To leave this old white head? His words devout, +His blessing not to hear who loves me so-- +He that is old, right old--I will not go.' + +But ere the dawn their counsels wrought with me, + And I went forth; alas that I so went +Under the great gum-forest canopy, + The light on every silken filament +Of every flower, a quivering ecstasy + Of perfect paleness made it; sunbeams sent +Up to the leaves with sword-like flash endued +Each turn of that grey drooping multitude. + +I sought to look as in the light of one + Returned. 'Will this be strange to me that day? +Flocks of green parrots clamorous in the sun + Tearing out milky maize--stiff cacti grey +As old men's beards--here stony ranges lone, + Their dust of mighty flocks upon their way +To water, cloudlike on the bush afar, +Like smoke that hangs where old-world cities are. + +Is it not made man's last endowment here + To find a beauty in the wilderness; +Feel the lorn moor above his pastures dear, + Mountains that may not house and will not bless +To draw him even to death? He must insphere + His spirit in the open, so doth less +Desire his feres, and more that unvex'd wold +And fine afforested hills, his dower of old. + +But shall we lose again that new-found sense + Which sees the earth less for our tillage fair? +Oh, let her speak with her best eloquence + To me, but not her first and her right rare +Can equal what I may not take from hence. + The gems are left: it is not otherwhere +The wild Nepèan cleaves her matchless way, +Nor Sydney harbour shall outdo the day. + +Adding to day this--that she lighteth it.' + But I beheld again, and as must be +With a world-record by a spirit writ, + It was more beautiful than memory, +Than hope was more complete. + Tall brigs did sit + Each in her berth the pure flood placidly, +Their topsails drooping 'neath the vast blue dome +Listless, as waiting to be sheeted home. + +And the great ships with pulse-like throbbing clear, + Majestical of mien did take their way +Like living creatures from some grander sphere, + That having boarded ours thought good to stay, +Albeit enslaved. They most divided here + From God's great art and all his works in clay, +In that their beauty lacks, though fair it shows +That divine waste of beauty only He bestows. + +The day was young, scarce out the harbour lights + That morn I sailed: low sun-rays tremulous +On golden loops sped outward. Yachts in flights + Flutter'd the water air-like clear, while thus +It crept for shade among brown rocky bights + With cassia crowned and palms diaphanous, +And boughs ripe fruitage dropping fitfully, +That on the shining ebb went out to sea. + +'Home,' saith the man self-banished, 'my son + Shall now go home.' Therewith he sendeth him +Abroad, and knows it not, but thence is won, + Rescued, the son's true home. His mind doth limn +Beautiful pictures of it, there is none + So dear, a new thought shines erewhile but dim, +'That was my home, a land past all compare, +Life, and the poetry of life, are there.' + +But no such thought drew near to me that day; + All the new worlds flock forth to greet the old, +All the young souls bow down to own its sway, + Enamoured of strange richness manifold; +Not to be stored, albeit they seek for aye, + Besieging it for its own life to hold, +E'en as Al Mamoun fain for treasures hid, +Stormed with an host th' inviolate pyramid. + +And went back foiled but wise to walled Bagdad. + So I, so all. The treasure sought not found, +But some divine tears found to superadd + Themselves to a long story. The great round +Of yesterdays, their pathos sweet as sad, + Found to be only as to-day, close bound +With us, we hope some good thing yet to know, +But God is not in haste, while the lambs grow + +The Shepherd leadeth softly. It is great + The journey, and the flock forgets at last +(Earth ever working to obliterate + The landmarks) when it halted, where it passed; +And words confuse, and time doth ruinate, + And memory fail to hold a theme so vast; +There is request for light, but the flock feeds, +And slowly ever on the Shepherd leads. + +'Home,' quoth my father, and a glassy sea + Made for the stars a mirror of its breast, +While southing, pennon-like, in bravery + Of long drawn gold they trembled to their rest. +Strange the first night and morn, when Destiny + Spread out to float on, all the mind oppressed; +Strange on their outer roof to speed forth thus, +And know th' uncouth sea-beasts stared up at us. + +But yet more strange the nights of falling rain, + That splashed without--a sea-coal fire within; +Life's old things gone astern, the mind's disdain, + For murmurous London makes soft rhythmic din. +All courtier thoughts that wait on words would fain + Express that sound. The words are not to win +Till poet made, but mighty, yet so mild +Shall be as cooing of a cradle-child. + +Sensation like a piercing arrow flies, + Daily out-going thought. This Adamhood, +This weltering river of mankind that hies + Adown the street; it cannot be withstood. +The richest mundane miles not otherwise + Than by a symbol keep possession good, +Mere symbol of division, and they hold +The clear pane sacred, the unminted gold + +And wild outpouring of all wealth not less. + Why this? A million strong the multitude, +And safe, far safer than our wilderness + The walls; for them it daunts with right at feud, +Itself declares for law; yet sore the stress + On steeps of life: what power to ban and bless, +Saintly denial, waste inglorious, +Desperate want, and riches fabulous. + +Of souls what beautiful embodiment + For some; for some what homely housing writ; +What keen-eyed men who beggared of content + Eat bread well earned as they had stolen it; +What flutterers after joy that forward went, + And left them in the rear unqueened, unfit +For joy, with light that faints in strugglings drear +Of all things good the most awanting here. + +Some in the welter of this surging tide + Move like the mystic lamps, the Spirits Seven, +Their burning love runs kindling far and wide, + That fire they needed not to steal from heaven, +'Twas a free gift flung down with them to bide, + And be a comfort for the hearts bereaven, +A warmth, a glow, to make the failing store +And parsimony of emotion more. + +What glorious dreams in that find harbourage, + The phantom of a crime stalks this beside, +And those might well have writ on some past page, + In such an hour, of such a year, we--died, +Put out our souls, took the mean way, false wage, + Course cowardly; and if we be denied +The life once loved, we cannot alway rue +The loss; let be: what vails so sore ado. + +And faces pass of such as give consent + To live because 'tis not worth while to die; +This never knew the awful tremblement + When some great fear sprang forward suddenly, +Its other name being hope--and there forthwent + As both confronted him a rueful cry +From the heart's core, one urging him to dare, +'Now! now! Leap now.' The other, 'Stand, forbear.' + +A nation reared in brick. How shall this be? + Nor by excess of life death overtake. +To die in brick of brick her destiny, + And as the hamadryad eats the snake +His wife, and then the snake his son, so she + Air not enough, 'though everyone doth take +A little,' water scant, a plague of gold, +Light out of date--a multitude born old. + +And then a three-day siege might be the end; + E'en now the rays get muddied struggling down +Through heaven's vasty lofts, and still extend + The miles of brick and none forbid, and none +Forbode; a great world-wonder that doth send + High fame abroad, and fear no setting sun, +But helpless she through wealth that flouts the day +And through her little children, even as they. + +But forth of London, and all visions dear + To eastern poets of a watered land +Are made the commonplace of nature here, + Sweet rivers always full, and always bland. +Beautiful, beautiful! What runlets clear + Twinkle among the grass. On every hand +Fall in the common talk from lips around +The old names of old towns and famous ground. + +It is not likeness only charms the sense, + Not difference only sets the mind aglow, +It is the likeness in the difference, + Familiar language spoken on the snow, +To have the Perfect in the Present tense, + To hear the ploughboy whistling, and to know, +It smacks of the wild bush, that tune--'Tis ours, +And look! the bank is pale with primrose flowers, + +What veils of tender mist make soft the lea, + What bloom of air the height; no veils confer +On warring thought or softness or degree + Or rest. Still falling, conquering, strife and stir. +For this religion pays indemnity. + She pays her enemies for conquering her. +And then her friends; while ever, and in vain +Lots for a seamless coat are cast again. + +Whose it shall be; unless it shall endow + Thousands of thousands it can fall to none, +But faith and hope are not so simple now, + As in the year of our redemption--One. +The pencil of pure light must disallow + Its name and scattering, many hues put on, +And faith and hope low in the valley feel, +There it is well with them, 'tis very well. + +The land is full of vision, voices call. + Can spirits cast a shadow? Ay, I trow +Past is not done, and over is not all, + Opinion dies to live and wanes to grow, +The gossamer of thought doth filmlike fall, + On fallows after dawn make shimmering show, +And with old arrow-heads, her earliest prize, +Mix learning's latest guess and last surmise. + +There heard I pipes of fame, saw wrens 'about + That time when kings go forth to battle' dart, +Full valorous atoms pierced with song, and stout + To dare, and down yclad; I shared the smart +Of grievèd cushats, bloom of love, devout + Beyond man's thought of it. Old song my heart +Rejoiced, but O mine own forelders' ways +To look on, and their fashions of past days. + +The ponderous craft of arms I craved to see, + Knights, burghers, filtering through those gates ajar, +Their age of serfdom with my spirit free; + We cannot all have wisdom; some there are +Believe a star doth rule their destiny, + And yet they think to overreach the star, +For thought can weld together things apart, +And contraries find meeting in the heart. + +In the deep dust at Suez without sound + I saw the Arab children walk at eve, +Their dark untroubled eyes upon the ground, + A part of Time's grave quiet. I receive +Since then a sense, as nature might have found + Love kin to man's that with the past doth grieve; +And lets on waste and dust of ages fall +Her tender silences that mean it all. + +We have it of her, with her; it were ill + For men, if thought were widowed of the world, +Or the world beggared of her sons, for still + A crownèd sphere with many gems impearled +She rolls because of them. We lend her will + And she yields love. The past shall not be hurled +In the abhorred limbo while the twain, +Mother and son, hold partnership and reign. + +She hangs out omens, and doth burdens dree. + Is she in league with heaven? That knows but One. +For man is not, and yet his work we see + Full of unconscious omen darkly done. +I saw the ring-stone wrought at Avebury + To frame the face of the midwinter sun, +Good luck that hour they thought from him forth smiled +At midwinter the Sun did rise--the Child. + +Still would the world divine though man forbore, + And what is beauty but an omen?--what +But life's deep divination cast before, + Omen of coming love? Hard were man's lot, +With love and toil together at his door, + But all-convincing eyes hath beauty got; +His love is beautiful, and he shall sue. +Toil for her sake is sweet, the omen true. + +Love, love, and come it must, then life is found + Beforehand that was whole and fronting care, +A torn and broken half in durance bound + That mourns and makes request for its right fair +Remainder, with forlorn eyes cast around + To search for what is lost, that unaware +With not an hour's forebodement makes the day +From henceforth less or more for ever and aye. + +Her name--my love's--I knew it not; who says + Of vagrant doubt for such a cause that stirs +His fancy shall not pay arrearages + To all sweet names that might perhaps be hers? +The doubts of love are powers. His heart obeys, + The world is in them, still to love defers, +Will play with him for love, but when 't begins +The play is high, and the world always wins. + +For 'tis the maiden's world, and his no more. + Now thus it was: with new found kin flew by +The temperate summer; every wheatfield wore + Its gold, from house to house in ardency +Of heart for what they showed I westward bore-- + My mother's land, her native hills drew nigh; +I was--how green, how good old earth can be-- +Beholden to that land for teaching me. + +And parted from my fellows, and went on + To feel the spiritual sadness spread +Adown long pastoral hollows. And anon + Did words recur in far remoteness said: +'See the deep vale ere dews are dried and gone, + Where my so happy life in peace I led, +And the great shadow of the Beacon lies-- +See little Ledbury trending up the rise. + +With peakèd houses and high market hall-- + An oak each pillar--reared in the old days. +And here was little Ledbury, quaint withal, + The forest felled, her lair and sheltering place +She long time left in age pathetical. + 'Great oaks' methought, as I drew near to gaze, +'Were but of small account when these came down, +Drawn rough-hewn in to serve the tree-girt town. + +And thus and thus of it will question be + The other side the world.' I paused awhile +To mark. 'The old hall standeth utterly + Without or floor or side, a comely pile, +A house on pillars, and by destiny + Drawn under its deep roof I saw a file +Of children slowly through their way make good, +And lifted up mine eyes--and there--SHE STOOD. + +She was so stately that her youthful grace + Drew out, it seemed, my soul unto the air, +Astonished out of breathing by her face + So fain to nest itself in nut-brown hair +Lying loose about her throat. But that old place + Proved sacred, she just fully grown too fair +For such a thought. The dimples that she had! +She was so truly sweet that it was sad. + +I was all hers. That moment gave her power-- + And whom, nay what she was, I scarce might know, +But felt I had been born for that good hour. + The perfect creature did not move, but so +As if ordained to claim all grace for dower. + She leaned against the pillar, and below +Three almost babes, her care, she watched the while +With downcast lashes and a musing smile. + +I had been 'ware without a rustic treat, + Waggons bedecked with greenery stood anigh, +A swarm of children in the cheerful street + With girls to marshal them; but all went by +And none I noted save this only sweet: + Too young her charge more venturous sport to try, +With whirling baubles still they play content, +And softly rose their lisping babblement. + +'O what a pause! to be so near, to mark + The locket rise and sink upon her breast; +The shadow of the lashes lieth dark + Upon her cheek. O fleeting time, O rest! +A slant ray finds the gold, and with a spark + And flash it answers, now shall be the best. +Her eyes she raises, sets their light on mine, +They do not flash nor sparkle--no--but shine.' + +As I for very hopelessness made bold + Did off my hat ere time there was for thought, +She with a gracious sweetness, calm, not cold, + Acknowledged me, but brought my chance to nought +'This vale of imperfection doth not hold + A lovelier bud among its loveliest wrought! +She turns,' methought 'O do not quite forget +To me remains for ever--that we met.' + +And straightway I went forth, I could no less, + Another light unwot of fall'n on me, +And rare elation and high happiness + Some mighty power set hands of mastery +Among my heartstrings, and they did confess + With wild throbs inly sweet, that minstrelsy +A nightingale might dream so rich a strain, +And pine to change her song for sleep again. + +The harp thrilled ever: O with what a round + And series of rich pangs fled forth each note +Oracular, that I had found, had found + (Head waters of old Nile held less remote) +Golden Dorado, dearest, most renowned; + But when as 't were a sigh did overfloat, +Shaping 'how long, not long shall this endure, +_Au jour le jour'_ methought, _'Aujour le jour'_. + +The minutes of that hour my heart knew well + Were like the fabled pint of golden grain, +Each to be counted, paid for, till one fell, + Grew, shot up to another world amain, +And he who dropped might climb it, there to dwell. + I too, I clomb another world full fain, +But was she there? O what would be the end, + Might she nor there appear, nor I descend? + +All graceful as a palm the maiden stood; + Men say the palm of palms in tropic Isles +Doth languish in her deep primeval wood, + And want the voice of man, his home, his smiles, +Nor flourish but in his dear neighborhood; + She too shall want a voice that reconciles, +A smile that charms--how sweet would heaven so please-- +To plant her at my door over far seas. + +I paced without, nor ever liege in truth + His sovran lady watched with more grave eyes +Of reverence, and she nothing ware forsooth, + Did standing charm the soul with new surprise. +Moving flow on a dimpled dream of youth. + Look! look! a sunbeam on her. Ay, but lies +The shade more sweetly now she passeth through +To join her fellow maids returned anew. + +I saw (myself to bide unmarked intent) + Their youthful ease and pretty airs sedate, +They are so good, they are so innocent, + Those Islanders, they learn their part so late, +Of life's demand right careless, dwell content + Till the first love's first kiss shall consecrate +Their future to a world that can but be +By their sweet martyrdom and ministry. + +Most happy of God's creatures. Afterward + More than all women married thou wilt be, +E'en to the soul. One glance desired afford, + More than knight's service might'st thou ask of me. +Not any chance is mine, not the best word, + No, nor the salt of life withouten thee. +Must this all end, is my day so soon o'er? + Untroubled violet eyes, look once,--once more. + +No, not a glance: the low sun lay and burned, + Now din of drum and cry of fife withal, +Blithe teachers mustering frolic swarms returned, + And new-world ways in that old market hall, +Sweet girls, fair women, how my whole heart yearned + Her to draw near who made my festival. +With others closing round, time speeding on, +How soon she would be gone, she would be gone! + +Ay, but I thought to track the rustic wains, + Their goal desired to note, but not anigh, +They creaking down long hop ycrested lanes + 'Neath the abiding flush of that north sky. +I ran, my horse I fetched, but fate ordains + Love shall breed laughter when th' unloving spy. +As I drew rein to watch the gathered crowd, +With sudden mirth an old wife laughed aloud. + +Her cheeks like winter apples red of hue, + Her glance aside. To whom her speech--to me? +'I know the thing you go about to do-- + The lady--' 'What! the lady--' 'Sir,' saith she, +('I thank you kindly, sir), I tell you true + She's gone,' and 'here's a coil' methought 'will be.' +'Gone--where?' ''Tis past my wit forsooth to say +If they went Malvern way or Hereford way. + +A carriage took her up--where three roads meet + They needs must pass; you may o'ertake it yet.' +And 'Oyez, Oyez' peals adown the street, + 'Lost, lost, a golden heart with pearls beset.' +'I know her, sir?--not I. To help this treat, + Many strange ladies from the country met.' +'O heart beset with pearls! my hope was crost. +Farewell, good dame. Lost! oh my lady lost.' + +And 'Oyez, Oyez' following after me + On my great errand to the sundown went. +Lost, lost, and lost, whenas the cross road flee + Up tumbled hills, on each for eyes attent +A carriage creepeth. + + 'Though in neither she, + I ne'er shall know life's worst impoverishment, +An empty heart. No time, I stake my all, +To right! and chase the rose-red evenfall. + +Fly up, good steed, fly on. Take the sharp rise + As't were a plain. A lady sits; but one. +So fast the pace she turns in startled wise, + She sets her gaze on mine and all is done. +"Persian Roxana" might have raised such eyes + When Alexander sought her. Now the sun +Dips, and my day is over; turn and fleet +The world fast flies, again do three roads meet.' + +I took the left, and for some cause unknown + Full fraught of hope and joy the way pursued, +Yet chose strong reasons speeding up alone + To fortify me 'gainst a shock more rude. +E'en so the diver carrieth down a stone + In hand, lest he float up before he would, +And end his walk upon the rich sea-floor, +Those pearls he failed to grasp never to look on more. + +Then as the low moon heaveth, waxen white, + The carriage, and it turns into a gate. +Within sit three in pale pathetic light. + O surely one of these my love, my fate. +But ere I pass they wind away from sight. + Then cottage casements glimmer. All elate +I cross a green, there yawns with opened latch +A village hostel capped in comely thatch. + +'The same world made for all is made for each. + To match a heart's magnificence of hope. +How shall good reason best high action teach + To win of custom, and with home to cope +How warrantably may he hope to win + A star, that wants it? Shall he lie and grope, +No, truly.--I will see her; tell my tale, +See her this once,--and if I fail--I fail.' + +Thus with myself I spoke. A rough brick floor + Made the place homely; I would rest me there. +But how to sleep? Forth of the unlocked door + I passed at midnight, lustreless white air +Made strange the hour, that ecstasy not o'er + I moved among the shadows, all my care-- +Counted a shadow--her drawn near to bless, +Impassioned out of fear, rapt, motionless. + +Now a long pool and water-hens at rest + (As doughty seafolk dusk, at Malabar) +A few pale stars lie trembling on its breast. + Hath the Most High of all His host afar +One most supremely beautiful, one best, + Dearest of all the flock, one favourite star? +His Image given, in part the children know +They love one first and best. It may be so. + +Now a long hedge; here dream the woolly folk; + A majesty of silence is about. +Transparent mist rolls off the pool like smoke, + And Time is in his trance and night devout. +Now the still house. O an I knew she woke + I could not look, the sacred moon sheds out +So many blessings on her rooftree low, +Each more pathetic that she nought doth know. + +I would not love a little, nor my start + Make with the multitude that love and cease. +He gives too much that giveth half a heart, + Too much for liberty, too much for peace. +Let me the first and best and highest impart, + The whole of it, and heaven the whole increase! +For _that_ were not too much. + + (In the moon's wake +How the grass glitters, for her sweetest sake.) + +I would toward her walk the silver floors. + Love loathes an average--all extreme things deal +To love--sea-deep and dazzling height for stores. + There are on Fortune's errant foot can steal, +Can guide her blindfold in at their own doors, + Or dance elate upon her slippery wheel. +Courage! there are 'gainst hope can still advance, +Dowered with a sane, a wise extravagance. + +A song + To one a dreaming: when the dew +Falls, 'tis a time for rest; and when the bird + Calls, 'tis a time to wake, to wake for you. +A long-waking, aye, waking till a word + Come from her coral mouth to be the true +Sum of all good heart wanted, ear hath heard. + + Yet if alas! might love thy dolour be, +Dream, dear heart dear, and do not dream of me. + +I sing + To one awakened, when the heart + Cries 'tis a day for thought, and when the soul +Sighs choose thy part, O choose thy part, thy part. + I bring to one belovèd, bring my whole +Store, make in loving, make O make mine art + More. Yet I ask no, ask no wished goal + +But this--if loving might thy dolour be, +Wake, O my lady loved, and love not me. + +'That which the many win, love's niggard sum, + I will not, if love's all be left behind. +That which I am I cannot unbecome, + My past not unpossess, nor future blind. +Let me all risk, and leave the deep heart dumb + For ever, if that maiden sits enshrined +The saint of one more happy. She is she. +There is none other. Give her then to me. + +Or else to be the better for her face + Beholding it no more.' Then all night through +The shadow moves with infinite dark grace. + The light is on her windows, and the dew +Comforts the world and me, till in my place + At moonsetting, when stars flash out to view, +Comes 'neath the cedar boughs a great repose, +The peace of one renouncing, and then a doze. + +There was no dream, yet waxed a sense in me + Asleep that patience was the better way, +Appeasement for a want that needs must be, + Grew as the dominant mind forbore its sway, +Till whistling sweet stirred in the cedar tree-- + I started--woke--it was the dawn of day. +That was the end. 'Slow solemn growth of light, +Come what come will, remains to me this night.' + +It was the end, with dew ordained to melt, + How easily was learned, how all too soon +Not there, not thereabout such maiden dwelt. + What was it promised me so fair a boon? +Heart-hope is not less vain because heart-felt, + Gone forth once more in search of her at noon +Through the sweet country side on hill, on plain, +I sought and sought many long days in vain. + +To Malvern next, with feathery woodland hung, + Whereto old Piers the Plowman came to teach, +On her green vasty hills the lay was sung, + He too, it may be, lisping in his speech, +'To make the English sweet upon his tongue.' + How many maidens beautiful, and each +Might him delight, that loved no other fair; +But Malvern blessed not me,--she was not there. + +Then to that town, but still my fate the same. + Crowned with old works that her right well beseem, +To gaze upon her field of ancient fame + And muse on the sad thrall's most piteous dream, +By whom a 'shadow like an angel came,' + Crying out on Clarence, its wild eyes agleam, +Accusing echoes here still falter and flee, +'That stabbed me on the field by Tewkesbury.' + +It nothing 'vailed that yet I sought and sought, + Part of my very self was left behind, +Till risen in wrath against th' o'ermastering thought, + 'Let me be thankful,' quoth the better mind, +Thankful for her, though utterly to nought + She brings my heart's cry, and I live to find +A new self of the old self exigent +In the light of my divining discontent. + +The picture of a maiden bidding 'Arise, + I am the Art of God. He shows by me +His great idea, so well as sin-stained eyes + Love aidant can behold it.' + Is this she? +Or is it mine own love for her supplies + The meaning and the power? Howe'er this be, +She is the interpreter by whom most near +Man's soul is drawn to beauty and pureness here. + +The sweet idea, invisible hitherto, + Is in her face, unconscious delegate; +That thing she wots not of ordained to do: + But also it shall be her votary's fate, +Through her his early days of ease to eschew, + Struggle with life and prove its weary weight. +All the great storms that rising rend the soul, +Are life in little, imaging the whole. + +Ay, so as life is, love is, in their ken + Stars, infant yet, both thought to grasp, to keep, +Then came the morn of passionate splendour, when + So sweet the light, none but for bliss could weep, +And then the strife, the toil; but we are men, + Strong, brave to battle with the stormy deep; +Then fear--and then renunciation--then +Appeals unto the Infinite Pity--and sleep. + +But after life the sleep is long. Not so + With love. Love buried lieth not straight, not still, +Love starts, and after lull awakes to know + All the deep things again. And next his will, +That dearest pang is, never to forego. + He would all service, hardship, fret fulfill. +Unhappy love! and I of that great host +Unhappy love who cry, unhappy most. + +Because renunciation was so short, + The starved heart so easily awaked; +A dream could do it, a bud, a bird, a thought, + But I betook me with that want which ached +To neighbour lands where strangeness with me wrought. + The old work was so hale, its fitness slaked +Soul-thirst for truth. 'I knew not doubt nor fear,' +Its language, 'war or worship, sure sincere.' + +Then where by Art the high did best translate + Life's infinite pathos to the soul, set down +Beauty and mystery, that imperious hate + On its best braveness doth and sainthood frown, +Nay more the MASTER'S manifest pity--'wait, + Behold the palmgrove and the promised crown. +He suffers with thee, for thee.--Lo the Child! +Comfort thy heart; he certainly so smiled.' + +Thus love and I wore through the winter time. + Then saw her demon blush Vesuvius try, +Then evil ghosts white from the awful prime, + Thrust up sharp peaks to tear the tender sky. +'No more to do but hear that English chime' + I to a kinsman wrote. He made reply, +'As home I bring my girl and boy full soon, +I pass through Evesham,--meet me there at noon. + +'The bells your father loved you needs must hear, + Seek Oxford next with me,' and told the day. +'Upon the bridge I'll meet you. What! how dear + Soever was a dream, shall it bear sway +To mar the waking?' + I set forth, drew near, + Beheld a goodly tower, twin churches grey, +Evesham. The bridge, and noon. I nothing knew +What to my heart that fateful chime would do. + +For suddenly the sweet bells overcame + A world unsouled; did all with man endow; +His yearning almost tell that passeth name + And said they were full old, and they were now +And should be; and their sighing upon the same + For our poor sake that pass they did avow, +While on clear Avon flowed like man's short day +The shining river of life lapsing away. + +The stroke of noon. The bell-bird! yes and no. + Winds of remembrance swept as over the foam +Of anti-natal shores. At home is it so, + My country folk? Ay, 'neath this pale blue dome, +Many of you in the moss lie low--lie low. + Ah! since I have not HER, give me too, home. +A footstep near! I turned; past likelihood, +Past hope, before me on the bridge--SHE STOOD. + +A rosy urchin had her hand; this cried, + 'We think you are our cousin--yes, you are; +I said so to Estelle.' The violet-eyed, + 'If this be Geoffrey?' asked; and as from far +A doubt came floating up; but she denied + Her thought, yet blushed. O beautiful! my Star! +Then, with the lifting of my hat, each wore +That look which owned to each, 'We have met before.' + +Then was the strangest bliss in life made mine; + I saw the almost worshipped--all remote; +The Star so high above that used to shine, + Translated from the void where it did float, +And brought into relation with the fine + Charities earth hath grown. A great joy smote +Me silent, and the child atween us tway, +We watched the lucent river stealing away. + +While her deep eyes down on the ripple fell, + Quoth the small imp, '"How fast you go and go, +You Avon. Does it wish to stop, Estelle, + And hear the clock, and see the orchards blow? +_It does not care!_ Not when the old big bell + Makes a great buzzing noise?--Who told you so?" +And then to me, "I like to hear it hum. +Why do you think that father could not come?" + +Estelle forgot her violin. And he, + O then he said: "How careless, child, of you; +I must send on for it. 'T would pity be + If that were lost. + I want to learn it too; +And when I'm nine I shall." + Then turning, she + Let her sweet eyes unveil them to my view; +Her stately grace outmatched my dream of old, +But ah! the smile dull memory had not told. + +My kinsman next, with care-worn kindly brow. + 'Well, father,' quoth the imp, 'we've done our part. +We found him.' + And she, wholly girlish now, + Laid her young hand on his with lovely art +And sweet excuses. O! I made my vow + I would all dare, such life did warm my heart; +We journeyed, all the air with scents of price +Was laden, and the goal was Paradise. + +When that the Moors betook them to their sand, + Their domination over in fair Spain, +Each locked, men say, his door in that loved land, + And took the key in hope to come again. +On Moorish walls yet hung, long dust each hand, + The keys, but not the might to use, remain; +Is there such house in some blest land for me? +I can, I will, I do reach down the key. + +A country conquered oft, and long before, + Of generations aye ordained to win; +If mine the power, I will unlock the door. + Enter, O light, I bear a sunbeam in. +What, did the crescent wane! Yet man is more, + And love achieves because to heaven akin. +O life! to hear again that wandering bell, +And hear it at thy feet, Estelle, Estelle. + +Full oft I want the sacred throated bird, + Over our limitless waste of light which spoke +The spirit of the call my fathers heard, + Saying 'Let us pray,' and old world echoes woke +Ethereal minster bells that still averr'd, + And with their phantom notes th' all silence broke. +'The fanes are far, but whom they shrined is near. +Thy God, the Island God, is here, is here.' + +To serve; to serve a thought, and serve apart + To meet; a few short days, a maiden won. +'Ah, sweet, sweet home, I must divide my heart, + Betaking me to countries of the sun.' +'What straight-hung leaves, what rays that twinkle and dart, + Make me to like them.' + 'Love, it shall be done,' +'What weird dawn-fire across the wide hill flies.' +'It is the flame-tree's challenge to yon scarlet skies.' + +'Hark, hark, O hark! the spirit of a bell! + What would it? ('Toll.') An air-hung sacred call, +Athwart the forest shade it strangely fell'-- + 'Toll'--'Toll.' + The longed-for voice, but ah, withal +I felt, I knew, it was my father's knell + That touched and could the over-sense enthrall. +Perfect his peace, a whispering pure and deep +As theirs who 'neath his native towers by Avon sleep. + +If love and death are ever reconciled, + 'T is when the old lie down for the great rest. +We rode across the bush, a sylvan wild + That was an almost world, whose calm oppressed +With audible silence; and great hills inisled + Rose out as from a sea. Consoling, blest +And blessing spoke she, and the reedflower spread, +And tall rock lilies towered above her head. + + * * * * * + +Sweet is the light aneath our matchless blue, + The shade below yon passion plant that lies, +And very sweet is love, and sweet are you, + My little children dear, with violet eyes, +And sweet about the dawn to hear anew + The sacred monotone of peace arise. +Love, 't is thy welcome from the air-hung bell, +Congratulant and clear, Estelle, Estelle. + + + + +LOSS AND WASTE. + + +Up to far Osteroe and Suderoe + The deep sea-floor lies strewn with Spanish wrecks, +O'er minted gold the fair-haired fishers go, + O'er sunken bravery of high carvèd decks. + +In earlier days great Carthage suffered bale + (All her waste works choke under sandy shoals); +And reckless hands tore down the temple veil; + And Omar burned the Alexandrian rolls. +The Old World arts men suffered not to last, + Flung down they trampled lie and sunk from view, +He lets wild forest for these ages past + Grow over the lost cities of the New. + +O for a life that shall not be refused +To see the lost things found, and waste things used. + + + + +ON A PICTURE. + + +As a forlorn soul waiting by the Styx + Dimly expectant of lands yet more dim, +Might peer afraid where shadows change and mix + Till the dark ferryman shall come for him. + +And past all hope a long ray in his sight, + Fall'n trickling down the steep crag Hades-black +Reveals an upward path to life and light, + Nor any let but he should mount that track. + +As with the sudden shock of joy amazed, + He might a motionless sweet moment stand, +So doth that mortal lover, silent, dazed, + For hope had died and loss was near at hand. + +'Wilt thou?' his quest. Unready but for 'Nay,' +He stands at fault for joy, she whispering 'Ay.' + + + + +THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. + + +The doom'd king pacing all night through the windy fallow. +'Let me alone, mine enemy, let me alone,' +Never a Christian bell that dire thick gloom to hallow, +Or guide him, shelterless, succourless, thrust from his own. + +Foul spirits riding the wind do flout at him friendless, +The rain and the storm on his head beat ever at will; +His weird is on him to grope in the dark with endless +Weariful feet for a goal that shifteth still. + +A sleuth-hound baying! The sleuth-hound bayeth behind him, +His head, he flying and stumbling turns back to the sound, +Whom doth the sleuth-hound follow? What if it find him; +Up! for the scent lieth thick, up from the level ground. + +Up, on, he must on, to follow his weird essaying, +Lo you, a flood from the crag cometh raging past, +He falls, he fights in the water, no stop, no staying, +Soon the king's head goes under, the weird is dreed at last. + + +I. + +'Wake, O king, the best star worn +In the crown of night, forlorn +Blinks a fine white point--'t is morn.' +Soft! The queen's voice, fair is she, +'Wake!' He waketh, living, free, +In the chamber of arras lieth he. +Delicate dim shadows yield +Silken curtains over head +All abloom with work of neeld, +Martagon and milleflower spread. +On the wall his golden shield, +Dinted deep in battle field, +When the host o' the Khalif fled. +Gold to gold. Long sunbeams flit +Upward, tremble and break on it. +'Ay, 't is over, all things writ +Of my sleep shall end awake, +Now is joy, and all its bane +The dark shadow of after pain.' +Then the queen saith, 'Nay, but break +Unto me for dear love's sake +This thy matter. Thou hast been +In great bitterness I ween +All the night-time.' But 'My queen, +Life, love, lady, rest content, +Ill dreams fly, the night is spent, +Good day draweth on. Lament +'Vaileth not,--yea peace,' quoth he; +'Sith this thing no better may be, +Best were held 'twixt thee and me.' +Then the fair queen, 'Even so +As thou wilt, O king, but know +Mickle nights have wrought thee woe, +Yet the last was troubled sore +Above all that went before.' +Quoth the king, 'No more, no more.' +Then he riseth, pale of blee, +As one spent, and utterly +Master'd of dark destiny. + + +II. + +Comes a day for glory famed +Tidings brought the enemy shamed, +Fallen; now is peace proclaimed. +And a swarm of bells on high +Make their sweet din scale the sky, +'Hail! hail! hail!' the people cry +To the king his queen beside, +And the knights in armour ride +After until eventide. + + +III. + +All things great may life afford, +Praise, power, love, high pomp, fair gaud, +Till the banquet be toward +Hath this king. Then day takes flight, +Sinketh sun and fadeth light, +Late he coucheth--Night; 't is night. + +_The proud king heading the host on his red roan charger._ + Dust. On a thicket of spears glares the Syrian sun, +The Saracens swarm to the onset, larger aye larger + Loom their fierce cohorts, they shout as the day were won. + +Brown faces fronting the steel-bright armour, and ever + The crash o' the combat runs on with a mighty cry, +Fell tumult; trampling and carnage--then fails endeavour, + O shame upon shame--the Christians falter and fly. + +The foe upon them, the foe afore and behind them, + The king borne back in the mêlée; all, all is vain; +They fly with death at their heels, fierce sun-rays blind them, + Riderless steeds affrighted, tread down their ranks amain. + +Disgrace, dishonour, no rally, ah no retrieving, + The scorn of scorns shall his name and his nation brand, +'T is a sword that smites from the rear, his helmet cleaving, + That hurls him to earth, to his death on the desert sand. + +Ever they fly, the cravens, and ever reviling + Flies after. Athirst, ashamèd, he yieldeth his breath, +While one looks down from his charger; and calm slow smiling, + Curleth his lip. 'T is the Khalif. And this is death. + + +IV. + +'Wake, yon purple peaks arise, +Jagged, bare, through saffron skies; +Now is heard a twittering sweet, +For the mother-martins meet, +Where wet ivies, dew-besprent, +Glisten on the battlement. +Now the lark at heaven's gold gate +Aiming, sweetly chides on fate +That his brown wings wearied were +When he, sure, was almost there. +Now the valley mist doth break, +Shifting sparkles edge the lake, +Love, Lord, Master, wake, O wake!' + + +V. + +Ay, he wakes,--and dull of cheer, +Though this queen be very dear, +Though a respite come with day +From th' abhorrèd flight and fray, +E'en though life be not the cost, +Nay, nor crown nor honour lost; +For in his soul abideth fear +Worse than of the Khalif's spear, +Smiting when perforce in flight +He was borne,--for that was night, +That his weird. But now 't is day, +'And good sooth I know not--nay, +Know not how this thing could be. +Never, more it seemeth me +Than when left the weird to dree, +I am I. And it was I +Felt or ever they turned to fly, +How, like wind, a tremor ran, +The right hand of every man +Shaking. Ay, all banners shook, +And the red all cheeks forsook, +Mine as theirs. Since this was I, +Who my soul shall certify +When again I face the foe +Manful courage shall not go. +Ay, it is not thrust o' a spear, +Scorn of infidel eyes austere, +But mine own fear--is to fear.' + + +VI. + +After sleep thus sore bestead, +Beaten about and buffeted, +Featly fares the morning spent +In high sport and tournament. + + +VII. + +Served within his sumptuous tent, +Looks the king in quiet wise, +Till this fair queen yield the prize +To the bravest; but when day +Falleth to the west away, +Unto her i' the silent hour, +While she sits in her rose-bower. +Come, 'O love, full oft,' quoth she, +'I at dawn have prayèd thee +Thou would'st tell o' the weird to me, +Sith I might some counsel find +Of my wit or in my mind +Thee to better.' 'Ay, e'en so, +But the telling shall let thee know,' +Quoth the king, 'is neither scope +For sweet counsel nor fair hope, +Nor is found for respite room, +Till the uttermost crack of doom. + + +VIII. + +Then the queen saith, 'Woman's wit +No man asketh aid of it, +Not wild hyssop on a wall +Is of less account; or small +Glossy gnats that flit i' the sun +Less worth weighing--light so light! +Yet when all's said--ay, all done, +Love, I love thee! By love's might +I will counsel thee aright, +Or would share the weird to-night.' +Then he answer'd 'Have thy way. +Know 't is two years gone and a day +Since I, walking lone and late, +Pondered sore mine ill estate; +Open murmurers, foes concealed, +Famines dire i' the marches round, +Neighbour kings unfriendly found, +Ay, and treacherous plots revealed +Where I trusted. I bid stay +All my knights at the high crossway, +And did down the forest fare +To bethink me, and despair. +'Ah! thou gilded toy a throne, +If one mounts to thee alone, +Quoth I, mourning while I went, +Haply he may drop content +As a lark wing-weary down +To the level, and his crown +Leave for another man to don; +Throne, thy gold steps raised upon. +But for me--O as for me +What is named I would not dree, +Earn, or conquer, or forego +For the barring of overthrow.' + + +IX. + +'Aloud I spake, but verily +Never an answer looked should be. +But it came to pass from shade +Pacing to an open glade, +Which the oaks a mighty wall +Fence about, methought a call +Sounded, then a pale thin mist +Rose, a pillar, and fronted me, +Rose and took a form I wist, +And it wore a hood on 'ts head, +And a long white garment spread, +And I saw the eyes thereof. + + +X. + +Then my plumèd cap I doff, +Stooping. 'T is the white-witch. 'Hail,' +Quoth the witch, 'thou shalt prevail +An thou wilt; I swear to thee +All thy days shall glorious shine, +Great and rich, ay, fair and fine, +So what followeth rest my fee, +So thou'lt give thy sleep to me.' + + +XI. + +While she spake my heart did leap. +Waking is man's life, and sleep-- +What is sleep?--a little death +Coming after, and methought +Life is mine and death is nought +Till it come,--so day is mine +I will risk the sleep to shine +In the waking. + And she saith, +In a soft voice clear and low, +'Give thy plumèd cap also +For a token.' + 'Didst thou give?' +Quoth the queen; and 'As I live +He makes answer 'none can tell. +I did will my sleep to sell, +And in token held to her +That she askèd. And it fell +To the grass. I saw no stir +In her hand or in her face, +And no going; but the place +Only for an evening mist +Was made empty. There it lay, +That same plumèd cap, alway +On the grasses--but I wist +Well, it must be let to lie, +And I left it. Now the tale +Ends, th' events do testify +Of her truth. The days go by +Better and better; nought doth ail +In the land, right happy and hale +Dwell the seely folk; but sleep +Brings a reckoning; then forth creep +Dreaded creatures, worms of might. +Crested with my plumèd cap +Loll about my neck all night, +Bite me in the side, and lap +My heart's blood. Then oft the weird +Drives me, where amazed, afeard, +I do safe on a river strand +Mark one sinking hard at hand +While fierce sleuth-hounds that me track +Fly upon me, bear me back, +Fling me away, and he for lack +Of man's aid in piteous wise +Goeth under, drowns and dies. + + +XII. + +'O sweet wife, I suffer sore-- +O methinks aye more and more +Dull my day, my courage numb, +Shadows from the night to come. +But no counsel, hope, nor aid +Is to give; a crown being made +Power and rule, yea all good things +Yet to hang on this same weird +I must dree it, ever that brings +Chastening from the white-witch feared. +O that dreams mote me forsake, +Would that man could alway wake.' + + +XIII. + +Now good sooth doth counsel fail, +Ah this queen is pale, so pale. +'Love,' she sigheth, 'thou didst not well +Listening to the white-witch fell, +Leaving her doth thee advance +Thy plumèd cap of maintenance.' + + +XIV. + +'She is white, as white snow flake,' +Quoth the king; 'a man shall make +Bargains with her and not sin.' +'Ay,' she saith, 'but an he win, +Let him look the right be done +Else the rue shall be his own. + + +XV. + +No more words. The stars are bright, +For the feast high halls be dight +Late he coucheth. Night--'t is night. + +_The dead king lying in state in the Minster holy._ + Fifty candles burn at his head and burn at his feet, +A crown and royal apparel upon him lorn and lowly, + And the cold hands stiff as horn by their cold palms meet. + +Two days dead. Is he dead? Nay, nay--but is he living? + The weary monks have ended their chantings manifold, +The great door swings behind them, night winds entrance giving, + The candles flare and drip on him, warm and he so cold. + +Neither to move nor to moan, though sunk and though swallow'd + In earth he shall soon be trodden hard and no more seen. +Soft you the door again! Was it a footstep followed, + Falter'd, and yet drew near him?--Malva, Malva the queen! + +One hand o' the dead king liveth (e'en so him seemeth) + On the purple robe, on the ermine that folds his breast +Cold, very cold. Yet e'en at that pass esteemeth + The king, it were sweet if she kissed the place of its rest. + +Laid her warm face on his bosom, a fair wife grievèd + For the lord and love of her youth, and bewailed him sore; +Laid her warm face on the bosom of her bereavèd + Soon to go under, never to look on her more. + +His candles guide her with pomp funereal flaring, + Out of the gulfy dark to the bier whereon he lies. +Cometh this queen i' the night for grief or for daring, + Out o' the dark to the light with large affrighted eyes? + +The pale queen speaks in the Presence with fear upon her, + 'Where is the ring I gave to thee, where is my ring? +I vowed--'t was an evil vow--by love, and by honour, + Come life or come death to be thine, thou poor dead king.' + +The pale queen's honour! A low laugh scathing and sereing-- + A mumbling as made by the dead in the tombs ye wot. +Braveth the dead this queen? 'Hear it, whoso hath hearing, + I vowed by my love, cold king, but I loved thee not.' + +Honour! An echo in aisles and the solemn portals, + Low sinketh this queen by the bier with its freight forlorn; +Yet kneeling, 'Hear me!' she crieth, 'you just immortals, + You saints bear witness I vowed and am not forsworn. + +I vowed in my youth, fool-king, when the golden fetter + Thy love that bound me and bann'd me full weary I wore, +But all poor men of thy menai I held them better, + All stalwart knights of thy train unto me were more. + +Twenty years I have lived on earth and two beside thee, + Thirty years thou didst live on earth, and two on the throne: +Let it suffice there be none of thy rights denied thee, + Though I dare thy presence--I--come for my ring alone.' + +She risen shuddereth, peering, afraid to linger + Behold her ring, it shineth! 'Now yield to me, thou dead, +For this do I dare the touch of thy stark stiff finger.' + The queen hath drawn her ring from his hand, the queen hath fled. + +'O woman fearing sore, to whom my man's heart cleavèd, + The faith enwrought with love and life hath mocks for its meed'-- +The dead king lying in state, of his past bereavèd, + Twice dead. Ay, this is death. Now dieth the king indeed. + + +XVI. + +'Wake, the seely gnomes do fly, +Drenched across yon rainy sky, +With the vex'd moon-mother'd elves, +And the clouds do weep themselves +Into morning. + + All night long +Hath thy weird thee sore opprest; +Wake, I have found within my breast +Counsel.' Ah, the weird was strong, +But the time is told. Release +Openeth on him when his eyes +Lift them in dull desolate wise, +And behold he is at peace. + +Ay, but silent. Of all done +And all suffer'd in the night, +Of all ills that do him spite +She shall never know that one. +Then he heareth accents bland, +Seeth the queen's ring on his hand, +And he riseth calmed withal. + + +XVII. + +Rain and wind on the palace wall +Beat and bluster, sob and moan, +When at noon he musing lone, +Comes the queen anigh his seat, +And she kneeleth at his feet. + + +XVIII. + +Quoth the queen, 'My love, my lord, +Take thy wife and take thy sword, +We must forth in the stormy weather, +Thou and I to the witch together. +Thus I rede thee counsel deep, +Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep, +Turning so man's wholesome life +From its meaning. Thine intent +None shall hold for innocent. +Thou dost take thy good things first, +Then thou art cast into the worst; +First the glory, then the strife. +Nay, but first thy trouble dree, +So thy peace shall sweeter be. +First to work and then to rest, +Is the way for our humanity, +Ay, she sayeth that loves thee best, +We must forth and from this strife +Buy the best part of man's life; +Best and worst thou holdest still +Subject to a witch's will. +Thus I rede thee counsel deep, +Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep; +Take the crown from off thy head, +Give it the white-witch instead, +If in that she say thee nay, +Get the night,--and give the day.' + + +XIX. + +Then the king (amazèd, mild, +As one reasoning with a child +All his speech): 'My wife! my fair! +And his hand on her brown hair +Trembles; 'Lady, dost indeed +Weigh the meaning of thy rede? +Would'st thou dare the dropping away +Of allegiance, should our sway +And sweet splendour and renown +All be risked? (methinks a crown +Doth become thee marvellous well). +We ourself are, truth to tell, +Kingly both of wont and kind, +Suits not such the craven mind.' +'Yet this weird thou can'st not dree.' +Quoth the queen, 'And live;' then he, +'I must die and leave the fair +Unborn, long-desired heir +To his rightful heritage.' + + +XX. + +But this queen arisen doth high +Her two hands uplifting, sigh +'God forbid.' And he to assuage +Her keen sorrow, for his part +Searcheth, nor can find in his heart +Words. And weeping she will rest +Her sweet cheek upon his breast, +Whispering, 'Dost thou verily +Know thou art to blame? Ah me, +Come,' and yet beseecheth she, +'Ah me, come.' + + For good for ill, +Whom man loveth hath her will. +Court and castle left behind, +Stolen forth in the rain and wind, +Soon they are deep in the forest, fain +The white-witch to raise again; +Down and deep where flat o'erhead +Layer on layer do cedars spread, +Down where lordly maples strain, +Wrestling with the storm amain. + + +XXI. + +Wide-wing'd eagles struck on high +Headlong fall'n break through, and lie +With their prey in piteous wise, +And no film on their dead eyes. +Matted branches grind and crash, +Into darkness dives the flash, +Stabs, a dread gold dirk of fire, +Loads the lift with splinters dire. +Then a pause i' the deadly feud-- +And a sick cowed quietude. + + +XXII. + +Soh! A pillar misty and grey, +'T is the white-witch in the way. +Shall man deal with her and gain? +I trow not. Albeit the twain +Costly gear and gems and gold +Freely offer, she will hold +Sleep and token for the pay +She did get for greatening day. + + +XXIII. + +'Or the night shall rest my fee +Or the day shall nought of me,' +Quoth the witch. 'An't thee beseem, +Sell thy kingdom for a dream.' + + +XXIV. + +'Now what will be let it be!' +Quoth the queen; 'but choose the right.' +And the white-witch scorns at her, +Stately standing in their sight. +Then without or sound or stir +She is not. For offering meet +Lieth the token at their feet, +Which they, weary and sore bestead +In the storm, lift up, full fain +Ere the waning light hath fled +Those high towers they left to gain. + + +XXV. + +Deep among tree roots astray +Here a torrent tears its way, +There a cedar split aloft +Lies head downward. Now the oft +Muttering thunder, now the wind +Wakens. How the path to find? +How the turning? Deep ay deep, +Far ay far. She needs must weep, +This fair woman, lost, astray +In the forest; nought to say. +Yet the sick thoughts come and go, +'I, 't was I would have it so.' + + +XXVI. + +Shelter at the last, a roof +Wrought of ling (in their behoof, +Foresters, that drive the deer). +What, and must they couch them here? +Ay, and ere the twilight fall +Gather forest berries small +And nuts down beaten for a meal. + + +XXVII. + +Now the shy wood-wonners steal +Nearer, bright-eyed furry things, +Winking owls on silent wings +Glance, and float away. The light +In the wake o' the storm takes flight, +Day departeth: night--'t is night. + +The crown'd king musing at morn by a clear sweet river. + Palms on the slope o' the valley, and no winds blow; +Birds blameless, dove-eyed, mystical talk deliver, + Oracles haply. The language he doth not know. + +Bare, blue, are yon peakèd hills for a rampart lying, + As dusty gold is the light in the palms o'erhead, +'What is the name o' the land? and this calm sweet sighing, + If it be echo, where first was it caught and spread? + +I might--I might be at rest in some field Elysian, + If this be asphodel set in the herbage fair, +I know not how I should wonder, so sweet the vision, + So clear and silent the water, the field, the air. + +Love, are you by me! Malva, what think you this meaneth? + Love, do you see the fine folk as they move over there? +Are they immortals? Look you a wingèd one leaneth + Down from yon pine to the river of us unaware. + +All unaware; and the country is full of voices, + Mild strangers passing: they reck not of me nor of thee. +List! about and around us wondrous sweet noises, + Laughter of little children and maids that dreaming be. + +Love, I can see their dreams.' A dim smile flitteth + Over her lips, and they move as in peace supreme, +And a small thing, silky haired, beside her sitteth, + 'O this is thy dream atween us--this is thy dream.' + +Was it then truly his dream with her dream that blended? + 'Speak, dear child dear,' quoth the queen, 'and mine own little son.' +'Father,' the small thing murmurs; then all is ended, + He starts from that passion of peace--ay, the dream is done. + + +XXVIII. + +'I have been in a good land,' +Quoth the king: 'O sweet sleep bland, +Blessed! I am grown to more, +Now the doing of right hath moved +Me to love of right, and proved +If one doth it, he shall be +Twice the man he was before. +Verily and verily, +Thou fair woman, thou didst well; +I look back and scarce may tell +Those false days of tinsel sheen, +Flattery, feasting, that have been. +Shows of life that were but shows, +How they held me; being I ween +Like sand-pictures thin, that rose +Quivering, when our thirsty bands +Marched i' the hot Egyptian lands; +Shade of palms on a thick green plot, +Pools of water that was not, +Mocking us and melting away. + + +XXIX. + +I have been a witch's prey, +Art mine enemy now by day, +Thou fell Fear? There comes an end +To the day; thou canst not wend +After me where I shall fare, +My foredoomèd peace to share. +And awake with a better heart, +I shall meet thee and take my part +O' the dull world's dull spite; with thine +Hard will I strive for me and mine.' + + +XXX. + +A page and a palfrey pacing nigh, +Malva the queen awakes. A sigh-- +One amazèd moment--'Ay, +We remember yesterday, +Let us to the palace straight: +What! do all my ladies wait-- +Is no zeal to find me? What! +No knights forth to meet the king; +Due observance, is it forgot?' + + +XXXI. + +'Lady,' quoth the page, 'I bring +Evil news. Sir king, I say, +My good lord of yesterday, +Evil news,' This king saith low, +'Yesterday, and yesterday, +The queen's yesterday we know, +Tell us thine.' 'Sir king,' saith he, +Hear. Thy castle in the night +Was surprised, and men thy flight +Learned but then; thine enemy +Of old days, our new king, reigns; +And sith thou wert not at pains +To forbid it, hear also, +Marvelling whereto this should grow +How thy knights at break of morn +Have a new allegiance sworn, +And the men-at-arms rejoice, +And the people give their voice +For the conqueror. I, Sir king, +Rest thine only friend. I bring +Means of flight; now therefore fly, +A great price is on thy head. +Cast her jewel'd mantle by, +Mount thy queen i' the selle and hie +(Sith disguise ye need, and bread) +Down yon pleachèd track, down, down, +Till a tower shall on thee frown; +Him that holds it show this ring: +So farewell, my lord the king.' + + +XXXII. + +Had one marked that palfrey led +To the tower, he sooth had said, +These are royal folk and rare-- +Jewels in her plaited hair +Shine not clearer than her eyes, +And her lord in goodly wise +With his plumèd cap in 's hand +Moves in the measure of command. + + +XXXIII. + +Had one marked where stole forth two +From the friendly tower anew, +'Common folk' he sooth had said, +Making for the mountain track. +Common, common, man and maid, +Clad in russet, and of kind +Meet for russet. On his back +A wallet bears the stalwart hind; +She, all shy, in rustic grace +Steps beside her man apace, +And wild roses match her face. + + +XXXIV. + +Whither speed they? Where are toss'd +Like sea foam the dwarfed pines +At the jagged sharp inclines; +To the country of the frost +Up the mountains to be lost, +Lost. No better now may be, +Lost where mighty hollows thrust +'Twixt the fierce teeth of the world, +Fill themselves with crimson dust +When the tumbling sun down hurl'd +Stares among them drearily, +As a' wondering at the lone +Gulfs that weird gaunt company +Fenceth in. Lost there unknown, +Lineage, nation, name, and throne. + + +XXXV. + +Lo, in a crevice choked with ling +And fir, this man, not now the king, +This Sigismund, hath made a fire, +And by his wife in the dark night +He leans at watch, her guard and squire. +His wide eyes stare out for the light +Weary. He needs must chide on fate, +And she is asleep. 'Poor brooding mate, +What! wilt thou on the mountain crest +Slippery and cold scoop thy first nest? +Or must I clear some uncouth cave +That laired the mother wolf, and save-- +Spearing her cubs--the grey pelt fine +To be a bed for thee and thine? +It is my doing. Ay,' quoth he, +'Mine; but who dares to pity thee +Shall pity, not for loss of all, +But that thou wert my wife perdie, +E'en wife unto a witch's thrall,-- +A man beholden to the cold +Cloud for a covering, he being sold +And hunted for reward of gold. + + +XXXVI. + +But who shall chronicle the ways +Of common folk--the nights and days +Spent with rough goatherds on their snows, +Of travellers come whence no man knows, +Then gone aloft on some sharp height +In the dumb peace and the great light +Amid brown eagles and wild roes? + + +XXXVII. + +'Tis the whole world whereon they lie, +The rocky pastures hung on high +Shelve off upon an empty sky. +But they creep near the edge, look down-- +Great heaven! another world afloat, +Moored as in seas of air; remote +As their own childhood; swooning away +Into a tenderer sweeter day, +Innocent, sunny. 'O for wings! +There lie the lands of other kings-- +I Sigismund, my sometime crown +Forfeit; forgotten of renown +My wars, my rule; I fain would go +Down to yon peace obscure.' + + Even so; +Down to the country of the thyme, +Where young kids dance, and a soft chime +Of sheepbells tinkles; then at last +Down to a country of hollows, cast +Up at the mountains full of trees, +Down to fruit orchards and wide leas. + + +XXXVIII. + +With name unsaid and fame unsunned +He walks that was King Sigismund. +With palmers holy and pilgrims brown, +New from the East, with friar and clown, +He mingles in a wallèd town, +And in the mart where men him scan +He passes for a merchant man. +For from his vest, where by good hap +He thrust it, he his plumèd cap +Hath drawn and plucked the gems away, +And up and down he makes essay +To sell them; they are all his wares +And wealth. He is a man of cares, +A man of toil; no roof hath he +To shelter her full soon to be +The mother of his dispossessed +Desirèd heir. + + +XXXIX. + + Few words are best. +He, once King Sigismund, saith few, +But makes good diligence and true. +Soon with the gold he gather'd so, +A little homestead lone and low +He buyeth: a field, a copse, with these +A melon patch and mulberry trees. +And is the man content? Nay, morn +Is toilsome, oft is noon forlorn, +Though right be done and life be won, +Yet hot is weeding in the sun, +Yea scythe to wield and axe to swing, +Are hard on sinews of a king. + + +XL. + +And Malva, must she toil? E'en so. +Full patiently she takes her part, +All, all so new. But her deep heart +Forebodes more change than shall be shown +Betwixt a settle and a throne. +And lost in musing she will go +About the winding of her silk, +About the skimming her goat's milk, +About the kneading of her bread, +And water drawn from her well-head. + + +XLI. + +Then come the long nights dark and still, +Then come the leaves and cover the sill, +Then come the swift flocks of the stare, +Then comes the snow--then comes the heir. + + +XLII. + +If he be glad, if he be sad, +How should one question when the hand +Is full, the heart. That life he had, +While leisure was aside may stand, +Till he shall overtake the task +Of every day, then let him ask +(If he remember--if he will), +'When I could sit me down and muse, +And match my good against mine ill, +And weigh advantage dulled by use +At nothing, was it better with me?' +But Sigismund! It cannot be +But that he toil, nor pause, nor sigh, +A dreamer on a day gone by +The king is come. + + +XLIII. + + His vassals two +Serve with all homage deep and due. +He is contented, he doth find +Belike the kingdom much to his mind. +And when the long months of his long +Reign are two years, and like a song +From some far sweeter world, a call +From the king's mouth for fealty, +Buds soon to blossom in language fall, +They listen and find not any plea +Left, for fine chiding at destiny. + + +XLIV. + +Sigismund hath ricked the hay, +He sitteth at close o' a sultry day +Under his mulberry boughs at ease. +'Hey for the world, and the world is wide, +The world is mine, and the world is--these +Beautiful Malva leans at his side, +And the small babbler talks at his knees. + + +XLV. + +Riseth a waft as of summer air, +Floating upon it what moveth there? +Faint as the light of stars and wan +As snow at night when the moon is gone, +It is the white-witch risen once more. + + +XLVI. + +The white-witch that tempted of yore +So utterly doth substance lack, +You may breathe her nearer and breathe her back. +Soft her eyes, her speech full clear: +'Hail, thou Sigismund my fere, +Bargain with me yea or nay. +NAY, I go to my true place, +And no more thou seest my face. +YEA, the good be all thine own, +For now will I advance thy day, +And yet will leave the night alone. + + +XLVII. + +Sigismund makes answer 'NAY. +Though the Highest heaped on me +Trouble, yet the same should be +Welcomer than weal from thee. +Nay;--for ever and ever Nay.' +O, the white-witch floats away. +Look you, look! A still pure smile +Blossoms on her mouth the while, +White wings peakèd high behind, +Bear her;--no, the wafting wind, +For they move not,--floats her back, +Floats her up. They scarce may track +Her swift rising, shot on high +Like a ray from the western sky, +Or a lark from some grey wold +Utterly whelm'd in sunset gold. + + +XLVIII. + +Then these two long silence hold, +And the lisping babe doth say +'White white bird, it flew away.' +And they marvel at these things, +For her ghostly visitings +Turn to them another face. +Haply she was sent, a friend +Trying them, and to good end +For their better weal and grace; +One more wonder let to be +In the might and mystery +Of the world, where verily +And good sooth a man may wend +All his life, and no more view +Than the one right next to do. + + +XLIX. + +So, the welcome dusk is here, +Sweet is even, rest is dear; +Mountain heads have lost the light, +Soon they couch them. Night--'t is night. + +Sigismund dreaming delightsomely after his haying. + ('Sleep of the labouring man,' quoth King David, 'is sweet.') +'Sigismund, Sigismund'--'Who is this calling and saying + "Sigismund, Sigismund," O blessed night do not fleet. + +Is it not dark--ay, methinks it is dark, I would slumber, + O I would rest till the swallow shall chirp 'neath mine eaves.' +'Sigismund, Sigismund,' multitudes now without number + Calling, the noise is as dropping of rain upon leaves. + +'Ay,' quoth he dreaming, 'say on, for I, Sigismund, hear ye.' + 'Sigismund, Sigismund, all the knights weary full sore. +Come back, King Sigismund, come, they shall love thee and fear thee, + The people cry out O come back to us, reign evermore. + +The new king is dead, and we will not his son, no nor brother, + Come with thy queen, is she busy yet, kneading of cakes? +Sigismund, show us the boy, is he safe, and his mother, + Sigismund?'--dreaming he falls into laughter and wakes. + + +L. + +And men say this dream came true, +For he walking in the dew +Turned aside while yet was red +On the highest mountain head, +Looking how the wheat he set +Flourished. And the knights him met +And him prayed 'Come again, +Sigismund our king, and reign.' +But at first--at first they tell +How it liked not Malva well; +She must leave her belted bees +And the kids that she did rear. +When she thought on it full dear +Seemed her home. It did not please +Sigismund that he must go +From the wheat that he did sow; +When he thought on it his mind +Was not that should any bind +Into sheaves that wheat but he, +Only he; and yet they went, +And it may be were content. +And they won a nation's heart; +Very well they played their part. +They ruled with sceptre and diadem, +And their children after them. + + + + +THE MAID-MARTYR. + + +Only you'd have me speak. + Whether to speak +Or whether to be silent is all one; +Whether to sleep and in my dreaming front +Her small scared face forlorn; whether to wake +And muse upon her small soft feet that paced +The hated, hard, inhospitable stone-- +I say all's one. But you would have me speak, +And change one sorrow for the other. Ay, +Right reverend father, comfortable father, +Old, long in thrall, and wearied of the cell, +So will I here--here staring through the grate, +Whence, sheer beneath us lying the little town, +Her street appears a riband up the rise; +Where 't is right steep for carts, behold two ruts +Worn in the flat, smooth, stone. + That side I stood; +My head was down. At first I did but see +Her coming feet; they gleamed through my hot tears +As she walked barefoot up yon short steep hill. +Then I dared all, gazed on her face, the maid +Martyr and utterly, utterly broke my heart. + +Her face, O! it was wonderful to me, +There was not in it what I look'd for--no, +I never saw a maid go to her death, +How should I dream that face and the dumb soul? + +Her arms and head were bare, seemly she walked +All in her smock so modest as she might; +Upon her shoulders hung a painted cape +For horrible adornment, flames of fire +Portrayed upon it, and mocking demon heads. + +Her eyes--she did not see me--opened wide, +Blue-black, gazed right before her, yet they marked +Nothing; and her two hands uplift as praying, +She yet prayed not, wept not, sighed not. O father, +She was past that, soft, tender, hunted thing; +But, as it seemed, confused from time to time, +She would half-turn her or to left or right +To follow other streets, doubting her way. + +Then their base pikes they basely thrust at her, +And, like one dazed, obedient to her guides +She came; I knew not if 't was present to her +That death was her near goal; she was so lost, +And set apart from any power to think. +But her mouth pouted as one brooding, father, +Over a lifetime of forlorn fear. No, +Scarce was it fear; so looks a timid child +(Not more affrighted; ah! but not so pale) +That has been scolded or has lost its way. + +Mother and father--father and mother kind, +She was alone, where were you hidden? Alone, +And I that loved her more, or feared death less, +Rushed to her side, but quickly was flung back, +And cast behind o' the pikemen following her +Into a yelling and a cursing crowd. +That bristled thick with monks and hooded friars; +Moreover, women with their cheeks ablaze, +Who swarmèd after up the narrowing street. + +Pitiful heaven! I knew she did not hear +In that last hour the cursing, nor the foul +Words; she had never heard like words, sweet soul, +In her life blameless; even at that pass, +That dreadful pass, I felt it had been worse, +Though nought I longed for as for death, to know +She did. She saw not 'neath their hoods those eyes +Soft, glittering, with a lust for cruelty; +Secret delight, that so great cruelty, +All in the sacred name of Holy Church, +Their meed to look on it should be anon. +Speak! O, I tell you this thing passeth word! +From roofs and oriels high, women looked down; +Men, maidens, children, and a fierce white sun +Smote blinding splinters from all spears aslant. + +Lo! next a stand, so please you, certain priests +(May God forgive men sinning at their ease), +Whose duty 't was to look upon this thing, +Being mindful of thick pungent smoke to come, +Had caused a stand to rise hard by the stake, +Upon its windward side. + + My life! my love! +She utter'd one sharp cry of mortal dread +While they did chain her. This thing passeth words, +Albeit told out for ever in my soul. +As the torch touched, thick volumes of black reek +Rolled out and raised the wind, and instantly +Long films of flaxen hair floated aloft, +Settled alow, in drifts upon the crowd. +The vile were merciful; heaped high, my dear, +Thou didst not suffer long. O! it was soon, +Soon over, and I knew not any more, +Till grovelling on the ground, beating my head, +I heard myself, and scarcely knew 't was I, +At Holy Church railing with fierce mad words, +Crying and craving for a stake, for me. +While fast the folk, as ever, such a work +Being over, fled, and shrieked 'A heretic! +More heretics; yon ashes smoking still.' + +And up and almost over me came on +A robed--ecclesiastic--with his train +(I choose the words lest that they do some wrong) +Call him a robed ecclesiastic proud. +And I lying helpless, with my bruised face +Beat on his garnished shoon. But he stepped back, +Spurned me full roughly with them, called the pikes, +Delivering orders, 'Take the bruised wretch. +He raves. Fool! thou'lt hear more of this anon. +Bestow him there.' He pointed to a door. +With that some threw a cloth upon my face +Because it bled. I knew they carried me +Within his home, and I was satisfied; +Willing my death. Was it an abbey door? +Was 't entrance to a palace? or a house +Of priests? I say not, nor if abbot he, +Bishop or other dignity; enough +That he so spake. 'Take in the bruised wretch.' +And I was borne far up a turret stair +Into a peakèd chamber taking form +O' the roof, and on a pallet bed they left +Me miserable. Yet I knew forsooth, +Left in my pain, that evil things were said +Of that same tower; men thence had disappeared, +Suspect of heresy had disappeared, +Deliver'd up, 't was whisper'd, tried and burned. +So be it methought, I would not live, not I. +But none did question me. A beldame old, +Kind, heedless of my sayings, tended me. +I raved at Holy Church and she was deaf, +And at whose tower detained me, she was dumb. +So had I food and water, rest and calm. +Then on the third day I rose up and sat +On the side of my low bed right melancholy, +All that high force of passion overpast, +I sick with dolourous thought and weak through tears +Spite of myself came to myself again +(For I had slept), and since I could not die +Looked through the window three parts overgrown +With leafage on the loftiest ivy ropes, +And saw at foot o' the rise another tower +In roof whereof a grating, dreary bare. +Lifetimes gone by, long, slow, dim, desolate, +I knew even there had been my lost love's cell. + +So musing on the man that with his foot +Spurned me, the robed ecclesiastic stern, +'Would he had haled me straight to prison' methought, +'So made an end at once.' + + My sufferings rose +Like billows closing over, beating down; +Made heavier far because of a stray, strange, +Sweet hope that mocked me at the last. + 'T was thus, +I came from Oxford secretly, the news +Terrible of her danger smiting me,-- +She was so young, and ever had been bred +With whom 't was made a peril now to name. +There had been worship in the night; some stole +To a mean chapel deep in woods, and heard +Preaching, and prayed. She, my betrothed, was there. +Father and mother, mother and father kind, +So young, so innocent, had ye no ruth, +No fear, that ye did bring her to her doom? +I know the chiefest Evil One himself +Sanded that floor. Their footsteps marking it +Betrayed them. How all came to pass let be. +Parted, in hiding some, other in thrall, +Father and mother, mother and father kind, +It may be yet ye know not this--not all. + +I in the daytime lying perdue looked up +At the castle keep impregnable,--no foot +How rash so e'er might hope to scale it. Night +Descending, come I near, perplexedness, +Contempt of danger, to the door o' the keep +Drawing me. There a short stone bench I found, +And bitterly weeping sat and leaned my head +Against the hopeless hated massiveness +Of that detested hold. A lifting moon +Had made encroachment on the dark, but deep +Was shadow where I leaned. Within a while +I was aware, but saw no shape, of one +Who stood beside me, a dark shadow tall. +I cared not, disavowal mattered nought +Of grief to one so out of love with life. +But after pause I felt a hand let down +That rested kindly, firmly, a man's hand, +Upon my shoulder; there was cheer in it. +And presently a voice clear, whispering, low, +With pitifulness that faltered, spoke to me. +Was I, it asked, true son of Mother Church? +Coldly I answer'd 'Ay;' then blessed words +That danced into mine ears more excellent +Music than wedding bells had been were said, +With certitude that I might see my maid, +My dear one. He would give a paper, he +The man beside me. 'Do thy best endeavour, +Dear youth. Thy maiden being a right sweet child +Surely will hearken to thee; an she do, +And will recant, fair faultless heretic, +Whose knowledge is but scant of matters high +Which hard men spake on with her, hard men forced +From her mouth innocent, then shall she come +Before me; have good cheer, all may be well. +But an she will not she must burn, no power-- +Not Solomon the Great on 's ivory throne +With all his wisdom could find out a way, +Nor I nor any to save her, she must burn. +Now hast thou till day dawn. The Mother of God +Speed thee.' A twisted scroll he gave; himself +Knocked at the door behind, and he was gone, +A darker pillar of darkness in the dark. +Straightway one opened and I gave the scroll. +He read, then thrust it in his lanthorn flame +Till it was ashes; 'Follow' and no more +Whisper'd, went up the giddy spiring way, +I after, till we reached the topmost door. +Then took a key, opened, and crying 'Delia, +Delia my sweetheart, I am come, I am come,' +I darted forward and he locked us in. +Two figures; one rose up and ran to me +Along the ladder of moonlight on the floor, +Fell on my neck. Long time we kissed and wept. + +But for that other, while she stood appeased +For cruel parting past, locked in mine arms, +I had been glad, expecting a good end. +The cramped pale fellow prisoner; 'Courage' cried. +Then Delia lifting her fair face, the moon +Did show me its incomparable calms. +Her effluent thought needed no word of mine, +It whelmed my soul as in a sea of tears. +The warm enchantment leaning on my breast +Breathed as in air remote, and I was left +To infinite detachment, even with hers +To take cold kisses from the lips of doom, +Look in those eyes and disinherit hope +From that high place late won. + Then murmuring low +That other spake of Him on the cross, and soft +As broken-hearted mourning of the dove, +She 'One deep calleth to another' sighed. +'The heart of Christ mourns to my heart, "Endure. +There was a day when to the wilderness +My great forerunner from his thrall sent forth +Sad messengers, demanding _Art thou He_? +Think'st thou I knew no pang in that strange hour? +How could I hold the power, and want the will +Or want the love? That pang was his--and mine. +He said not, Save me an thou be the Son, +But only _Art thou He_? In my great way +It was not writ,--legions of Angels mine, +There was one Angel, one ordain'd to unlock +At my behest the doomed deadly door. +I could not tell him, tell not thee, why." Lord, +We know not why, but would not have Thee grieve, +Think not so deeply on 't; make us endure +For thy blest sake, hearing thy sweet voice mourn +"I will go forth, thy desolations meet, +And with my desolations solace them. +I will not break thy bonds but I am bound, +With thee."' + + I feared. That speech deep furrows cut +In my afflicted soul. I whisper'd low, +'Thou wilt not heed her words, my golden girl.' +But Delia said not ought; only her hand +Laid on my cheek and on the other leaned +Her own. O there was comfort, father, +In love and nearness, e'en at the crack of doom. + +Then spake I, and that other said no more, +For I appealed to God and to his Christ. +Unto the strait-barred window led my dear; +No table, bed, nor plenishing; no place +They had for rest: maugre two narrow chairs +By day, by night they sat thereon upright. +One drew I to the opening; on it set +My Delia, kneeled; upon its arm laid mine, +And prayed to God and prayed of her. + Father, +If you should ask e'en now, 'And art thou glad +Of what befell?' I could not say it, father, +I should be glad; therefore God make me glad, +Since we shall die to-morrow! + Think not sin, +O holy, harmless reverend man, to fear. +'T will be soon over. Now I know thou fear'st +Also for me, lest I be lost; but aye +Strong comfortable hope doth wrap me round, +A token of acceptance. I am cast +From Holy Church, and not received of thine; +But the great Advocate who knoweth all, +He whispers with me. + O my Delia wept +When I did plead; 'I have much feared to die,' +Answering. (The moonlight on her blue-black eyes +Fell; shining tears upon their lashes hung; +Fair showed the dimple that I loved; so young, +So very young.) 'But they did question me +Straitly, and make me many times to swear, +To swear of all alas, that I believed. +Truly, unless my soul I would have bound +With false oaths--difficult, innumerous, strong, +Way was not left me to get free. + + But now,' +Said she, I am happy; I have seen the place +Where I am going. + + I will tell it you, +Love, Hubert. Do not weep; they said to me +That you would come, and it would not be long. +Thus was it, being sad and full of fear, +I was crying in the night; and prayed to God +And said, "I have not learned high things;" and said +To the Saviour, "Do not be displeased with me, +I am not crying to get back and dwell +With my good mother and my father fond, +Nor even with my love, Hubert--my love, +Hubert; but I am crying because I fear +Mine answers were not rightly given--so hard +Those questions. If I did not understand, +Wilt thou forgive me?" And the moon went down +While I did pray, and looking on the floor, +Behold a little diamond lying there, +So small it might have dropped from out a ring. +I could but look! The diamond waxed--it grew-- +It was a diamond yet, and shot out rays, +And in the midst of it a rose-red point; +It waxed till I might see the rose-red point +Was a little Angel 'mid those oval rays, +With a face sweet as the first kiss, O love, +You gave me, and it meant that self-same thing. + +Now was it tall as I, among the rays +Standing; I touched not. Through the window drawn, +This barred and narrow window,--but I know +Nothing of how, we passed, and seemed to walk +Upon the air, till on the roof we sat. + +It spoke. The sweet mouth did not move, but all +The Angel spoke in strange words full and old, +It was my Angel sent to comfort me +With a message, and the message, "I might come, +And myself see if He forgave me." Then +Deliver'd he admonition, "Afterwards +I must return and die." But I being dazed, +Confused with love and joy that He so far +Did condescend, "Ay, Eminence," replied, +"Is the way great?" I knew not what I said. +The Angel then, "I know not far nor near, +But all the stars of God this side it shine." +And I forgetful wholly for this thing +My soul did pant in--a rapture and a pain, +So great as they would melt it quite away +To a vanishing like mist when sultry rays +Shot from the daystar reckon with it--I +Said in my simpleness, "But is there time? +For in three days I am to burn, and O +I would fain see that he forgiveth first. +Pray you make haste." "I know not haste," he said; +"I was not fashioned to be thrall of time. +What is it?" And I marvelled, saw outlying, +Shaped like a shield and of dimensions like +An oval in the sky beyond all stars, +And trembled with foreknowledge. We were bound +To that same golden holy hollow. I +Misdoubted how to go, but we were gone. +I set off wingless, walking empty air +Beside him. In a moment we were caught +Among thick swarms of lost ones, evil, fell +Of might, only a little less than gods, +And strong enough to tear the earth to shreds, +Set shoulders to the sun and rend it out +O' its place. Their wings did brush across my face, +Yet felt I nought; the place was vaster far +Than all this wholesome pastoral windy world. +Through it we spinning, pierced to its far brink, +Saw menacing frowns and we were forth again. +Time has no instant for the reckoning ought +So sudden; 't was as if a lightning flash +Threw us within it, and a swifter flash, +We riding harmless down its swordlike edge, +Shot us fast forth to empty nothingness. + +All my soul trembled, and my body it seemed +Pleaded than such a sight rather to faint +To the last silence, and the eery grave +Inhabit, and the slow solemnities +Of dying faced, content me with my shroud. + +And yet was lying athwart the morning star +That shone in front, that holy hollow; yet +It loomed, as hung atilt towards the world, +That in her time of sleep appeared to look +Up to it, into it. + We, though I wept, +Fearing and longing, knowing not how to go, +My heart gone first, both mine eyes dedicate +To its all-hallowed sweet desirèd gold, +We on the empty limitless abyss +Walked slowly. It was far; + And I feared much, +For lo! when I looked down deep under me +The little earth was such a little thing, +How in the vasty dark find her again? +The crescent moon a moorèd boat hard by, +Did wait on her and touch her ragged rims +With a small gift of silver. + Love! my life! +Hubert, while I yet wept, O we were there. +A menai of Angels first, a swarm of stars +Took us among them (all alive with stars +Shining and shouting each to each that place), +The feathered multitude did lie so thick +We walked upon them, walked on outspread wings, +And the great gates were standing open. + Love! +The country is not what you think; but oh! +When you have seen it nothing else contents. +The voice, the vision was not what you think-- +But oh! it was all. It was the meaning of life, +Excellent consummation of desires +For ever, let into the heart with pain +Most sweet. That smile did take the feeding soul +Deeper and deeper into heaven. The sward +(For I had bowed my face on it) I found +Grew in my spirit's longed for native land-- +At last I was at home.' + And here she paused: +I must needs weep. I have not been in heaven, +Therefore she could not tell me what she heard, +Therefore she might not tell me what she saw, +Only I understood that One drew near +Who said to her she should e'en come, 'Because,' +Said He, 'My Father loves Me. I will ask +He send, a guiding Angel for My sake, +Since the dark way is long, and rough, and hard, +So that I shall not lose whom I love--thee.' + +Other words wonderful of things not known, +When she had uttered, I gave hope away, +Cried out, and took her in despairing arms, +Asking no more. Then while the comfortless +Dawn till night fainted grew, alas! a key +That with abhorrèd jarring probed the door. +We kissed, we looked, unlocked our arms. She sighed +'Remember,' 'Ay, I will remember. What?' +'To come to me.' Then I, thrust roughly forth-- +I, bereft, dumb, forlorn, unremedied +My hurt for ever, stumbled blindly down, +And the great door was shut behind and chained. + +The weird pathetic scarlet of day dawning, +More kin to death of night than birth of morn, +Peered o'er yon hill bristling with spires of pine. +I heard the crying of the men condemned, +Men racked, that should be martyr'd presently, +And my great grief met theirs with might; I held +All our poor earth's despairs in my poor breast, +The choking reek, the faggots were all mine. +Ay, and the partings they were all mine--mine. +Father, it will be very good methinks +To die so, to die soon. It doth appease +The soul in misery for its fellows, when +There is no help, to suffer even as they. + +Father, when I had lost her, when I sat +After my sickness on the pallet bed, +My forehead dropp'd into my hand, behold +Some one beside me. A man's hand let down +With that same action kind, compassionate, +Upon my shoulder. And I took the hand +Between mine own, laying my face thereon. +I knew this man for him who spoke with me, +Letting me see my Delia. I looked up. +Lo! lo! the robed ecclesiastic proud, +He and this other one. Tell you his name? +Am I a fiend? No, he was good to me, +Almost he placed his life in my hand. + Father, +He with good pitying words long talked to me, +'Did I not strive to save her?' 'Ay,' quoth I. +'But sith it would not be, I also claim +Death, burning; let me therefore die--let me. +I am wicked, would be heretic, but, faith, +I know not how, and Holy Church I hate. +She is no mother of mine, she slew my love.' +What answer? 'Peace, peace, thou art hard on me. +Favour I forfeit with the Mother of God, +Lose rank among the saints, foresee my soul +Drenched in the unmitigated flame, and take +My payment in the lives snatched at all risk +From battling in it here. O, an thou turn +And tear from me, lost to that other world +My heart's reward in this, I am twice lost; +Now have I doubly failed.' + Father, I know +The Church would rail, hound forth, disgrace, try, burn, +Make his proud name, discover'd, infamy, +Tread underfoot his ashes, curse his soul. +But God is greater than the Church. I hope +He shall not, for that he loved men, lose God. +I hope to hear it said 'Thy sins are all +Forgiven; come in, thou hast done well.' + For me +My chronicle comes down to its last page. +'Is not life sweet?' quoth he, and comforted +My sick heart with good words, 'duty' and 'home.' +Then took me at moonsetting down the stair +To the dark deserted midway of the street, +Gave me a purse of money, and his hand +Laid on my shoulder, holding me with words +A father might have said, bad me God speed, +So pushed me from him, turned, and he was gone. + +There was a Pleiad lost; where is she now? +None knoweth,--O she reigns, it is my creed, +Otherwhere dedicate to making day. +The God of Gods, He doubtless looked to that +Who wasteth never ought He fashionèd. +I have no vision, but where vision fails +Faith cheers, and truly, truly there is need, +The god of this world being so unkind. +O love! My girl for ever to the world +Wanting. Lost, not that any one should find, +But wasted for the sake of waste, and lost +For love of man's undoing, of man's tears, +By envy of the evil one; I mourn +For thee, my golden girl, I mourn, I mourn. + +He set me free. And it befell anon +That I must imitate him. Then 't befell +That on the holy Book I read, and all, +The mediating Mother and her Babe, +God and the Church, and man and life and death, +And the dark gulfs of bitter purging flame, +Did take on alteration. Like a ship +Cast from her moorings, drifting from her port, +Not bound to any land, not sure of land, +My dull'd soul lost her reckoning on that sea +She sailed, and yet the voyage was nigh done. + +This God was not the God I had known; this Christ +Was other. O, a gentler God, a Christ-- +By a mother and a Father infinite-- +In distance each from each made kin to me. +Blest Sufferer on the rood; but yet, I say +Other. Far gentler, and I cannot tell, +Father, if you, or she, my golden girl, +Or I, or any aright those mysteries read. + +I cannot fathom them. There is not time, +So quickly men condemned me to this cell. +I quarrell'd not so much with Holy Church +For that she taught, as that my love she burned. +I die because I hid her enemies, +And read the Book. + But O, forgiving God, +I do elect to trust thee. I have thought, +What! are there set between us and the sun +Millions of miles, and did He like a tent +Rear up yon vasty sky? Is heaven less wide? +And dwells He there, but for His wingèd host, +Almost alone? Truly I think not so; +He has had trouble enough with this poor world +To make Him as an earthly father would, +Love it and value it more. + He did not give +So much to have us with Him, and yet fail. +And now He knows I would believe e'en so +As pleaseth Him, an there was time to learn +Or certitude of heart; but time fails, time. +He knoweth also 't were a piteous thing +Not to be sure of my love's welfare--not +To see her happy and good in that new home. +Most piteous. I could all forego but this. +O let me see her, Lord. + What, also I! +White ashes and a waft of vapour--I +To flutter on before the winds. No, no. +And yet for ever ay--my flesh shall hiss +And I shall hear 't. Dreadful, unbearable! +Is it to-morrow? + Ay, indeed, indeed, +To-morrow. But my moods are as great waves +That rise and break and thunder down on me, +And then fall'n back sink low. + I have waked long +And cannot hold my thoughts upon th' event; +They slip, they wander forth. + How the dusk grows. +This is the last moonrising we shall see. +Methought till morn to pray, and cannot pray. +Where is mine Advocate? let Him say all +And more was in my mind to say this night, +Because to-morrow--Ah! no more of that, +The tale is told. Father, I fain would sleep. + +Truly my soul is silent unto God. + + + + +A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST. + + +I. + +Laura, my Laura! 'Yes, mother!' 'I want you, Laura; come down.' +'What is it, mother--what, dearest? O your loved face how it pales! +You tremble, alas and alas--you heard bad news from the town?' +'Only one short half hour to tell it. My poor courage fails-- + + +II. + +Laura.' 'Where's Ronald?--O anything else but Ronald!' 'No, no, +Not Ronald, if all beside, my Laura, disaster and tears; +But you, it is yours to send them away, for you they will go, +One short half hour, and must it decide, it must for the years. + + +III. + +Laura, you think of your father sometimes?' 'Sometimes!' 'Ah, but how?' +'I think--that we need not think, sweet mother--the time is not yet, +He is as the wraith of a wraith, and a far off shadow now-- +--But if you have heard he is dead?' 'Not that?' 'Then let me forget.' + + +IV. + +'The sun is off the south window, draw back the curtain, my child.' +'But tell it, mother.' 'Answer you first what it is that you see.' +'The lambs on the mountain slope, and the crevice with blue ice piled.' +'Nearer.'--'But, mother!' 'Nearer!' 'My heifer she's lowing to me.' + + +V. + +'Nearer.' 'Nothing, sweet mother, O yes, for one sits in the bower. +Black the clusters hang out from the vine about his snow-white head, +And the scarlet leaves, where my Ronald leaned.' 'Only one half hour-- +Laura'--'O mother, my mother dear, all known though nothing said. + + +VI. + +O it breaks my heart, the face dejected that looks not on us, +A beautiful face--I remember now, though long I forgot.' +'Ay and I loved it. I love him to-day, and to see him thus! +Saying "I go if she bids it, for work her woe--I will not." + + +VII. + +There! weep not, wring not your hands, but think, think with your heart + and soul.' +'Was he innocent, mother? If he was, I, sure had been told, +'He said so.' 'Ah, but they do.' 'And I hope--and long was his dole, +And all for the signing a name (if indeed he signed) for gold.' + + +VIII. + +'To find us again, in the far far West, where hid, we were free-- +But if he was innocent--O my heart, it is riven in two, +If he goes how hard upon him--or stays--how harder on me, +For O my Ronald, my Ronald, my dear,--my best what of you!' + + +IX. + +'Peace; think, my Laura--I say he will go there, weep not so sore. +And the time is come, Ronald knows nothing, your father will go, +As the shadow fades from its place will he, and be seen no more.' +'There 'll be time to think to-morrow, and after, but to-day, no. + + +X. + +I'm going down the garden, mother.' 'Laura!' 'I've dried my tears.' +'O how will this end!' 'I know not the end, I can but begin.' +'But what will you say?' 'Not "welcome, father," though long were those + years, +But I'll say to him, "O my poor father, we wait you, come in." + + + + +LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE. + + +I. + +'And you brought him home.' 'I did, ay Ronald, it rested with me.' +'Love!' 'Yes.' 'I would fain you were not so calm.' 'I cannot weep. No.' +'What is he like, your poor father?' 'He is--like--this fallen tree +Prone at our feet, by the still lake taking on rose from the glow, + + +II. + +Now scarlet, O look! overcoming the blue both lake and sky, +While the waterfalls waver like smoke, then leap in and are not. +And shining snow-points of high sierras cast down, there they lie.' +'O Laura--I cannot bear it. Laura! as if I forgot.' + + +III. + +'No, you remember, and I remember that evening--like this +When we come forth from the gloomy Canyon, lo, a sinking sun. +And, Ronald, you gave to me your troth ring, I gave my troth kiss.' +'Give me another, I say that this makes no difference, none. + + +IV. + +It hurts me keenly. It hurts to the soul that you thought it could.' +'I never thought so, my Ronald, my love, never thought you base.' +No, but I look for a nobler nobleness, loss understood, +Accepted, and not that common truth which can hold through disgrace. + + +V. + +O! we remember, and how ere that noon through deeps of the lake +We floating looked down and the boat's shadow followed on rocks below, +So clear the water. O all pathetic as if for love's sake +Our life that is but a fleeting shadow 't would under us show. + + +VI. + +O we remember forget-me-not pale, and white columbine +You wreathed for my hair; because we remember this cannot be. +Ah! here is your ring--see, I draw it off--it must not be mine, +Put it on, love, if but for the moment and listen to me. + + +VII. + +I look for the best, I look for the most, I look for the all +From you, it consoles this misery of mine, there is you to trust. +O if you can weep, let us weep together, tears may well fall +For that lost sunsetting and what it promised,--they may, they must. + + +VIII. + +Do you say nothing, mine own belovèd, you know what I mean, +And whom.--To her pride and her love from YOU shall such blow be dealt... +...Silence uprisen, is like a presence, it comes us between... +As once there was darkness, now is there silence that may be felt. + + +IX. + +Ronald, your mother, so gentle, so pure, and you are her best, +'T is she whom I think of, her quiet sweetness, her gracious way. +'How could she bear it?'--'Laura!' 'Yes, Ronald.' 'Let that matter rest. +You might give your name to my father's child?' 'My father's name. Ay, + + +X. + +Who died before it was soiled.' 'You mutter.' 'Why, love, are you here?' +'Because my mother fled forth to the West, her trouble to hide, +And I was so small, the lone pine forest, and tier upon tier, +Far off Mexican snowy sierras pushed England aside.' + + +XI. + +'And why am I here?' 'But what did you mutter?' 'O pardon, sweet. +Why came I here and--my mother?' In truth then I cannot tell.' +'Yet you drew my ring from your finger--see--I kneel at your feet.' +'Put it on. 'T was for no fault of mine.' 'Love! I knew that full well.' + + +XII. + +'And yet there be faults that long repented, are aye to deplore, +Wear my ring, Laura, at least till I choose some words I can say, +If indeed any word need be said.' 'No! wait, Ronald, no more; +What! is there respite? Give me a moment to think "nay" or "ay." + + +XIII. + +I know not, but feel there is. O pardon me, pardon me,--peace. +For nought is to say, and the dawn of hope is a solemn thing, +Let us have silence. Take me back, Ronald, full sweet is release.' +'Laura! but give me my troth kiss again.' 'And give me my ring.' + + + + +THE WHITE MOON WASTETH. + + +The white moon wasteth, +And cold morn hasteth + Athwart the snow, +The red east burneth +And the tide turneth, + And thou must go. + +Think not, sad rover, +Their story all over + Who come from far-- +Once, in the ages +Won goodly wages + Led by a star. + +Once, for all duly +Guidance doth truly + Shine as of old, +Opens for me and thee +Once, opportunity + Her gates of gold. + +Enter, thy star is out, +Traverse nor faint nor doubt + Earth's antres wild, +Thou shalt find good and rest +As found the Magi blest + That divine Child. + + + + +AN ARROW-SLIT. + + +I clomb full high the belfry tower + Up to yon arrow-slit, up and away, +I said 'let me look on my heart's fair flower + In the wallèd garden where she doth play.' + +My care she knoweth not, no nor the cause, + White rose, red rose about her hung, +And I aloft with the doves and the daws. + They coo and call to their callow young. + +Sing, 'O an she were a white rosebud fair + Dropt, and in danger from passing feet, +'T is I would render her service tender, + Upraised on my bosom with reverence meet.' + +Playing at the ball, my dearest of all, + When she grows older how will it be, +I dwell far away from her thoughts to-day + That heed not, need not, or mine or me. + +Sing, 'O an my love were a fledgeling dove + That flutters forlorn o' her shallow nest, +'T is I would render her service tender, + And carry her, carry her on my breast.' + + + + +WENDOVER. + + +Uplifted and lone, set apart with our love + On the crest of a soft swelling down +Cloud shadows that meet on the grass at our feet + Sail on above Wendover town. + +Wendover town takes the smile of the sun + As if yearning and strife were no more, +From her red roofs float high neither plaint neither sigh, + All the weight of the world is our own. + +Would that life were more kind and that souls might have peace + As the wide mead from storm and from bale, +We bring up our own care, but how sweet over there + And how strange is their calm in the vale. + +As if trouble at noon had achieved a deep sleep, + Lapped and lulled from the weariful fret, +Or shot down out of day, had a hint dropt away + As if grief might attain to forget. + +Not if we two indeed had gone over the bourne + And were safe on the hills of the blest, +Not more strange they might show to us drawn from below, + Come up from long dolour to rest. + +But the peace of that vale would be thine love and mine, + And sweeter the air than of yore, +And this life we have led as a dream that is fled + Might appear to our thought evermore. + +'Was it life, was it life?' we might say ''twas scarce life,' + 'Was it love? 'twas scarce love,' looking down, +'Yet we mind a sweet ray of the red sun one day + Low lying on Wendover town. + + + + +THE LOVER PLEADS. + + +I. + +When I had guineas many a one +Nought else I lackèd 'neath the sun, +I had two eyes the bluest seen, +A perfect shape, a gracious mien, +I had a voice might charm the bale +From a two days widowed nightingale, +And if you ask how this I know +I had a love who told me so. +The lover pleads, the maid hearkeneth, +Her foot turns, his day darkeneth. +Love unkind, O can it be +'T was your foot false did turn from me. + + +II. + +The gear is gone, the red gold spent, +Favour and beauty with them went, +Eyes take the veil, their shining done, +Not fair to him is fair to none, +Sweet as a bee's bag 'twas to taste +His praise. O honey run to waste, +He loved not! spoiled is all my way +In the spoiling of that yesterday. + +The shadows wax, the low light alters, +Gold west fades, and false heart falters. +The pity of it!--Love's a rover, +The last word said, and all over. + + + + +SONG IN THREE PARTS. + + +I. + +The white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June weather, + 'O most sweet wear; +Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me, + Four am I fair,' + + Quoth the brown bee + 'In thy white wear + Four thou art fair. + A mystery + Of honeyed snow + In scented air + The bee lines flow + Straight unto thee. + Great boon and bliss + All pure I wis, + And sweet to grow + Ay, so to give + That many live. + Now as for me, + I,' quoth the bee, + 'Have not to give, + Through long hours sunny + Gathering I live: + Aye debonair + Sailing sweet air + After my fare, + Bee-bread and honey. + In thy deep coombe, + O thou white broom, + Where no leaves shake, + Brake, + Bent nor clover, + I a glad rover, + Thy calms partake, + While winds of might + From height to height + Go bodily over. + Till slanteth light, + And up the rise + Thy shadow lies, + A shadow of white, + A beauty-lender + Pathetic, tender. + + Short is thy day? + Answer with 'Nay,' + Longer the hours + That wear thy flowers + Than all dull, cold + Years manifold + That gift withhold. + A long liver, + O honey-giver, + Thou by all showing + Art made, bestowing, + I envy not + Thy greater lot, + Nor thy white wear. + But, as for me, + I,' quoth the bee, + 'Never am fair.' + +II. + +The nightingale lorn of his note in darkness brooding + Deeply and long, +'Two sweet months spake the heart to the heart. Alas! all's over, + O lost my song.' + + One in the tree, + 'Hush now! Let be: + The song at ending + Left my long tending + Over alsò. + Let be, let us go + Across the wan sea. + + The little ones care not, + And I fare not + Amiss with thee. + + Thou hast sung all, + This hast thou had. + Love, be not sad; + It shall befall + Assuredly, + When the bush buddeth + And the bank studdeth-- + Where grass is sweet + And damps do fleet, + Her delicate beds + With daisy heads + That the Stars Seven + Leaned down from heaven + Shall sparkling mark + In the warm dark + Thy most dear strain + Which ringeth aye true-- + Piercing vale, croft + Lifted aloft + Dropt even as dew + With a sweet quest + To her on the nest + When damps we love + Fall from above. + + "Art thou asleep? + Answer me, answer me, + Night is so deep + Thy right fair form + I cannot see; + Answer me, answer me, + Are the eggs warm? + Is't well with thee?" + + Ay, this shall be + Assuredly. + Ay, thou full fain + In the soft rain + Shalt sing again.' + + +III. + +A fair wife making her moan, despised, forsaken, + Her good days o'er; +'Seven sweet years of my life did I live belovèd, + Seven--no more.' + + Then Echo woke--and spoke + 'No more--no more,' + And a wave broke + On the sad shore + When Echo said + 'No more,' + + Nought else made reply, + Nor land, nor loch, nor sky + Did any comfort try, + But the wave spread + Echo's faint tone + Alone, + All down the desolate shore, + 'No more--no more.' + + + + +'IF I FORGET THEE, O JERUSALEM.' + + +Out of the melancholy that is made +Of ebbing sorrow that too slowly ebbs, +Comes back a sighing whisper of the reed, +A note in new love-pipings on the bough, +Grieving with grief till all the full-fed air +And shaken milky corn doth wot of it, +The pity of it trembling in the talk +Of the beforetime merrymaking brook-- +Out of that melancholy will the soul, +In proof that life is not forsaken quite +Of the old trick and glamour which made glad; +Be cheated some good day and not perceive +How sorrow ebbing out is gone from view, +How tired trouble fall'n for once on sleep, +How keen self-mockery that youth's eager dream +Interpreted to mean so much is found +To mean and give so little--frets no more, +Floating apart as on a cloud--O then +Not e'en so much as murmuring 'Let this end,' +She will, no longer weighted, find escape, +Lift up herself as if on wings and flit +Back to the morning time. + 'O once with me +It was all one, such joy I had at heart, +As I heard sing the morning star, or God +Did hold me with an Everlasting Hand, +And dip me in the day. + O once with me,' +Reflecting ''twas enough to live, to look +Wonder and love. Now let that come again. +Rise!' And ariseth first a tanglement +Of flowering bushes, peonies pale that drop +Upon a mossy lawn, rich iris spikes, +Bee-borage, mealy-stemmed auricula, +Brown wallflower, and the sweetbriar ever sweet, +Her pink buds pouting from their green. + To these +Add thick espaliers where the bullfinch came +To strew much budding wealth, and was not chid. +Then add wide pear trees on the warmèd wall, +The old red wall one cannot see beyond. +That is the garden. + In the wall a door +Green, blistered with the sun. You open it, +And lo! a sunny waste of tumbled hills +And a glad silence, and an open calm. +Infinite leisure, and a slope where rills +Dance down delightedly, in every crease, +And lambs stoop drinking and the finches dip, +Then shining waves upon a lonely beach. +That is the world. + + An all-sufficient world, +And as it seems an undiscovered world, +So very few the folk that come to look. +Yet one has heard of towns; but they are far +The world is undiscovered, and the child +Is undiscovered that with stealthy joy +Goes gathering like a bee who in dark cells +Hideth sweet food to live on in the cold. +What matters to the child, it matters not +More than it mattered to the moons of Mars, +That they for ages undiscovered went +Marked not of man, attendant on their king. + +A shallow line of sand curved to the cliff, +There dwelt the fisherfolk, and there inland +Some scattered cottagers in thrift and calm, +Their talk full oft was of old days,--for here +Was once a fosse, and by this rock-hewn path +Our wild fore-elders as 't is said would come +To gather jetsam from some Viking wreck, +Like a sea-beast wide breasted (her snake head +Reared up as staring while she rocked ashore) +That split, and all her ribs were on their fires +The red whereof at their wives' throats made bright +Gold gauds which from the weed they picked ere yet +The tide had turned. + + 'Many,' methought, 'and rich +They must have been, so long their chronicle. +Perhaps the world was fuller then of folk, +For ships at sea are few that near us now.' + +Yet sometimes when the clouds were torn to rags, +Flying black before a gale, we saw one rock +In the offing, and the mariner folk would cry, +'Look how she labours; those aboard may hear +Her timbers creak e'en as she'd break her heart.' + +'Twas then the grey gulls blown ashore would light +In flocks, and pace the lawn with flat cold feet. + +And so the world was sweet, and it was strange, +Sweet as a bee-kiss to the crocus flower, +Surprising, fresh, direct, but ever one. +The laughter of glad music did not yet +In its echo yearn, as hinting ought beyond, +Nor pathos tremble at the edge of bliss +Like a moon halo in a watery sky, +Nor the sweet pain alike of love and fear +In a world not comprehended touch the heart-- +The poetry of life was not yet born. +'T was a thing hidden yet that there be days +When some are known to feel 'God is about,' +As if that morn more than another morn +Virtue flowed forth from Him, the rolling world +Swam in a soothèd calm made resonant +And vital, swam as in the lap of God +Come down; until she slept and had a dream +(Because it was too much to bear awake), +That all the air shook with the might of Him +And whispered how she was the favourite world +That day, and bade her drink His essence in. + +'Tis on such days that seers prophesy +And poets sing, and many who are wise +Find out for man's wellbeing hidden things +Whereof the hint came in that Presence known +Yet unknown. But a seer--what is he? +A poet is a name of long ago. + +Men love the largeness of the field--the wild +Quiet that soothes the moor. In other days +They loved the shadow of the city wall, +In its stone ramparts read their poetry, +Safety and state, gold, and the arts of peace, +Law-giving, leisure, knowledge, all were there +This to excuse a child's allegiance and +A spirit's recurrence to the older way. +Orphan'd, with aged guardians kind and true, +Things came to pass not told before to me. + +Thus, we did journey once when eve was near. +Through carriage windows I beheld the moors, +Then, churches, hamlets cresting of low hills. +The way was long, at last I, fall'n asleep, +Awoke to hear a rattling 'neath the wheels +And see the lamps alight. This was the town. + +Then a wide inn received us, and full soon +Came supper, kisses, bed. + The lamp without +Shone in; the door was shut, and I alone. +An ecstasy of exultation took +My soul, for there were voices heard and steps, +I was among so many,--none of them +Knew I was come! + I rose, with small bare feet, +Across the carpet stole, a white-robed child, +And through the window peered. Behold the town. + +There had been rain, the pavement glistened yet +In a soft lamplight down the narrow street; +The church was nigh at hand, a clear-toned clock +Chimed slowly, open shops across the way +Showed store of fruit, and store of bread,--and one +Many caged birds. About were customers, +I saw them bargain, and a rich high voice +Was heard,--a woman sang, her little babe +Slept 'neath her shawl, and by her side a boy +Added wild notes and sweet to hers. + Some passed +Who gave her money. It was far from me +To pity her, she was a part of that +Admirèd town. E'en so within the shop +A rosy girl, it may be ten years old, +Quaint, grave. She helped her mother, deftly weighed +The purple plums, black mulberries rich and ripe +For boyish customers, and counted pence +And dropped them in an apron that she wore. +Methought a queen had ne'er so grand a lot, +She knew it, she looked up at me, and smiled. + +But yet the song went on, and in a while +The meaning came; the town was not enough +To satisfy that singer, for a sigh +With her wild music came. What wanted she? +Whate'er she wanted wanted all. O how +'T was poignant, her rich voice; not like a bird's. +Could she not dwell content and let them be, +That they might take their pleasure in the town, +For--no, she was not poor, witness the pence. +I saw her boy and that small saleswoman; +He wary, she with grave persuasive air, +Till he came forth with filberts in his cap, +And joined his mother, happy, triumphing. + +This was the town; and if you ask what else, +I say good sooth that it was poetry +Because it was the all, and something more,-- +It was the life of man, it was the world +That made addition to the watching heart, +First conscious its own beating, first aware +How, beating it kept time with all the race; +Nay, 't was a consciousness far down and dim +Of a Great Father watching too. + +But lo! the rich lamenting voice again; +She sang not for herself; it was a song +For me, for I had seen the town and knew, +Yearning I knew the town was not enough. + +What more? To-day looks back on yesterday, +Life's yesterday, the waiting time, the dawn, +And reads a meaning into it, unknown +When it was with us. + It is always so. +But when as ofttimes I remember me +Of the warm wind that moved the beggar's hair, +Of the wet pavement, and the lamps alit, +I know it was not pity that made yearn +My heart for her, and that same dimpled boy +How grand methought to be abroad so late. +And barefoot dabble in the shining wet; +How fine to peer as other urchins did +At those pent huddled doves they let not rest; +No, it was almost envy. Ay, how sweet +The clash of bells; they rang to boast that far +That cheerful street was from the cold sea-fog, +From dark ploughed field and narrow lonesome lane. +How sweet to hear the hum of voices kind, +To see the coach come up with din of horn. +Quick tramp of horses, mark the passers-by +Greet one another, and go on. + But now +They closed the shops, the wild clear voice was still, +The beggars moved away--where was their home. +The coach which came from out dull darksome fells +Into the light; passed to the dark again +Like some old comet which knows well her way, +Whirled to the sun that as her fateful loop +She turns, forebodes the destined silences. +Yes, it was gone; the clattering coach was gone, +And those it bore I pitied even to tears, +Because they must go forth, nor see the lights, +Nor hear the chiming bells. + In after days, +Remembering of the childish envy and +The childish pity, it has cheered my heart +To think e'en now pity and envy both +It may be are misplaced, or needed not. +Heaven may look down in pity on some soul +Half envied, or some wholly pitied smile, +For that it hath to wait as it were an hour +To see the lights that go not out by night, +To walk the golden street and hear a song; +Other-world poetry that is the all +And something more. + + + + +NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. + + +White as white butterflies that each one dons + Her face their wide white wings to shade withal, +Many moon-daisies throng the water-spring. + While couched in rising barley titlarks call, +And bees alit upon their martagons + Do hang a-murmuring, a-murmuring. + +They chide, it may be, alien tribes that flew + And rifled their best blossom, counted on +And dreamed on in the hive ere dangerous dew + That clogs bee-wings had dried; but when outshone +Long shafts of gold (made all for them) of power +To charm it away, those thieves had sucked the flower. + +Now must they go; a-murmuring they go, + And little thrushes twitter in the nest; +The world is made for them, and even so + The clouds are; they have seen no stars, the breast +Of their soft mother hid them all the night, +Till her mate came to her in red dawn-light. + +Eggs scribbled over with strange writing, signs, + Prophecies, and their meaning (for you see +The yolk within) is life, 'neath yonder bines + Lie among sedges; on a hawthorn tree +The slender-lord and master perched hard by, +Scolds at all comers if they step too nigh. + +And our small river makes encompassment + Of half the mead and holm: yon lime-trees grow +All heeling over to it, diligent + To cast green doubles of themselves below, +But shafts of sunshine reach its shallow floor +And warm the yellow sand it ripples o'er. + +Ripples and ripples to a pool it made +Turning. The cows are there, one creamy white-- +She should be painted with no touch of shade +If any list to limn her--she the light +Above, about her, treads out circles wide, +And sparkling water flashes from her side. + +The clouds have all retired to so great height + As earth could have no dealing with them more, +As they were lost, for all her drawing and might, + And must be left behind; but down the shore +Lie lovelier clouds in ranks of lace-work frail, +Wild parsley with a myriad florets pale, + +Another milky-way, more intricate + And multitudinous, with every star +Perfect. Long changeful sunbeams undulate + Amid the stems where sparklike creatures are +That hover and hum for gladness, then the last +Tree rears her graceful head, the shade is passed. + +And idle fish in warm wellbeing lie + Each with his shadow under, while at ease +As clouds that keep their shape the darting fry + Turn and are gone in company; o'er these +Strangers to them, strangers to us, from holes +Scooped in the bank peer out shy water-voles. + +Here, take for life and fly with innocent feet + The brown-eyed fawns, from moving shadows clear; +There, down the lane with multitudinous bleat + Plaining on shepherd lads a flock draws near; +A mild lamenting fills the morning air, +'Why to yon upland fold must we needs fare?' + +These might be fabulous creatures every one, + And this their world might be some other sphere +We had but heard of, for all said or done + To know of them,--of what this many a year +They may have thought of man, or of his sway, +Or even if they have a God and pray, + +The sweetest river bank can never more + Home to its source tempt back the lapsed stream, +Nor memory reach the ante-natal shore, + Nor one awake behold a sleeper's dream, +Not easier 't were that unbridged chasm to walk, +And share the strange lore of their wordless talk. + +Like to a poet voice, remote from ken, + That unregarded sings and undesired, +Like to a star unnamed by lips of men, + That faints at dawn in saffron light retired, +Like to an echo in some desert deep +From age to age unwakened from its sleep-- + +So falls unmarked that other world's great song, + And lapsing wastes without interpreter. +Slave world! not man's to raise, yet man's to wrong, + He cannot to a loftier place prefer, +But he can,--all its earlier rights forgot, +Reign reckless if its nations rue their lot. + +If they can sin or feel life's wear and fret, + An men had loved them better, it may be +We had discovered. But who e'er did yet, + After the sage saints in their clemency, +Ponder in hope they had a heaven to win, +Or make a prayer with a dove's name therein. + +As grave Augustine pleading in his day, + 'Have pity, Lord, upon the unfledged bird, +Lest such as pass do trample it in the way, + Not marking, or not minding; give the word, +O bid an angel in the nest again +To place it, lest the mother's love be vain. + +And let it live, Lord God, till it can fly.' + This man dwelt yearning, fain to guess, to spell +The parable; all work of God Most High + Took to his man's heart. Surely this was well; +To love is more than to be loved, by leave +Of Heaven, to give is more than to receive. + +He made it so that said it. As for us + Strange is their case toward us, for they give +And we receive. Made martyrs ever thus + In deed but not in will, for us they live, +For us they die, we quench their little day, +Remaining blameless, and they pass away. + +The world is better served than it is ruled, + And not alone of them, for ever +Ruleth the man, the woman serveth fooled + Full oft of love, not knowing his yoke is sore. +Life's greatest Son nought from life's measure swerved, +He was among us 'as a man that served.' + +Have they another life, and was it won + In the sore travail of another death, +Which loosed the manacles from our race undone + And plucked the pang from dying? If this breath +Be not their all, reproach no more debarred, +'O unkind lords, you made our bondage hard' + +May be their plaint when we shall meet again + And make our peace with them; the sea of life +Find flowing, full, nor ought or lost or vain. + Shall the vague hint whereof all thought is rife, +The sweet pathetic guess indeed come true, +And things restored reach that great residue? + +Shall we behold fair flights of phantom doves, + Shall furred creatures couch in moly flowers, +Swan souls the rivers oar with their world-loves, + In difference welcome as these souls of ours? +Yet soul of man from soul of man far more +May differ, even as thought did heretofore + +That ranged and varied on th' undying gleam: + From a pure breath of God aspiring, high, +Serving and reigning, to the tender dream, + The winged Psyche and her butterfly-- +From thrones and powers, to--fresh from death alarms +Child spirits entering in an angel's arms. + +Why must we think, begun in paradise, + That their long line, cut off with severance fell, +Shall end in nothingness--the sacrifice + Of their long service in a passing knell? +Could man be wholly blest if not to say +'Forgive'--nor make amends for ever and aye? + +Waste, waste on earth, and waste of God afar. + Celestial flotsam, blazing spars on high, +Drifts in the meteor month from some wrecked star, + Strew oft th' unwrinkled ocean of the sky, +And pass no more accounted of than be +Long dulses limp that stripe a mundane sea. + +The sun his kingdom fills with light, but all + Save where it strikes some planet and her moons +Across cold chartless gulfs ordained to fall, + Void antres, reckoneth no man's nights or noons, +But feeling forth as for some outmost shore, +Faints in the blank of doom, and is no more. + +God scattereth His abundance as forgot, + And what then doth he gather? If we know, +'Tis that One told us it was life. 'For not + A sparrow,' quoth he, uttering long ago +The strangest words that e'er took earthly sound, + 'Without your Father falleth to the ground.' + + + + +PERDITA. + + +_I go beyond the commandment_.' So be it. Then mine be the blame, +The loss, the lack, the yearning, till life's last sand be run,-- +I go beyond the commandment, yet honour stands fast with her claim, +And what I have rued I shall rue; for what I have done--I have done. + +Hush, hush! for what of the future; you cannot the base exalt, +There is no bridging a chasm over, that yawns with so sheer incline; +I will not any sweet daughter's cheek should pale for this mother's fault, +Nor son take leave to lower his life a-thinking on mine. + +'_ Will I tell you all?_' So! this, e'en this, will I do for your great + love's sake; +Think what it costs. '_Then let there be silence--silence you'll count + consent._' +No, and no, and for ever no: rather to cross and to break, +And to lower your passion I speak--that other it was I meant. + +That other I meant (but I know not how) to speak of, nor April days, +Nor a man's sweet voice that pleaded--O (but I promised this)-- +He never talked of marriage, never; I grant him that praise; +And he bent his stately head, and I lost, and he won with a kiss. + +He led me away--O, how poignant sweet the nightingale's note that noon-- +I beheld, and each crisped spire of grass to him for my sake was fair, +And warm winds flattered my soul blowing straight from the soul of June, +And a lovely lie was spread on the fields, but the blue was bare. + +When I looked up, he said: 'Love, fair love! O rather look in these eyes +With thine far sweeter than eyes of Eve when she stepped the valley + unshod'-- +For ONE might be looking through it, he thought, and he would not in any + wise +I should mark it open, limitless, empty, bare 'neath the gaze of God. + +Ah me! I was happy--yes, I was; 't is fit you should know it all, +While love was warm and tender and yearning, the rough winds troubled + me not; +I heard them moan without in the forest; heard the chill rains fall-- +But I thought my place was sheltered with him--I forgot, I forgot. + +After came news of a wife; I think he was glad I should know. +To stay my pleading, 'take me to church and give me my ring'; +'You should have spoken before,' he had sighed, when I prayed him so, +For his heart was sick for himself and me, and this bitter thing. + +But my dream was over me still,--I was half beguiled, +And he in his kindness left me seldom, O seldom, alone, +And yet love waxed cold, and I saw the face of my little child, +And then at the last I knew what I was, and what I had done. + +'YOU _will give me the name of wife_. YOU _will give me a ring_.'--O + peace! +You are not let to ruin your life because I ruined mine; +You will go to your people at home. There will be rest and release; +The bitter now will be sweet full soon--ay, and denial divine. + +But spare me the ending. I did not wait to be quite cast away; +I left him asleep, and the bare sun rising shone red on my gown. +There was dust in the lane, I remember; prints of feet in it lay, +And honeysuckle trailed in the path that led on to the down. + +I was going nowhere--I wandered up, then turned and dared to look back, +Where low in the valley he careless and quiet--quiet and careless slept. +'_Did I love him yet?_' I loved him. Ay, my heart on the upland track +Cried to him, sighed to him out by the wheat, as I walked, and I wept. + +I knew of another alas, one that had been in my place, +Her little ones, she forsaken, were almost in need; +I went to her, and carried my babe, then all in my satins and lace +I sank at the step of her desolate door, a mourner indeed. + +I cried, ''T is the way of the world, would I had never been born!' +'Ay, 't is the way of the world, but have you no sense to see +For all the way of the world,' she answers and laughs me to scorn, +'The world is made the world that it is by fools like you, like me.' + +Right hard upon me, hard on herself, and cold as the cold stone, +But she took me in; and while I lay sick I knew I was lost, +Lost with the man I loved, or lost without him, making my moan +Blighted and rent of the bitter frost, wrecked, tempest tossed, lost, + lost! + +How am I fallen:--we that might make of the world what we would, +Some of us sink in deep waters. Ah! '_you would raise me again?'_ +No true heart,--you cannot, you cannot, and all in my soul that is good +Cries out against such a wrong. Let be, your quest is for ever in vain. + +For I feel with another heart, I think with another mind, +I have worsened life, I have wronged the world, I have lowered the light; +But as for him, his words and his ways were after his kind, +He did but spoil where he could, and waste where he might. + +For he was let to do it; I let him and left his soul +To walk mid the ruins he made of home in remembrance of love's despairs, +Despairs that harden the hearts of men and shadow their heads with dole, +And woman's fault, though never on earth, may be healed,--but what of + theirs. + +'T was fit you should hear it all--What, tears? they comfort me; now you + will go, +Nor wrong your life for the nought you call 'a pair of beautiful eyes,' +_'I will not say I love you.'_ Truly I will not, no. +_'Will, I pity you?'_ Ay, but the pang will be short, you shall wake and be + wise. + +_'Shall we meet?_ We shall meet on the other side, but not before. +I shall be pure and fair, I shall hear the sound of THE NAME, +And see the form of His face. You too will walk on that shore, +In the garden of the Lord God, where neither is sorrow nor shame. + +Farewell, I shall bide alone, for God took my one white lamb, +I work for such as she was, and I will the while I last, +But there's no beginning again, ever I am what I am, +And nothing, nothing, nothing, can do away with the past. + + + + +SERIOUS POEMS, + +AND + +SONGS AND POEMS + +OF + +LOVE AND CHILDHOOD. + + + + +LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. + + +_(First of a Series.)_ + +A PARSON'S LETTER TO A YOUNG POET. + +They said "Too late, too late, the work is done; +Great Homer sang of glory and strong men +And that fair Greek whose fault all these long +years +Wins no forgetfulness nor ever can; +For yet cold eyes upon her frailty bend, +For yet the world waits in the victor's tent +Daily, and sees an old man honourable, +His white head bowed, surprise to passionate tears +Awestruck Achilles; sighing, 'I have endured, +The like whereof no soul hath yet endured, +To kiss the hand of him that slew my son.'" + +They said: "We, rich by him, are rich by more; +One Aeschylus found watchfires on a hill +That lit Old Night's three daughters to their work; +When the forlorn Fate leaned to their red light +And sat a-spinning, to her feet he came +And marked her till she span off all her thread. + +"O, it is late, good sooth, to cry for more: +The work once done, well done," they said, "forbear! +A Tuscan afterward discovered steps +Over the line of life in its mid-way; +He climbed the wall of Heaven, beheld his love +Safe at her singing, and he left his foes +In a vale of shadow weltering, unassoiled +Immortal sufferers henceforth in both worlds. + +"Who may inherit next or who shall match +The Swan of Avon and go float with him +Down the long river of life aneath a sun +Not veiled, and high at noon?--the river of life +That as it ran reflected all its lapse +And rippling on the plumage of his breast? + +"Thou hast them, heed them, for thy poets now, +Albeit of tongue full sweet and majesty +Like even to theirs, are fallen on evil days, +Are wronged by thee of life, wronged of the world. +Look back they must and show thee thy fair past, +Or, choosing thy to-day, they may but chant +As they behold. + + "The mother-glowworm broods +Upon her young, fast-folded in the egg +And long before they come to life they shine-- +The mother-age broods on her shining thought +That liveth, but whose life is hid. He comes +Her poet son, and lo you, he can see +The shining, and he takes it to his breast +And fashions for it wings that it may fly +And show its sweet light in the dusky world. + +"Mother, O Mother of our dusk to-day, +What hast thou lived for bards to sing of thee? +Lapsed water cannot flow above its source; +'_The kid must browse_,'" they said, "'_where she is tied_.'" + +Son of to-day, rise up, and answer them. +What! wilt thou let thy mother sit ashamed +And crownless?--Set the crown on her fair head: +She waited for thy birth, she cries to thee +"Thou art the man." He that hath ears to hear, +To him the mother cries "Thou art the man." + +She murmurs, for thy mother's voice is low-- +"Methought the men of war were even as gods +The old men of the ages. Now mine eyes +Retrieve the truth from ruined city walls +That buried it; from carved and curious homes +Full of rich garments and all goodly spoil, +Where having burned, battered, and wasted them, +They flung it. Give us, give us better gods +Than these that drink with blood upon their hands, +For I repent me that I worshipped them. +O that there might be yet a going up! +O to forget--and to begin again!" + +Is not thy mother's rede at one with theirs +Who cry "The work is done"? What though to thee, +Thee only, should the utterance shape itself +"O to forget, and to begin again," +Only of thee be heard as that keen cry +Rending its way from some distracted heart +That yields it and so breaks? Yet list the cry +Begin for her again, and learn to sing; +But first, in all thy learning learn to be. +Is life a field? then plough it up--re-sow +With worthier seed--Is life a ship? O heed +The southing of thy stars--Is life a breath? +Breathe deeper, draw life up from hour to hour, +Aye, from the deepest deep in thy deep soul. + +It may be God's first work is but to breathe +And fill the abysm with drifts of shining air +That slowly, slowly curdle into worlds. +A little space is measured out to us +Of His long leisure; breathe and grow therein, +For life, alas! is short, and "_When we die_ +_It is not for a little while_." + +They said, +"The work is done," and is it therefore done? +Speak rather to thy mother thus: "All-fair, +Lady of ages, beautiful To-day +And sorrowful To-day, thy children set +The crown of sorrow on their heads, their loss +Is like to be the loss of all: we hear +Lamenting, as of some that mourn in vain +Loss of high leadership, but where is he +That shall be great enough to lead thee now? +Where is thy Poet? thou hast wanted him. +Where? Thou hast wakened as a child in the night +And found thyself alone. The stars have set, +There is great darkness, and the dark is void +Of music. Who shall set thy life afresh +And sing thee thy new songs? Whom wilt thou love +And lean on to break silence worthily-- +Discern the beauty in thy goings--feel +The glory of thy yearning,--thy self-scorn +Matter to dim oblivion with a smile-- +Own thy great want, that knew not its great name? +O who shall make to thee mighty amends +For thy lost childhood, joining two in one, +Thyself and Him? Behold Him, He is near: +God is thy Poet now. + +"A King sang once +Long years ago 'My soul is athirst for God, +Yea for the living God'--thy thirst and his +Are one. It is thy Poet whom thy hands +Grope for, not knowing. Life is not enough, +Nor love, nor learning,--Death is not enough +Even to them, happy, who forecast new life; +But give us now and satisfy us now, +Give us now, now, to live in the life of God, +Give us now, now, to be at one with Him." + +Would I had words--I have not words for her, +Only for thee; and thus I tell them out: +For every man the world is made afresh; +To God both it and he are young. There are +Who call upon Him night, and morn, and night +"Where is the kingdom? Give it us to-day. +We would be here with God, not there with God. +Make Thine abode with us, great Wayfarer, +And let our souls sink deeper into Thee"-- +There are who send but yearnings forth, in quest +They know not why, of good they know not what. + +The unknown life, and strange its stirring is. +The babe knows nought of life, yet clothed in it +And yearning only for its mother's breast +Feeds thus the unheeded thing--and as for thee, +That life thou hast is hidden from thine eyes, +And when it yearns, thou, knowing not for what, +Wouldst fain appease it with one grand, deep joy, +One draught of passionate peace--but wilt thou know +The other name of joy, the better name +Of peace? It is thy Father's name. Thy life +Yearns to its Source. The spirit thirsts for God, +Even the living God. + + But "No," thou sayest, +"My heart is all in ruins with pain, my feet +Tread a dry desert where there is no way +Nor water. I look back, and deep through time +The old words come but faintly up the track +Trod by the sons of men. The man He sent, +The Prince of life, methinks I could have loved +If I had looked once in His deep man's eyes. +But long ago He died, and long ago +Is gone." + + He is not dead, He cannot go. +Men's faith at first was like a mastering stream, +Like Jordan "the descender" leaping down +Pure from his snow; and warmed of tropic heat +Hiding himself in verdure: then at last +In a Dead Sea absorbed, as faith of doubt. +But yet the snow lies thick on Hermon's breast +And daily at his source the stream is born. +Go up--go mark the whiteness of the snow--Thy +faith is not thy Saviour, not thy God, +Though faith waste fruitless down a desert old. +The living God is new, and He is near. + +What need to look behind thee and to sigh? +When God left speaking He went on before +To draw men after, following up and on; +And thy heart fails because thy feet are slow; +Thou think'st of Him as one that will not wait, +A Father and not wait!--He waited long +For us, and yet perchance He thinks not long +And will not count the time. There are no dates +In His fine leisure. + + Speak then as a son: +"Father, I come to satisfy Thy love +With mine, for I had held Thee as remote, +The background of the stars--Time's yesterday-- +Illimitable Absence. Now my heart +Communes, methinks, with somewhat teaching me +Thou art the Great To-day. God, is it so? +Then for all love that WAS, I thank Thee, God, +It is and yet shall hide. And I have part +In all, for in Thine image I was made, +To Thee my spirit yearns, as Thou to mine. +If aught be stamped of Thy Divine on me, +And man be God-like, God is like to man. + +"Dear and dread Lord, I have not found it hard +To fear Thee, though Thy love in visible form +Bled 'neath a thorny crown--but since indeed, +For kindred's sake and likeness, Thou dost thirst +To draw men nigh, and make them one with Thee, +My soul shall answer 'Thou art what I want: +I am athirst for God, the living God.'" + +Then straightway flashes up athwart the words: +"And if I be a son I am very far +From my great Father's house; I am not clean. +I have not always willed it should be so, +And the gold of life is rusted with my tears." + +It is enough. He never said to men, +"Seek ye My face in vain." And have they sought-- +Beautiful children, well-beloved sons, +Opening wide eyes to ache among the moons +All night, and sighing because star multitudes +Fainted away as to a glittering haze, +And sparkled here and there like silver wings, +Confounding them with nameless, numberless, +Unbearable, fine flocks? It is not well +For them, for thee. Hast thou gone forth so far +To the unimaginable steeps on high +Trembling and seeking God? Yet now come home, +Cry, cry to Him: "I cannot search Thee out, +But Thou and I must meet. O come, come down, +Come." And that cry shall have the mastery. +Ay, He shall come in truth to visit thee, +And thou shalt mourn to Him, "Unclean, unclean," +But never more "I will to have it so." +From henceforth thou shalt learn that there is love +To long for, pureness to desire, a mount +Of consecration it were good to scale. + +Look you, it is to-day as at the first. +When Adam first was 'ware his new-made eyes +And opened them, behold the light! And breath +Of God was misting yet about his mouth, +Whereof they had made his soul. Then he looked forth +And was a part of light; also he saw +Beautiful life, and it could move. But Eve--Eve +was the child of midnight and of sleep. +Lo, in the dark God led her to his side; +It may be in the dark she heard him breathe +Before God woke him. And she knew not light, +Nor life but as a voice that left his lips, +A warmth that clasped her; but the stars were out, +And she with wide child-eyes gazed up at them. + +Haply she thought that always it was night; +Haply he, whispering to her in that reach +Of beauteous darkness, gave her unworn heart +A rumour of the dawn, and wakened it +To a trembling, and a wonder, and a want +Kin to his own; and as he longed to gaze +On his new fate, the gracious mystery +His wife, she may have longed, and felt not why, +After the light that never she had known. + +So doth each age walk in the light beheld, +Nor think on light, if it be light or no; +Then comes the night to it, and in the night +Eve. + + The God-given, the most beautiful +Eve. And she is not seen for darkness' sake; +Yet, when she makes her gracious presence felt, +The age perceives how dark it is, and fain, +Fain would have daylight, fain would see her well, +A beauty half revealed, a helpmeet sent +To draw the soul away from valley clods; +Made from itself, yet now a better self-- +Soul in the soulless, arrow tipped with fire +Let down into a careless breast; a pang +Sweeter than healing that cries out with it +For light all light, and is beheld at length-- +The morning dawns. + + Were not we born to light? +Ay, and we saw the men and women as saints +Walk in a garden. All our thoughts were fair; +Our simple hearts, as dovecotes full of doves, +Made home and nest for them. They fluttered forth. +And flocks of them flew white about the world. +And dreams were like to ships that floated us +Far out on silent floods, apart from earth, +From life--so far that we could see their lights +In heaven--and hear the everlasting tide, +All dappled with that fair reflected gold, +Wash up against the city wall, and sob +At the dark bows of vessels that drew on +Heavily freighted with departed souls +To whom did spirits sing; but on that song +Might none, albeit the meaning was right plain, +Impose the harsh captivity of words. + +Afterward waking, sweet was early air, +Full excellent was morning: whether deep +The snow lay keenly white, and shrouds of hail +Blurred the grey breaker on a long foreshore, +And swarming plover ran, and wild white mews +And sea-pies printed with a thousand feet +The fallen whiteness, making shrill the storm; +Or whether, soothed of sunshine, throbbed and hummed +The mill atween its bowering maple trees, +And churned the leaping beck that reared, and urged +A diamond-dripping wheel. + + The happy find +Equality of beauty everywhere +To feed on. All of shade and sheen is theirs, +All the strange fashions and the fair wise ways +Of lives beneath man's own. He breathes delight +Whose soul is fresh, whose feet are wet with dew +And the melted mist of morning, when at watch +Sunk deep in fern he marks the stealthy roe, +Silent as sleep or shadow, cross the glade, +Or dart athwart his view as August stars +Shoot and are out--while gracefully pace on +The wild-eyed harts to their traditional tree +To clear the velvet from their budded horns. +There is no want, both God and life are kind; +It is enough to hear, it is enough +To see; the pale wide barley-field they love, +And its weird beauty, and the pale wide moon +That lowering seems to lurk between the sheaves. +So in the rustic hamlet at high noon +The white owl sailing drowsed and deaf with sleep +To hide her head in turrets browned of moss +That is the rust of time. Ay so the pinks +And mountain grass marked on a sharp sea-cliff +While far below the northern diver feeds; +She having ended settling while she sits, +As vessels water-logged that sink at sea +And quietly into the deep go down. + +It is enough to wake, it is enough +To sleep:--With God and time he leaves the rest. +But on a day death on the doorstep sits +Waiting, or like a veilèd woman walks +Dogging his footsteps, or athwart his path +The splendid passion-flower love unfolds +Buds full of sorrow, not ordained to know +Appeasement through the answer of a sigh, +The kiss of pity with denial given, +The crown and blossom of accomplishment. +Or haply comes the snake with subtlety, +And tempts him with an apple to know all. + +So,--Shut the gate; the story tells itself +Over and over; Eden must be lost +If after it be won. He stands at fault, +Not knowing at all how this should be--he feels +The great bare barrenness o' the outside world. +He thinks on Time and what it has to say; +He thinks on God, but God has changed His hand, +Sitting afar. And as the moon draws on +To cover the day-king in his eclipse, +And thin the last fine sickle of light, till all +Be gone, so fares it with his darkened soul. + +The dark, but not Orion sparkling there +With his best stars; the dark, but not yet Eve. +And now the wellsprings of sweet natural joy +Lie, as the Genie sealed of Solomon, +Fast prisoned in his heart; he hath not learned +The spell whereby to loose and set them forth, +And all the glad delights that boyhood loved +Smell at Oblivion's poppy, and lie still. + +Ah! they must sleep--"The mill can grind no more +With water that hath passed." Let it run on. +For he hath caught a whisper in the night; +This old inheritance in darkness given, +The world, is widened, warmed, it is alive, +Comes to his beating heart and bids it wake, +Opens the door to youth, and bids it forth, +Exultant for expansion and release, +And bent to satisfy the mighty wish, +Comfort and satisfy the mighty wish, +Life of his life, the soul's immortal child +That is to him as Eve. + + He cannot win, +Nor earn, nor see, nor hear, nor comprehend, +With all the watch, tender, impetuous, +That wastes him, this, whereof no less he feels +Infinite things; but yet the night is full +Of air-beats and of heart-beats for her sake. +Eve the aspirer, give her what she wants, +Or wherefore was he born? + + O he was born +To wish--then turn away:--to wish again +And half forget his wish for earthlier joy; +He draws the net to land that brings red gold; +His dreams among the meshes tangled lie, +And learning hath him at her feet;--and love, +The sea-born creature fresh from her sea foam, +Touches the ruddiest veins in his young heart, +Makes it to sob in him and sigh in him, +Restless, repelled, dying, alive and keen, +Fainting away for the remorseless ALL +Gone by, gone up, or sweetly gone before, +But never in his arms. Then pity comes, +Knocks at his breast, it may be, and comes in, +Makes a wide wound that haply will not heal, +But bleeds for poverty, and crime, and pain, +Till for the dear kin's sake he grandly dares +Or wastes him, with a wise improvidence; +But who can stir the weighty world; or who +Can drink a sea of tears? + + O love, and life, +O world, and can it be that this is all? +Leave him to tread expectance underfoot; +Let him alone to tame down his great hope +Before it breaks his heart: "Give me my share +That I foresaw, my place, my draught of life. +This that I bear, what is it?--me no less +It binds, I cannot disenslave my soul." + +There is but halting for the wearied foot. +The better way is hidden; faith hath failed-- +One stronger far than reason mastered her. +It is not reason makes faith hard, but life. +The husks of his dead creed, downtrod and dry, +Are powerless now as some dishonoured spell, +Some aged Pythia in her priestly clothes, +Some widow'd witch divining by the dead. +Or if he keep one shrine undesecrate +And go to it from time to time with tears, +What lies there? A dead Christ enswathed and cold, +A Christ that did not rise. The linen cloth +Is wrapped about His head, He lies embalmed +With myrrh and spices in His sepulchre, +The love of God that daily dies;--to them +That trust it the One Life, the all that lives. + +O mother Eve, who wert beguiled of old, +Thy blood is in thy children, thou art yet +Their fate and copy; with thy milk they drew +The immortal want of morning; but thy day +Dawned and was over, and thy children know +Contentment never, nor continuance long. +For even thus it is with them: the day +Waxeth, to wane anon, and a long night +Leaves the dark heart unsatisfied with stars. + +A soul in want and restless and bereft +To whom all life hath lied, shall it too lie? +Saying, "I yield Thee thanks, most mighty God, +Thou hast been pleased to make me thus and thus. +I do submit me to Thy sovereign will +That I full oft should hunger and not have, +And vainly yearn after the perfect good, +Gladness and peace"? + + No, rather dare think thus: +"Ere chaos first had being, earth, or time, +My Likeness was apparent in high heaven, +Divine and manlike, and his dwelling place +Was the bosom of the Father. By His hands +Were the worlds made and filled with diverse growths +And ordered lives. Then afterward they said, +Taking strange counsel, as if he who worked +Hitherto should not henceforth work alone, +'Let us make man;' and God did look upon +That Divine Word which was the form of God, +And it became a thought before the event. +There they foresaw my face, foreheard my speech, +God-like, God-loved, God-loving, God-derived. + +"And I was in a garden, and I fell +Through envy of God's evil son, but Love +Would not be robbed of me for ever--Love +For my sake passed into humanity, +And there for my first Father won me home. +How should I rest then? I have NOT gone home; +I feed on husks, and they given grudgingly, +While my great Father--Father--O my God, +What shall I do?" + + Ay, I will dare think thus: +"I cannot rest because He doth not rest +In whom I have my being. THIS is GOD-- +My soul is conscious of His wondrous wish, +And my heart's hunger doth but answer His +Whose thought has met with mine. + + "I have not all; +He moves me thus to take of Him what lacks. +My want is God's desire to give,--He yearns +To add Himself to life and so for aye +Make it enough." + A thought by night, a wish +After the morning, and behold it dawns +Pathetic in a still solemnity, +And mighty words are said for him once more, +"Let there be light." Great heaven and earth have heard, +And God comes down to him, and Christ doth rise. + + + + +THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. + + +There are who give themselves to work for men,-- +To raise the lost, to gather orphaned babes +And teach them, pitying of their mean estate, +To feel for misery, and to look on crime +With ruth, till they forget that they themselves +Are of the race, themselves among the crowd +Under the sentence and outside the gate, +And of the family and in the doom. +Cold is the world; they feel how cold it is, +And wish that they could warm it. Hard is life +For some. They would that they could soften it; +And, in the doing of their work, they sigh +As if it was their choice and not their lot; +And, in the raising of their prayer to God, +They crave his kindness for the world he made, +Till they, at last, forget that he, not they, +Is the true lover of man. + + * * * * * + +Now, in an ancient town, that had sunk low,-- +Trade having drifted from it, while there stayed +Too many, that it erst had fed, behind,-- +There walked a curate once, at early day. + +It was the summer-time; but summer air +Came never, in its sweetness, down that dark +And crowded alley,--never reached the door +Whereat he stopped,--the sordid, shattered door. + +He paused, and, looking right and left, beheld +Dirt and decay, the lowering tenements +That leaned toward each other; broken panes +Bulging with rags, and grim with old neglect; +And reeking hills of formless refuse, heaped +To fade and fester in a stagnant air. +But he thought nothing of it: he had learned +To take all wretchedness for granted,--he, +Reared in a stainless home, and radiant yet +With the clear hues of healthful English youth, +Had learned to kneel by beds forlorn, and stoop +Under foul lintels. He could touch, with hand +Unshrinking, fevered fingers; he could hear +The language of the lost, in haunt and den,-- +So dismal, that the coldest passer-by +Must needs be sorry for them, and, albeit +They cursed, would dare to speak no harder words +Than these,--"God help them!" + + Ay! a learned man +The curate in all woes that plague mankind,-- +Too learned, for he was but young. His heart +Had yearned till it was overstrained, and now +He--plunged into a narrow slough unblest, +Had struggled with its deadly waters, till +His own head had gone under, and he took +Small joy in work he could not look to aid +Its cleansing. + + Yet, by one right tender tie, +Hope held him yet. The fathers coarse and dull, +Vile mothers hard, and boys and girls profane, +His soul drew back from. He had worked for them,-- +Work without joy: but, in his heart of hearts, +He loved the little children; and whene'er +He heard their prattle innocent, and heard +Their tender voices lisping sacred words +That he had taught them,--in the cleanly calm +Of decent school, by decent matron held,-- +Then would he say, "I shall have pleasure yet, +In these." + + But now, when he pushed back that door +And mounted up a flight of ruined stairs, +He said not that. He said, "Oh! once I thought +The little children would make bright for me +The crown they wear who have won many souls +For righteousness; but oh, this evil place! +Hard lines it gives them, cold and dirt abhorred,-- +Hunger and nakedness, in lieu of love, +And blows instead of care. + + "And so they die, +The little children that I love,--they die,--They +turn their wistful faces to the wall, +And slip away to God." + + With that, his hand +He laid upon a latch and lifted it, +Looked in full quietly, and entered straight. + +What saw he there? He saw a three-years child, +That lay a-dying on a wisp of straw +Swept up into a corner. O'er its brow +The damps of death were gathering: all alone, +Uncared for, save that by its side was set +A cup, it waited. And the eyes had ceased +To look on things at hand. He thought they gazed +In wistful wonder, or some faint surmise +Of coming change,--as though they saw the gate +Of that fair land that seems to most of us +Very far off. + When he beheld the look, +He said, "I knew, I knew how this would be! +Another! Ay, and but for drunken blows +And dull forgetfulness of infant need, +This little one had lived." And thereupon +The misery of it wrought upon him so, +That, unaware, he wept. Oh! then it was +That, in the bending of his manly head, +It came between the child and that whereon +He gazed, and, when the curate glanced again, +Those dying eyes, drawn back to earth once more, +Looked up into his own, and smiled. + He drew +More near, and kneeled beside the small frail thing, +Because the lips were moving; and it raised +Its baby hand, and stroked away his tears, +And whispered, "Master! master!" and so died. + +Now, in that town there was an ancient church, +A minster of old days which these had turned +To parish uses: there the curate served. +It stood within a quiet swarded Close, +Sunny and still, and, though it was not far +From those dark courts where poor humanity +Struggled and swarmed, it seemed to wear its own +Still atmosphere about it, and to hold +That old-world calm within its precincts pure +And that grave rest which modern life foregoes. + +When the sad curate, rising from his knees, +Looked from the dead to heaven,--as, unaware, +Men do when they would track departed life,--He +heard the deep tone of the minster-bell +Sounding for service, and he turned away +So heavy at heart, that, when he left behind +That dismal habitation, and came out +In the clear sunshine of the minster-yard, +He never marked it. Up the aisle he moved, +With his own gloom about him; then came forth, +And read before the folk grand words and calm,--Words +full of hope; but into his dull heart +Hope came not. As one talketh in a dream, +And doth not mark the sense of his own words, +He read; and, as one walketh in a dream, +He after walked toward the vestment-room, +And never marked the way he went by,--no, +Nor the gray verger that before him stood, +The great church-keys depending from his hand, +Ready to follow him out and lock the door. + +At length, aroused to present things, but not +Content to break the sequence of his thought, +Nor ready for the working day that held +Its busy course without, he said, "Good friend, +Leave me the keys: I would remain a while." +And, when the verger gave, he moved with him +Toward the door distraught, then shut him out, +And locked himself within the church alone. +The minster-church was like a great brown cave, +Fluted and fine with pillars, and all dim +With glorious gloom; but, as the curate turned, +Suddenly shone the sun,--and roof and walls, +Also the clustering shafts from end to end, +Were thickly sown all over, as it were, +With seedling rainbows. And it went and came +And went, that sunny beam, and drifted up +Ethereal bloom to flush the open wings +And carven cheeks of dimpled cherubim, +And dropped upon the curate as he passed, +And covered his white raiment and his hair. + +Then did look down upon him from their place, +High in the upper lights, grave mitred priests, +And grand old monarchs in their flowered gowns +And capes of miniver; and therewithal +(A veiling cloud gone by) the naked sun +Smote with his burning splendor all the pile, +And in there rushed, through half-translucent panes, +A sombre glory as of rusted gold, +Deep ruby stains, and tender blue and green, +That made the floor a beauty and delight, +Strewed as with phantom blossoms, sweet enough +To have been wafted there the day they dropt +On the flower-beds in heaven. + The curate passed +Adown the long south aisle, and did not think +Upon this beauty, nor that he himself-- +Excellent in the strength of youth, and fair +With all the majesty that noble work +And stainless manners give--did add his part +To make it fairer. + In among the knights +That lay with hands uplifted, by the lute +And palm of many a saint,--'neath capitals +Whereon our fathers had been bold to carve +With earthly tools their ancient childlike dream +Concerning heavenly fruit and living bowers, +And glad full-throated birds that sing up there +Among the branches of the tree of life-- +Through all the ordered forest of the shafts, +Shooting on high to enter into light, +That swam aloft,--he took his silent way, +And in the southern transept sat him down, +Covered his face, and thought. + He said, "No pain, +No passion, and no aching, heart o' mine, +Doth stir within thee. Oh! I would there did: +Thou art so dull, so tired. I have lost +I know not what. I see the heavens as lead: +They tend no whither. Ah! the world is bared +Of her enchantment now: she is but earth +And water. And, though much hath passed away, +There may be more to go. I may forget +The joy and fear that have been: there may live +No more for me the fervency of hope +Nor the arrest of wonder. + + "Once I said, +'Content will wait on work, though work appear +Unfruitful.' Now I say, 'Where is the good? +What is the good? A lamp when it is lit +Must needs give light; but I am like a man +Holding his lamp in some deserted place +Where no foot passeth. Must I trim my lamp, +And ever painfully toil to keep it bright, +When use for it is none? I must; I will. +Though God withhold my wages, I must work, +And watch the bringing of my work to nought,-- +Weed in the vineyard through the heat o' the day, +And, overtasked, behold the weedy place +Grow ranker yet in spite of me. + + "Oh! yet +My meditated words are trodden down +Like a little wayside grass. Castaway shells, +Lifted and tossed aside by a plunging wave, +Have no more force against it than have I +Against the sweeping, weltering wave of life, +That, lifting and dislodging me, drives on, +And notes not mine endeavor." + + Afterward, +He added more words like to these; to wit, +That it was hard to see the world so sad: +He would that it were happier. It was hard +To see the blameless overborne; and hard +To know that God, who loves the world, should yet +Let it lie down in sorrow, when a smile +From him would make it laugh and sing,--a word +From him transform it to a heaven. He said, +Moreover, "When will this be done? My life +Hath not yet reached the noon, and I am tired; +And oh! it may be that, uncomforted +By foolish hope of doing good and vain +Conceit of being useful, I may live, +And it may be my duty to go on +Working for years and years, for years and years." + +But, while the words were uttered, in his heart +There dawned a vague alarm. He was aware +That somewhat touched him, and he lifted up +His face. "I am alone," the curate said,-- +"I think I am alone. What is it, then? +I am ashamed! My raiment is not clean. +My lips,--I am afraid they are not clean. +My heart is darkened and unclean. Ah me, +To be a man, and yet to tremble so! +Strange, strange!" + And there was sitting at his feet-- +He could not see it plainly--at his feet +A very little child. And, while the blood +Drave to his heart, he set his eye on it, +Gazing, and, lo! the loveliness from heaven +Took clearer form and color. He beheld +The strange, wise sweetness of a dimpled mouth,-- +The deep serene of eyes at home with bliss, +And perfect in possession. So it spoke, +"My master!" but he answered not a word; +And it went on: "I had a name, a name. +He knew my name; but here they can forget." +The curate answered: "Nay, I know thee well. +I love thee. Wherefore art thou come?" It said, +"They sent me;" and he faltered, "Fold thy hand, +O most dear little one! for on it gleams +A gem that is so bright I cannot look +Thereon." It said, "When I did leave this world, +That was a tear. But that was long ago; +For I have lived among the happy folk, +You wot of, ages, ages." Then said he, +"Do they forget us, while beneath the palms +They take their infinite leisure?" And, with eyes +That seemed to muse upon him, looking up +In peace the little child made answer, "Nay;" +And murmured, in the language that he loved, +"How is it that his hair is not yet white; +For I and all the others have been long +Waiting for him to come." + "And was it long?" +The curate answered, pondering. "Time being done, +Shall life indeed expand, and give the sense, +In our to-come, of infinite extension?" +Then said the child, "In heaven we children talk +Of the great matters, and our lips are wise; +But here I can but talk with thee in words +That here I knew." And therewithal, arisen, +It said, "I pray you take me in your arms." +Then, being afraid but willing, so he did; +And partly drew about the radiant child, +For better covering its dread purity, +The foldings of his gown. And he beheld +Its beauty, and the tremulous woven light +That hung upon its hair; withal, the robe, +"Whiter than fuller of this world can white," +That clothed its immortality. And so +The trembling came again, and he was dumb, +Repenting his uncleanness: and he lift +His eyes, and all the holy place was full +Of living things; and some were faint and dim, +As if they bore an intermittent life, +Waxing and waning; and they had no form, +But drifted on like slowly trailèd clouds, +Or moving spots of darkness, with an eye +Apiece. And some, in guise of evil birds, +Came by in troops, and stretched their naked necks, +And some were men-like, but their heads hung down; +And he said, "O my God! let me find grace +Not to behold their faces, for I know +They must be wicked and right terrible." +But while he prayed, lo! whispers; and there moved +Two shadows on the wall. He could not see +The forms of them that cast them: he could see +Only the shadows as of two that sat +Upon the floor, where, clad in women's weeds, +They lisped together. And he shuddered much: +There was a rustling near him, and he feared +Lest they should touch him, and he feel their touch. + +"It is not great," quoth one, "the work achieved. +We do, and we delight to do, our best: +But that is little; for, my dear," quoth she, +"This tower and town have been infested long +With angels."--"Ay," the other made reply, +"I had a little evil-one, of late, +That I picked up as it was crawling out +O' the pit, and took and cherished in my breast. +It would divine for me, and oft would moan, +'Pray thee, no churches,' and it spake of this. +But I was harried once,--thou know'st by whom,-- +And fled in here; and, when he followed me, +I crouching by this pillar, he let down +His hand,--being all too proud to send his eyes +In its wake,--and, plucking forth my tender imp, +Flung it behind him. It went yelping forth; +And, as for me, I never saw it more. +Much is against us,--very much: the times +Are hard." She paused: her fellow took the word, +Plaining on such as preach and them that plead. +"Even such as haunt the yawning mouths of hell," +Quoth she, "and pluck them back that run thereto." +Then, like a sudden blow, there fell on him +The utterance of his name. "There is no soul +That I loathe more, and oftener curse. Woe's me, +That cursing should be vain! Ay, he will go +Gather the sucking children, that are yet +Too young for us, and watch and shelter them. +Till the strong Angels--pitiless and stern, +But to them loving ever--sweep them in, +By armsful, to the unapproachable fold. + +"We strew his path with gold: it will not lie. +'Deal softly with him,' was the master's word. +We brought him all delights: his angel came +And stood between them and his eyes. They spend +Much pains upon him,--keep him poor and low +And unbeloved; and thus he gives his mind +To fill the fateful, the impregnable +Child-fold, and sow on earth the seed of stars. + +"Oh! hard is serving against love,--the love +Of the Unspeakable; for if we soil +The souls He openeth out a washing-place; +And if we grudge, and snatch away the bread, +Then will He save by poverty, and gain +By early giving up of blameless life; +And if we shed out gold, He even will save +In spite of gold,--of twice-refinèd gold." + +With that the curate set his daunted eyes +To look upon the shadows of the fiends. +He was made sure they could not see the child +That nestled in his arms; he also knew +They were unconscious that his mortal ears +Had new intelligence, which gave their speech +Possible entrance through his garb of clay. + +He was afraid, yet awful gladness reached +His soul: the testimony of the lost +Upbraided him; but while he trembled yet, +The heavenly child had lifted up its head +And left his arms, and on the marble floor +Stood beckoning. + + And, its touch withdrawn, the place +Was silent, empty; all that swarming tribe +Of evil ones concealed behind the veil, +And shut into their separate world, were closed +From his observance. He arose, and paced +After the little child,--as half in fear +That it would leave him,--till they reached a door; +And then said he,--but much distraught he spoke, +Laying his hand across the lock,--"This door +Shuts in the stairs whereby men mount the tower. +Wouldst thou go up, and so withdraw to heaven?" +It answered, "I will mount them." Then said he, +"And I will follow."--"So thou shalt do well," +The radiant thing replied, and it went up, +And he, amazed, went after; for the stairs, +Otherwhile dark, were lightened by the rays +Shed out of raiment woven in high heaven, +And hair whereon had smiled the light of God. + +With that, they, pacing on, came out at last +Into a dim, weird place,--a chamber formed +Betwixt the roofs: for you shall know that all +The vaulting of the nave, fretted and fine, +Was covered with the dust of ages, laid +Thick with those chips of stone which they had left +Who wrought it; but a high-pitched roof was reared +Above it, and the western gable pierced +With three long narrow lights. Great tie-beams loomed +Across, and many daws frequented there, +The starling and the sparrow littered it +With straw, and peeped from many a shady nook; +And there was lifting up of wings, and there +Was hasty exit when the curate came. +But sitting on a beam and moving not +For him, he saw two fair gray turtle-doves +Bowing their heads, and cooing; and the child +Put forth a hand to touch his own, but straight +He, startled, drew it back, because, forsooth, +A stirring fancy smote him, and he thought +That language trembled on their innocent tongues, +And floated forth in speech that man could hear. +Then said the child, "Yet touch, my master dear." +And he let down his hand, and touched again; +And so it was. "But if they had their way," +One turtle cooed, "how should this world go on?" + +Then he looked well upon them, as he stood +Upright before them. They were feathered doves, +And sitting close together; and their eyes +Were rounded with the rim that marks their kind. +Their tender crimson feet did pat the beam,-- +No phantoms they; and soon the fellow-dove +Made answer, "Nay they count themselves so wise, +There is no task they shall be set to do +But they will ask God why. What mean they so? +The glory is not in the task, but in +The doing it for Him. What should he think, +Brother, this man that must, forsooth, be set +Such noble work, and suffered to behold +Its fruit, if he knew more of us and ours?" +With that the other leaned, as if attent: +"I am not perfect, brother, in his thought." +The mystic bird replied. "Brother, he saith, +'But it is nought: the work is overhard.' +Whose fault is that? God sets not overwork. +He saith the world is sorrowful, and he +Is therefore sorrowful. He cannot set +The crooked straight;--but who demands of him, +O brother, that he should? What! thinks he, then, +His work is God's advantage, and his will +More bent to aid the world than its dread Lord's? +Nay, yet there live amongst us legions fair, +Millions on millions, who could do right well +What he must fail in; and 'twas whispered me, +That chiefly for himself the task is given,-- +His little daily task." With that he paused. + +Then said the other, preening its fair wing, +"Men have discovered all God's islands now, +And given them names; whereof they are as proud, +And deem themselves as great, as if their hands +Had made them. Strange is man, and strange his pride. +Now, as for us, it matters not to learn +What and from whence we be: How should we tell? +Our world is undiscovered in these skies, +Our names not whispered. Yet, for us and ours, +What joy it is,--permission to come down, +Not souls, as he, to the bosom of their God, +To guide, but to their goal the winged fowls, +His lovely lower-fashioned lives to help +To take their forms by legions, fly, and draw +With us the sweet, obedient, flocking things +That ever hear our message reverently, +And follow us far. How should they know their way, +Forsooth, alone? Men say they fly alone; +Yet some have set on record, and averred, +That they, among the flocks, had duly marked +A leader." + Then his fellow made reply: +"They might divine the Maker's heart. Come forth, +Fair dove, to find the flocks, and guide their wings, +For Him that loveth them." + With that, the child +Withdrew his hand, and all their speech was done. +He moved toward them, but they fluttered forth +And fled into the sunshine. + "I would fain," +Said he, "have heard some more. And wilt thou go?" +He added to the child, for this had turned. +"Ay," quoth he, gently, "to the beggar's place; +For I would see the beggar in the porch." + +So they went down together to the door, +Which, when the curate opened, lo! without +The beggar sat; and he saluted him: +"Good morrow, master." "Wherefore art thou here?" +The curate asked: "it is not service time, +And none will enter now to give thee alms." +Then said the beggar, "I have hope at heart +That I shall go to my poor house no more." +"Art thou so sick that thou dost think to die?" +The curate said. With that the beggar laughed, +And under his dim eyelids gathered tears, +And he was all a-tremble with a strange +And moving exaltation. "Ay," quoth he, +And set his face toward high heaven: "I think +The blessing that I wait on must be near." +Then said the curate, "God be good to thee." +And, straight, the little child put forth his hand, +And touched him. "Master, master, hush! +You should not, master, speak so carelessly +In this great presence." + But the touch so wrought, +That, lo! the dazzled curate staggered back, +For dread effulgence from the beggar's eyes +Smote him, and from the crippled limbs shot forth +Terrible lights, as pure long blades of fire. +"Withdraw thy touch! withdraw thy touch!" he cried, +"Or else shall I be blinded." Then the child +Stood back from him; and he sat down apart, +Recovering of his manhood: and he heard +The beggar and the child discourse of things +Dreadful for glory, till his spirits came +Anew; and, when the beggar looked on him, +He said, "If I offend not, pray you tell +Who and what are you--I behold a face +Marred with old age, sickness, and poverty,-- +A cripple with a staff, who long hath sat +Begging, and ofttimes moaning, in the porch, +For pain and for the wind's inclemency. +What are you?" Then the beggar made reply, +"I was a delegate, a living power; +My work was bliss, for seeds were in my hand +To plant a new-made world. O happy work! +It grew and blossomed; but my dwelling-place +Was far remote from heaven. I have not seen; +I knew no wish to enter there. But lo! +There went forth rumors, running out like rays, +How some, that were of power like even to mine, +Had made request to come and find a place +Within its walls. And these were satisfied +With promises, and sent to this far world +To take the weeds of your mortality, +And minister, and suffer grief and pain, +And die like men. Then were they gathered in. +They saw a face, and were accounted kin +To Whom thou knowest, for he is kin to men. + +"Then I did wait; and oft, at work, I sang, +'To minister! oh, joy, to minister!' +And, it being known, a message came to me: +'Whether is best, thou forest-planter wise, +To minister to others, or that they +Should minister to thee?' Then, on my face +Low lying, I made answer: 'It is best, +Most High, to minister;' and thus came back +The answer,--'Choose not for thyself the best: +Go down, and, lo! my poor shall minister, +Out of their poverty, to thee; shall learn +Compassion by thy frailty; and shall oft +Turn back, when speeding home from work, to help +Thee, weak and crippled, home. My little ones, +Thou shalt importune for their slender mite, +And pray, and move them that they give it up +For love of Me.'" + The curate answered him, +"Art thou content, O great one from afar! +If I may ask, and not offend?" He said, +"I am. Behold! I stand not all alone, +That I should think to do a perfect work. +I may not wish to give; for I have heard +'Tis best for me that I receive. For me, +God is the only giver, and His gift +Is one." With that, the little child sighed out, +"O master! master! I am out of heaven +Since noonday, and I hear them calling me. +If you be ready, great one, let us go:-- +Hark! hark! they call." + Then did the beggar lift +His face to heaven, and utter forth a cry +As of the pangs of death, and every tree +Moved as if shaken by a sudden wind. +He cried again, and there came forth a hand +From some invisible form, which, being laid +A little moment on the curate's eyes, +It dazzled him with light that brake from it, +So that he saw no more. + "What shall I do?" +The curate murmured, when he came again +To himself and looked about him. "This is strange! +My thoughts are all astray; and yet, methinks, +A weight is taken from my heart. Lo! lo! +There lieth at my feet, frail, white, and dead, +The sometime beggar. He is happy now. +There was a child; but he is gone, and he +Is also happy. I am glad to think +I am not bound to make the wrong go right; +But only to discover, and to do +With cheerful heart, the work that God appoints." + +With that, he did compose, with reverent care, +The dead; continuing, "I will trust in Him, +THAT HE CAN HOLD HIS OWN; and I will take +His will, above the work He sendeth me, +To be my chiefest good." + Then went he forth, +"I shall die early," thinking: "I am warned, +By this fair vision, that I have not long +To live." Yet he lived on to good old age;-- +Ay, he lives yet, and he is working still. + + * * * * * + +It may be there are many in like case: +They give themselves, and are in misery +Because the gift is small, and doth not make +The world by so much better as they fain +Would have it. 'Tis a fault; but, as for us, +Let us not blame them. Maybe, 'tis a fault +More kindly looked on by The Majesty +Than our best virtues are. Why, what are we? +What have we given, and what have we desired +To give, the world? + There must be something wrong +Look to it: let us mend our ways. Farewell. + + + + +THE SHEPHERD LADY. + + +I. + +Who pipes upon the long green hill, + Where meadow grass is deep? +The white lamb bleats but followeth on-- + Follow the clean white sheep. +The dear white lady in yon high tower, + She hearkeneth in her sleep. + +All in long grass the piper stands, + Goodly and grave is he; +Outside the tower, at dawn of day, + The notes of his pipe ring free. +A thought from his heart doth reach to hers: + "Come down, O lady! to me." + +She lifts her head, she dons her gown: + Ah! the lady is fair; +She ties the girdle on her waist, + And binds her flaxen hair, +And down she stealeth, down and down, + Down the turret stair. + +Behold him! With the flock he wons + Along yon grassy lea. +"My shepherd lord, my shepherd love, + What wilt thou, then, with me? +My heart is gone out of my breast, + And followeth on to thee." + + +II. + +"The white lambs feed in tender grass: + With them and thee to bide, +How good it were," she saith at noon; + "Albeit the meads are wide. +Oh! well is me," she saith when day + Draws on to eventide. + +Hark! hark! the shepherd's voice. Oh, sweet! + Her tears drop down like rain. +"Take now this crook, my chosen, my fere, + And tend the flock full fain; +Feed them, O lady, and lose not one, + Till I shall come again." + +Right soft her speech: "My will is thine, + And my reward thy grace!" +Gone are his footsteps over the hill, + Withdrawn his goodly face; +The mournful dusk begins to gather, + The daylight wanes apace. + + +III. + +On sunny slopes, ah! long the lady + Feedeth her flock at noon; +She leads it down to drink at eve + Where the small rivulets croon. +All night her locks are wet with dew, + Her eyes outwatch the moon. + +Beyond the hills her voice is heard, + She sings when light doth wane: +"My longing heart is full of love, + Nor shall my watch be vain. +My shepherd lord. I see him not, + But he will come again." + + + + +POEMS + +WRITTEN ON THE DEATHS OF THREE LOVELY CHILDREN +WHO WERE TAKEN FROM THEIR PARENTS WITHIN A MONTH +OF ONE ANOTHER. + + +HENRY, + +AGED EIGHT YEARS. + +Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter--woodland hollows thickly strewing, + Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the mid-day win, +While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in saddened hues imbuing + All without and all within! + +All within! but winds of autumn, little Henry, round their dwelling + Did not load your father's spirit with those deep and burdened sighs;-- +Only echoed thoughts of sadness, in your mother's bosom swelling, + Fast as tears that dim her eyes. + +Life is fraught with many changes, checked with sorrow and mutation, + But no grief it ever lightened such a truth before to know:-- +I behold them--father, mother--as they seem to contemplation, + Only three short weeks ago! + +Saddened for the morrow's parting--up the stairs at midnight stealing-- + As with cautious foot we glided past the children's open door,-- +"Come in here," they said, the lamplight dimpled forms at last revealing, + "Kiss them in their sleep once more." + +You were sleeping, little Henry, with your eyelids scarcely closing, + Two sweet faces near together, with their rounded arms entwined:-- +And the rose-bud lips were moving, as if stirred in their reposing + By the movements of the mind! + +And your mother smoothed the pillow, and her sleeping treasures numbered, + Whispering fondly--"He is dreaming"--as you turned upon your bed-- +And your father stooped to kiss you, happy dreamer, as you slumbered, + With his hand upon your head! + +Did he know the true deep meaning of his blessing? No! he never + Heard afar the summons uttered--"Come up hither"--Never knew +How the awful Angel faces kept his sleeping boy for ever, + And for ever in their view. + +Awful Faces, unimpassioned, silent Presences were by us, + Shrouding wings--majestic beings--hidden by this earthly veil-- +Such as we have called on, saying, "Praise the Lord, O Ananias, + Azarias and Misael!" + +But we saw not, and who knoweth, what the missioned Spirits taught him, + To that one small bed drawn nearer, when we left him to their will? +While he slumbered, who can answer for what dreams they may have brought + him, + When at midnight all was still? + +Father! Mother! must you leave him on his bed, but not to slumber? + Are the small hands meekly folded on his breast, but not to pray? +When you count your children over, must you tell a different number, + Since that happier yesterday? + +Father! Mother! weep if need be, since this is a "time" for weeping, + Comfort comes not for the calling, grief is never argued down-- +Coldly sounds the admonition, "Why lament? in better keeping + Rests the child than in your own." + +"Truth indeed! but, oh! compassion! Have you sought to scan my sorrow?" + (Mother, you shall meekly ponder, list'ning to that common tale) +"Does your heart repeat its echo, or by fellow-feeling borrow + Even a tone that might avail? + +"Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep heart-warm affection? + Might perceive by strength of loving how the fond words to combine? +Surely no! I will be silent, in your soul is no reflection + Of the care that burdens mine!" + +When the winter twilight gathers, Father, and your thoughts shall wander, + Sitting lonely you shall blend him with your listless reveries, +Half forgetful what division holds the form whereon you ponder + From its place upon your knees-- + +With a start of recollection, with a half-reproachful wonder, + Of itself the heart shall question, "Art Thou then no longer here? +Is it so, my little Henry? Are we set so far asunder + Who were wont to be so near?" + +While the fire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthened shades are meeting, + To itself the heart shall answer, "He shall come to me no more: +I shall never hear his footsteps nor the child's sweet voice entreating + For admission at my door." + +But upon _your_ fair, fair forehead, no regrets nor griefs are dwelling, + Neither sorrow nor disquiet do the peaceful features know; +Nor that look, whose wistful beauty seemed their sad hearts to be telling, + "Daylight breaketh, let me go!" + +Daylight breaketh, little Henry; in its beams your soul awaketh-- + What though night should close around us, dim and dreary to the view-- +Though _our_ souls should walk in darkness, far away that morning breaketh + Into endless day for you! + + +SAMUEL, + +AGED NINE YEARS. + +They have left you, little Henry, but they have not left you lonely-- + Brothers' hearts so knit together could not, might not separate dwell. +Fain to seek you in the mansions far away--One lingered only + To bid those behind farewell! + +Gentle Boy!--His childlike nature in most guileless form was moulded, + And it may be that his spirit woke in glory unaware, +Since so calmly he resigned it, with his hands still meekly folded, + Having said his evening prayer. + +Or--if conscious of that summons--"Speak, O Lord, Thy servant heareth"-- + As one said, whose name they gave him, might his willing answer be, +"Here am I"--like him replying--"At Thy gates my soul appeareth, + For behold Thou calledst me!" + +A deep silence--utter silence, on his earthly home descendeth:-- + Reading, playing, sleeping, waking--he is gone, and few remain! +"O the loss!"--they utter, weeping--every voice its echo lendeth-- + "O the loss!"--But, O the gain! + +On that tranquil shore his spirit was vouchsafed an early landing, + Lest the toils of crime should stain it, or the thrall of guilt control-- +Lest that "wickedness should alter the yet simple understanding, + Or deceit beguile his soul!" + +"Lay not up on earth thy treasure"--they have read that sentence duly, + Moth and rust shall fret thy riches--earthly good hath swift decay-- +"Even so," each heart replieth--"As for me, my riches truly + Make them wings and flee away!" + +"O my riches!--O my children!--dearest part of life and being, +Treasures looked to for the solace of this life's declining years,-- +Were our voices cold to hearing--or our faces cold to seeing, + That ye left us to our tears?" + +"We inherit conscious silence, ceasing of some merry laughter, + And the hush of two sweet voices--(healing sounds for spirits bruised!) +Of the tread of joyous footsteps in the pathway following after, + Of two names no longer used!" + +Question for them, little Sister, in your sweet and childish fashion-- + Search and seek them, Baby Brother, with your calm and asking eyes-- +Dimpled lips that fail to utter fond appeal or sad compassion, + Mild regret or dim surprise! + +There are two tall trees above you, by the high east window growing, + Underneath them, slumber sweetly, lapt in silence deep, serene; +Save, when pealing in the distance, organ notes towards you flowing + Echo--with a pause between! + +And that pause?--a voice shall fill it--tones that blessed you daily, + nightly, + Well beloved, but not sufficing, Sleepers, to awake you now, +Though so near he stand, that shadows from your trees may tremble lightly + On his book and on his brow! + +Sleep then ever! Neither singing of sweet birds shall break your slumber, + Neither fall of dew, nor sunshine, dance of leaves, nor drift of snow, +Charm those dropt lids more to open, nor the tranquil bosoms cumber + With one care for things below! + +It is something, the assurance, that _you_ ne'er shall feel like sorrow, + Weep no past and dread no future--know not sighing, feel not pain-- +Nor a day that looketh forward to a mournfuller to-morrow-- + "Clouds returning after rain!" + +No, far off, the daylight breaketh, in its beams each soul awaketh: + "What though clouds," they sigh, "be gathered dark and stormy to the + view, +Though the light our eyes forsaketh, fresh and sweet behold it breaketh + Into endless day for you!" + + +KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS. + +(ASLEEP IN THE DAYTIME.) + +All rough winds are hushed and silent, golden light the meadow steepeth, + And the last October roses daily wax more pale and fair; +They have laid a gathered blossom on the breast of one who sleepeth + With a sunbeam on her hair. + +Calm, and draped in snowy raiment she lies still, as one that dreameth, + And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips that may not speak; +Slanting down that narrow sunbeam like a ray of glory gleameth + On the sainted brow and cheek. + +There is silence! They who watch her, speak no word of grief or wailing, + In a strange unwonted calmness they gaze on and cannot cease, +Though the pulse of life beat faintly, thought shrink back, and hope be + failing, + They, like Aaron, "hold their peace." + +While they gaze on her, the deep bell with its long slow pauses soundeth; + Long they hearken--father--mother--love has nothing more to say: +Beating time to feet of Angels leading her where love aboundeth + Tolls the heavy bell this day. + +Still in silence to its tolling they count over all her meetness + To lie near their hearts and soothe them in all sorrows and all fears; +Her short life lies spread before them, but they cannot tell her + sweetness, + Easily as tell her years. + +Only daughter--Ah! how fondly Thought around that lost name lingers, + Oft when lone your mother sitteth, she shall weep and droop her head, +She shall mourn her baby-sempstress, with those imitative fingers, + Drawing out her aimless thread. + +In your father's Future cometh many a sad uncheered to-morrow, + But in sleep shall three fair faces heavenly-calm towards him lean-- +Like a threefold cord shall draw him through the weariness of sorrow, + Nearer to the things unseen. + +With the closing of your eyelids close the dreams of expectation, + And so ends the fairest chapter in the records of their way: +Therefore--O thou God most holy--God of rest and consolation, + Be Thou near to them this day! + +Be Thou near, when they shall nightly, by the bed of infant brothers, + Hear their soft and gentle breathing, and shall bless them on their + knees; +And shall think how coldly falleth the white moonlight on the others, + In their bed beneath the trees. + +Be Thou near, when they, they _only_, bear those faces in remembrance, + And the number of their children strangers ask them with a smile; +And when other childlike faces touch them by the strong resemblance + To those turned to them erewhile. + +Be Thou near, each chastened Spirit for its course and conflict nerving, + Let Thy voice say, "Father--mother--lo! thy treasures live above! +Now be strong, be strong, no longer cumbered over much with serving + At the shrine of human love." + +Let them sleep! In course of ages e'en the Holy House shall crumble, + And the broad and stately steeple one day bend to its decline, +And high arches, ancient arches bowed and decked in clothing humble, + Creeping moss shall round them twine. + +Ancient arches, old and hoary, sunny beams shall glimmer through them, + And invest them with a beauty we would fain they should not share, +And the moonlight slanting down them, the white moonlight shall imbue them + With a sadness dim and fair. + +Then the soft green moss shall wrap you, and the world shall all forget + you, + Life, and stir, and toil, and tumult unawares shall pass you by; +Generations come and vanish: but it shall not grieve nor fret you, + That they sin, or that they sigh. + +And the world, grown old in sinning, shall deny her first beginning, + And think scorn of words which whisper how that all must pass away; +Time's arrest and intermission shall account a vain tradition, + And a dream, the reckoning day! + +Till His blast, a blast of terror, shall awake in shame and sadness + Faithless millions to a vision of the failing earth and skies, +And more sweet than song of Angels, in their shout of joy and gladness, + Call the dead in Christ to rise! + +Then, by One Man's intercession, standing clear from their transgression, + Father--mother--you shall meet them fairer than they were before, +And have joy with the Redeemèd, joy ear hath not heard heart dreamèd, + Ay for ever--evermore! + + + + +THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT (IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL). + + + Marvels of sleep, grown cold! + Who hath not longed to fold +With pitying ruth, forgetful of their bliss, + Those cherub forms that lie, + With none to watch them nigh, +Or touch the silent lips with one warm human kiss? + + What! they are left alone + All night with graven stone, +Pillars and arches that above them meet; + While through those windows high + The journeying stars can spy, +And dim blue moonbeams drop on their uncovered feet? + + O cold! yet look again, + There is a wandering vein +Traced in the hand where those white snowdrops lie. + Let her rapt dreamy smile + The wondering heart beguile, +That almost thinks to hear a calm contented sigh. + + What silence dwells between + Those severed lips serene! +The rapture of sweet waiting breathes and grows. + What trance-like peace is shed + On her reclining head, +And e'en on listless feet what languor of repose! + + Angels of joy and love + Lean softly from above +And whisper to her sweet and marvellous things; + Tell of the golden gate + That opened wide doth wait, +And shadow her dim sleep with their celestial wings. + + Hearing of that blest shore + She thinks on earth no more, +Contented to forego this wintry land. + She has nor thought nor care + But to rest calmly there, +And hold the snowdrops pale that blossom in her hand. + + But on the other face + Broodeth a mournful grace, +This had foreboding thoughts beyond her years, + While sinking thus to sleep + She saw her mother weep, +And could not lift her hand to dry those heart-sick tears. + + Could not--but failing lay, + Sighed her young life away. +And let her arm drop down in listless rest, + Too weary on that bed + To turn her dying head, +Or fold the little sister nearer to her breast. + + Yet this is faintly told + On features fair and cold, +A look of calm surprise, of mild regret, + As if with life oppressed + She turned her to her rest, +But felt her mother's love and looked not to forget. + + How wistfully they close, + Sweet eyes, to their repose! +How quietly declines the placid brow! + The young lips seem to say, + "I have wept much to-day, +And felt some bitter pains, but they are over now." + + Sleep! there are left below + Many who pine to go, +Many who lay it to their chastened souls, + That gloomy days draw nigh, + And they are blest who die, +For this green world grows worse the longer that she rolls. + + And as for me I know + A little of her woe, +Her yearning want doth in my soul abide, + And sighs of them that weep, + "O put us soon to sleep, +For when we wake--with Thee--we shall be satisfied." + + + + +HYMNS. + + +THE MEASURELESS GULFS OF AIR ARE FULL OF THEE. + +"_In Him we live, and move, and have our being._" + +The measureless gulfs of air are full of Thee: + Thou Art, and therefore hang the stars; they wait, +And swim, and shine in God who bade them be, + And hold their sundering voids inviolate. + +A God concern'd (veil'd in pure light) to bless, + With sweet revealing of His love, the soul; +Toward things piteous, full of piteousness; + The Cause, the Life, and the continuing Whole. + +He is more present to all things He made + Than anything unto itself can be; +Full-foliaged boughs of Eden could not shade + Afford, since God was also 'neath the tree. + +Thou knowest me altogether; I knew not + Thy likeness till Thou mad'st it manifest. +There is no world but is Thy heaven; no spot + Remote; Creation leans upon Thy breast. + +Thou art beyond all stars, yet in my heart + Wonderful whisperings hold Thy creature dumb; +I need no search afar; to me Thou art + Father, Redeemer, and Renewer--come. + + +THOU WERT FAR OFF AND IN THE SIGHT OF HEAVEN. + +"_And fell on his neck, and kissed him._" + +Thou wert far off, and in the sight of heaven + Dead. And thy Father would not this should be; +And now thou livest, it is all forgiven; + Think on it, O my soul, He kissèd thee! + +What now are gold and gear? thou canst afford + To cast them from thee at His sacred call, +As Mary, when she met her living Lord, +The burial spice she had prepared let fall. + +O! what is death to life? One dead could well + Afford to waste his shroud, if he might wake; +Thou canst afford to waste the world, and sell + Thy footing in it, for the new world's sake. + +What is the world? it is a waiting place, + Where men put on their robes for that above. +What is the new world? 'tis a Father's face + Beholden of His sons--the face of love. + + +THICK ORCHARDS ALL IN WHITE. + +"_The time of the singing of birds is come._" + + Thick orchards, all in white, + Stand 'neath blue voids of light, +And birds among the branches blithely sing, + For they have all they know; + There is no more, but so, +All perfectness of living, fair delight of spring. + + Only the cushat dove + Makes answer as for love +To the deep yearning of man's yearning breast; + And mourneth, to his thought, + As in her notes were wrought +Fulfill'd in her sweet having, sense of his unrest. + + Not with possession, not + With fairest earthly lot, +Cometh the peace assured, his spirit's quest; + With much it looks before, + With most it yearns for more; +And 'this is not our rest,' and 'this is not our rest.' + + Give Thou us more. We look + For more. The heart that took +All spring-time for itself were empty still; + Its yearning is not spent + Nor silenced in content, +Till He that all things filleth doth it sweetly fill. + + Give us Thyself. The May + Dureth so short a day; +Youth and the spring are over all too soon; + Content us while they last, + Console us for them past, +Thou with whom bides for ever life, and love, and noon. + + +SWEET ARE HIS WAYS WHO RULES ABOVE. + +"_Though I take the wings of the morning_." + +Sweet are His ways who rules above, + He gives from wrath a sheltering place; + But covert none is found from grace, +Man shall not hide himself from love. + +What though I take to me the wide + Wings of the morning and forth fly, + Faster He goes, whoso care on high +Shepherds the stars and doth them guide. + +What though the tents foregone, I roam + Till day wax dim lamenting me; + He wills that I shall sleep to see +The great gold stairs to His sweet home. + +What though the press I pass before, + And climb the branch, He lifts his face; + I am not secret from His grace +Lost in the leafy sycamore. + +What though denied with murmuring deep + I shame my Lord,--it shall not be; + For He will turn and look on me, +Then must I think thereon and weep. + +The nether depth, the heights above, + Nor alleys pleach'd of Paradise, + Nor Herod's judgment-halls suffice: +Man shall not hide himself from love. + + +O NIGHT OF NIGHTS! + +"_Let us now go even unto Bethlehem_." + +O Night of nights! O night + Desired of man so long! +The ancient heavens fled forth in light + To sing thee thy new song; +And shooting down the steep, + To shepherd folk of old, +An angel, while they watch'd their sheep, + Set foot beside the fold. + +Lo! while as like to die + Of that keen light he shed, +They look'd on his pure majesty, + Amazed, and sore bestead; +Lo! while with words of cheer + He bade their trembling cease, +The flocks of God swept sweetly near, + And sang to them of peace. + +All on the hillside grass + That fulgent radiance fell, +So close those innocents did pass, + Their words were heard right well; +Among the sheep, their wings + Some folding, walk'd the sod +An order'd throng of shining things, + White, with the smile of God. + +The waits of heaven to hear, + Oh! what it must have been! +Think, Christian people, think, and fear + For cold hearts, for unclean; +Think how the times go by, + How love and longing fail, +Think how we live and how we die, + As this were but a tale. + +O tender tale of old, + Live in thy dear renown; +God's smile was in the dark, behold + That way His hosts came down; +Light up, great God, Thy Word, + Make the blest meaning strong, +As if our ears, indeed, had heard + The glory of their song. + +It was so far away, + But Thou could'st make it near, +And all its living might display + And cry to it, "Be here," +Here, in th' unresting town, + As once remote to them, +Who heard it when the heavens came down, + On pastoral Bethlehem. + +It was so long ago, + But God can make it _now_, +And as with that sweet overflow, + Our empty hearts endow; +Take, Lord, those words outworn, + O! make them new for aye, +Speak--"Unto you a child is born," + To-day--to-day--to-day. + + +DEAR IS THE LOST WIFE TO A LONE MAN'S HEART. + +"_I have loved thee with an everlasting love_." + +Dear is the lost wife to a lone man's heart, + When in a dream he meets her at his door, +And, waked for joy, doth know she dwells apart, + All unresponsive on a silent shore; +Dearer, yea, more desired art thou--for thee +My divine heart yearns by the jasper sea. + +More than the mother's for her sucking child; + She wants, with emptied arms and love untold, +Her most dear little one that on her smiled + And went; but more, I want Mine own. Behold, +I long for My redeem'd, where safe with Me +Twelve manner of fruits grow on th' immortal tree; + +The tree of life that I won back for men, + And planted in the city of My God. +Lift up thy head, I love thee; wherefore, then, + Liest thou so long on thy memorial sod +Sleeping for sorrow? Rise, for dawn doth break-- +I love thee, and I cry to thee "Awake." + +Serve,--woman whom I love, ere noon be high, + Ere the long shadow lengthen at thy feet. +Work,--I have many poor, O man, that cry, + My little ones do languish in the street. +Love,--'tis a time for love, since I love thee. +Live,--'tis a time to live. Man, live in Me. + + +WEEPING AND WAILING NEEDS MUST BE. + +"_Blessed are ye that weep now_." + +Weeping and wailing needs must be + When Love His name shall disavow, +When christen'd men His wrath shall dree, +Who mercy scorn'd in this their day; +But what? He turns not yet away, + Not yet--not now. + +Let me not, waken'd after sleep, + Behold a Judge with lowering brow, +The world must weep, and I must weep +Those sins that nail'd Thee on the tree, +Lord Jesu, of Thy clemency. + Let it be NOW. + +Let us have weeping NOW for sin, + And not us only; let Thy tears +Avail the tears of many to win; +Weep with us, Jesu, kind art Thou; +We that have sinn'd many long years, + Let us weep NOW; + +And then, waked up, behold Thy face, + Who did forgive us. See Thy brow-- +Beautiful--learn Thy love and grace. +Then wilt Thou wipe away our tears, +And comfort in th' all-hallow'd spheres, + Them that weep now. + + +JESUS, THE LAMB OF GOD. + +"_Art Thou He that should come?_" + +Jesus, the Lamb of God, gone forth to heal and bless. +Calm lie the desert pools in a fair wilderness; +Wind-shaken moves the reed, so moves His voice the soul, +Sick folk surprised of joy, wax when they hear it, whole. + +Calm all His mastering might, calm smiles the desert waste; +Peace, peace, He shall not cry, nay, He shall not make haste; +Heaven gazes, hell beneath moved for Him, moans and stirs-- +Lo, John lies fast in prison, sick for his messengers. + +John, the forerunner, John, the desert's tameless son, +Cast into loathèd thrall, his use and mission done; +John from his darkness sends a cry, but not a plea; +Not, "Hast Thou felt my need?" but only, "Art Thou He?" + +Unspoken pines his hope, grown weak in lingering dole; +None know what pang that hour might pierce the Healer's soul; +Silence that faints to Him--but must e'en so be vain; +A word--the fetters fall--He will that word restrain. + +Jesus, the Father's son, bound in a mighty plan, +Retired full oft in God, show'd not His mind to man; +Nor their great matters high His human lips confess; +He will His wonders work, and not make plain, but bless. + +The bournes of His wide way kept secret from all thought, +Enring'd the outmost waste that evil power had wrought; +His measure none can take, His strife we are not shown, +Nor if He gathered then more sheaves than earth hath grown. + +"John, from the Christ of God, an answer for all time," +The proof of Sonship given in characters sublime; +Sad hope will He make firm, and fainting faith restore, +But yet with mortal eyes will see His face no more. + +He bow'd His sacred head to exigence austere, +Unknown to us and dark, first piercings of the spear: +And to each martyr since 'tis even as if He said, +"Verily I am He--I live, and I was dead. + +"The All-wise found a way--a dark way--dread, unknown; +I chose it, will'd it Mine, seal'd for My feet alone; +Thou canst not therein walk, yet thou hast part in Me, +I will not break thy bonds, but I am bound with thee. + +"With thee and for thee bound, with thee and for thee given, +A mystery seal'd from hell, and wonder'd at in heaven; +I send thee rest at heart to love, and still believe; +But not for thee--nor Me--is found from death reprieve." + + +THOU HAST BEEN ALWAY GOOD TO ME. + +"_He doeth all things well._" + +Thou hast been alway good to me and mine + Since our first father by transgression fell. +Through all Thy sorest judgments love doth shine-- + Lord, of a truth, Thou doest all things well. + +Thou didst the food of immortality + Compass with flame, lest he thereto should win. +But what? his doom, yet eating of that tree, + Had been immortal life of shame and sin! + +I would not last immortal in such wise; + Desirèd death, not life, is now my song. +Through death shall I go back to Paradise, + And sin no more--Sweet death, tarry not long! + +One did prevail that closèd gate to unseal, + Where yet th' immortalizing tree doth grow; +He shall there meet us, and once more reveal + The fruit of life, where crime is not, nor woe. + + +THOU THAT SLEEPEST NOT AFRAID. + +"_Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ +shall give thee light_." + +Thou that sleepest not afraid, +Men and angels thee upbraid; +Rise, cry, cry to God aloud, +Ere the swift hours weave thy shroud: + O, for Jesus' sake, + Wake! + +Thee full ill doth it beseem +Through the dark to drowse and dream; +In the dead-time of the night +Here is One can give thee light: + O, for Jesus' sake, + Wake! + +The year passeth--it and all +God shall take and shall let fall +Soon, into the whelming sea +Of His wide eternity: + O, for Jesus' sake, + Wake! + +Noiseless as the flakes of snow +The last moments falter and go; +The time-angel sent this way +Sweeps them like a drift away: + O, for Jesus' sake, + Wake! + +Loved and watch'd of heaven, for whom +The crowned Saviour there makes room, +Sleeper, hark! He calls thee, rise, +Lift thy head, and raise thine eyes! + Now, for Jesus' sake, + Wake! + + +NOW WINTER PAST, THE WHITE-THORN BOWER. + +"_Thy gentleness hath made me great_." + +Now winter past, the white-thorn bower + Breaks forth and buds down all the glen; +Now spreads the leaf and grows the flower: + So grows the life of God, in men. + +Oh, my child-God, most gentle King, + To me Thy waxing glory show; +Wake in my heart as wakes the spring, + Grow as the leaf and lily grow. + +I was a child, when Thou a child + Didst make Thyself again to me; +And holy, harmless, undefiled, + Play'd at Thy mother Mary's knee. + +Thou gav'st Thy pure example so, + The copy in my childish breast +Was a child's copy. I did know + God, made in childhood manifest. + +Now I am grown, and Thou art grown + The God-man, strong to love, to will, +Who was alone, yet not alone, + Held in His Father's presence still. + +Now do I know Thee for my cure, + My peace, the Absolver for me set; +Thy goings pass through deeps obscure, + But Thou with me art gentle yet. + +Long-suffering Lord, to man reveal'd + As One that e'en the child doth wait, +Thy full salvation is my shield, + Thy gentleness hath made me great. + + +SUCH AS HAVE NOT GOLD TO BRING THEE. + +"_Ye also, as lively stones, are built up a spiritual house_." + +Such as have not gold to bring Thee, + They bring thanks--Thy grateful sons; +Such as have no song to sing Thee, + Live Thee praise--Thy silent ones. + +Such as have their unknown dwelling, + Secret from Thy children here, +Known of Thee, will Thee be telling + How Thy ways with them are dear. + +None the place ordained refuseth, + They are one, and they are all +Living stones, the Builder chooseth + For the courses of His wall. + +Now Thy work by us fulfilling, + Build us in Thy house divine; +Each one cries, "I, Lord, am willing, + Whatsoever place be mine." + +Some, of every eye beholden, + Hewn to fitness for the height, +By Thy hand to beauty moulden, + Show Thy workmanship in light. + +Other, Thou dost bless with station + Dark, and of the foot downtrod, +Sink them deep in the foundation-- + Buried, hid with Christ in God. + + +A MORN OF GUILT, AN HOUR OF DOOM. + +"_There was darkness_." + +A Morn of guilt, an hour of doom-- + Shocks and tremblings dread; +All the city sunk in gloom-- + Thick darkness overhead. +An awful Sufferer straight and stark; + Mocking voices fell; +Tremblings--tremblings in the dark, + In heaven, and earth, and hell. + +Groping, stumbling up the way, + They pass, whom Christ forgave; +They know not what they do--they say, + "Himself He cannot save. +On His head behold the crown + That alien hands did weave; +Let Him come down, let Him come down, + And we will believe!" + +Fearsome dreams, a rending veil, + Cloven rocks down hurl'd; +God's love itself doth seem to fail + The Saviour of the world. +Dying thieves do curse and wail, + Either side is scorn; +Lo! He hangs while some cry "Hail!" + Of heaven and earth forlorn. + +Still o'er His passion darkness lowers, + He nears the deathly goal; +But He shall see in His last hours + Of the travail of His soul; +Lo, a cry!--the firstfruits given + On the accursèd tree-- +"Dying Love of God in heaven, + Lord, remember me!" + +By His sacrifice, foreknown + Long ages ere that day, +And by God's sparing of His own + Our debt of death to pay; +By the Comforter's consent, + With ardent flames bestow'd, +In this dear race when Jesus went + To make His mean abode-- + +By the pangs God look'd not on, + And the world dared not see; +By all redeeming wonders won + Through that dread mystery;-- +Lord, receive once more the sigh + From the accursèd tree-- +"Sacred Love of God most high, + O remember me!" + + +MARY OF MAGDALA. + +"_While it was yet dark_." + +Mary of Magdala, when the moon had set, +Forth to the garden that was with night dews wet, +Fared in the dark--woe-wan and bent was she, +'Neath many pounds' weight of fragrant spicery. + +Mary of Magdala, in her misery, +"Who shall roll the stone up from yon door?" quoth she; +And trembling down the steep she went, and wept sore, +Because her dearest Lord was, alas! no more. + +Her burden she let fall, lo! the stone was gone; +Light was there within, out to the dark it shone; +With an angel's face the dread tomb was bright, +The which she beholding fell for sore affright. + +Mary of Magdala, in her misery, +Heard the white vision speak, and did straightway flee; +And an idle tale seem'd the wild words she said, +And nought her heart received--nought was comforted. + +"Nay," quoth the men He loved, when they came to see, +"Our eyes beheld His death, the Saint of Galilee; +Who have borne Him hence truly we cannot say;" +Secretly in fear, they turn'd and went their way. + +Mary of Magdala, in her misery, +Follow'd to the tomb, and wept full bitterly, +Linger'd in the dark, where first the Lord was laid; +The white one spake again, she was no more afraid. + +In a moment--dawn! solemn, and sweet, and clear, +Kneeling, yet she weeps, and some one stands anear; +Asketh of her grief--she, all her thoughts are dim, +"If thou hast borne Him hence, tell me," doth answer Him. + +"Mary," He saith, no more, shades of night have fled +Under dewy leaves, behold Him!--death is dead; +"Mary," and "O my Master," sorrow speeds away, +Sunbeams touch His feet this earliest Easter day. + +After the pains of death, in a place unknown, +Trembling, of visions haunted, and all alone, +I too shall want Thee, Jesus, my hope, my trust, +Fall'n low, and all unclothed, even of my poor dust. + +I, too, shall hear Thee speak, Jesus, my life divine; +And call me by my name, Lord, for I am Thine; +Thou wilt stand and wait, I shall so look and SEE, +In the garden of God, I SHALL look up--on THEE. + + +WOULD I, TO SAVE MY DEAR CHILD? + +"_Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself._" + +Would I, to save my dear child dutiful, + Dare the white breakers on a storm-rent shore? +Ay, truly, Thou all good, all beautiful, + Truly I would,--then truly Thou would'st more. + +Would I for my poor son, who desolate + After long sinning, sued without my door +For pardon, open it? Ay, fortunate + To hear such prayer, I would,--Lord, Thou would'st more. + +Would I for e'en the stranger's weariness + And want divide, albeit 'twere scant, my store? +Ay, and mine enemy, sick, shelterless, + Dying, I would attend,--O, Lord, Thou more. + +In dust and ashes my long infamy + Of unbelief I rue. My love before +Thy love I set: my heart's discovery, + Is sweet,--whate'er I would, Thou wouldest more. + +I was Thy shelterless, sick enemy, + And Thou didst die for me, yet heretofore +I have fear'd; now learn I love's supremacy,-- + Whate'er is known of love, Thou lovest more. + + + + +AT ONE AGAIN. + + +I. NOONDAY. + +Two angry men--in heat they sever, + And one goes home by a harvest field:-- +"Hope's nought," quoth he, "and vain endeavor; + I said and say it, I will not yield! + +"As for this wrong, no art can mend it, + The bond is shiver'd that held us twain; +Old friends we be, but law must end it, + Whether for loss or whether for gain. + +"Yon stream is small--full slow its wending; + But winning is sweet, but right is fine; +And shoal of trout, or willowy bending-- + Though Law be costly--I'll prove them mine. + +"His strawberry cow slipped loose her tether, + And trod the best of my barley down; +His little lasses at play together + Pluck'd the poppies my boys had grown. + +"What then?--Why naught! _She_ lack'd of reason; + And _they_--my little ones match them well:-- +But _this_--Nay all things have their season, + And 'tis my season to curb and quell." + + +II. SUNSET. + +So saith he, when noontide fervors flout him, + So thinks, when the West is amber and red, +When he smells the hop-vines sweet about him, + And the clouds are rosy overhead. + +While slender and tall the hop-poles going + Straight to the West in their leafy lines, +Portion it out into chambers, glowing, + And bask in red day as the sun declines. + +Between the leaves in his latticed arbor + He sees the sky, as they flutter and turn, +While moor'd like boats in a golden harbor + The fleets of feathery cloudlets burn. + +Withdrawn in shadow, he thinketh over + Harsh thoughts, the fruit-laden trees among, +Till pheasants call their young to cover, + And cushats coo them a nursery song. + +And flocks of ducks forsake their sedges, + Wending home to the wide barn-door, +And loaded wains between the hedges + Slowly creep to his threshing floor-- + +Slowly creep. And his tired senses, + Float him over the magic stream, +To a world where Fancy recompenses + Vengeful thoughts, with a troubled dream! + + +III. THE DREAM. + +What's this? a wood--What's that? one calleth, + Calleth and cryeth in mortal dread-- +He hears men strive--then somewhat falleth!-- + "Help me, neighbor--I'm hard bestead." + +The dream is strong--the voice he knoweth-- + But when he would run, his feet are fast, +And death lies beyond, and no man goeth + To help, and he says the time is past. + +His feet are held, and he shakes all over,-- + Nay--they are free--he has found the place-- +Green boughs are gather'd--what is't they cover?-- + "I pray you, look on the dead man's face; + +"You that stand by," he saith, and cowers-- + "Man, or Angel, to guard the dead +With shadowy spear, and a brow that lowers, + And wing-points reared in the gloom o'erhead.-- + +"I dare not look. He wronged me never. + Men say we differ'd; they speak amiss: +This man and I were neighbors ever-- + I would have ventured my life for his. + +"But fast my feet were--fast with tangles-- + Ay! words--but they were not sharp, I trow, +Though parish feuds and vestry wrangles-- + O pitiful sight--I see thee now!-- + +"If we fell out, 'twas but foul weather, + After long shining! O bitter cup,-- +What--dead?--why, man, we play'd together-- + Art dead--ere a friend can make it up?" + + +IV. THE WAKING. + +Over his head the chafer hummeth, + Under his feet shut daisies bend: +Waken, man! the enemy cometh, + Thy neighbor, counted so long a friend. + +He cannot waken--and firm, and steady, + The enemy comes with lowering brow; +He looks for war, his heart is ready, + His thoughts are bitter--he will not bow. + +He fronts the seat,--the dream is flinging + A spell that his footsteps may not break,-- +But one in the garden of hops is singing-- + The dreamer hears it, and starts awake. + + +V. A SONG. + +Walking apart, she thinks none listen; + And now she carols, and now she stops; +And the evening star begins to glisten + Atween the lines of blossoming hops. + +Sweetest Mercy, your mother taught you + All uses and cares that to maids belong; +Apt scholar to read and to sew she thought you-- + She did not teach you that tender song-- + +"The lady sang in her charmèd bower, + Sheltered and safe under roses blown-- +'_Storm cannot touch me, hail, nor shower, + Where all alone I sit, all alone. + +"My bower! The fair Fay twined it round me, + Care nor trouble can pierce it through; +But once a sigh from the warm world found me + Between two leaves that were bent with dew. + +"And day to night, and night to morrow, + Though soft as slumber the long hours wore, +I looked for my dower of love, of sorrow-- + Is there no more--no more--no more?_' + +"Give her the sun-sweet light, and duly + To walk in shadow, nor chide her part; +Give her the rose, and truly, truly-- + To wear its thorn with a patient heart-- + +"Misty as dreams the moonbeam lyeth + Chequered and faint on her charmèd floor; +The lady singeth, the lady sigheth-- + '_Is there no more_--no more--no more!_'" + + +VI. LOVERS. + +A crash of boughs!--one through them breaking! + Mercy is startled, and fain would fly, +But e'en as she turns, her steps o'ertaking, + He pleads with her--"Mercy, it is but I!" + +"Mercy!" he touches her hand unbidden-- + "The air is balmy, I pray you stay-- +Mercy?" Her downcast eyes are hidden, + And never a word she has to say. + +Till closer drawn, her prison'd fingers + He takes to his lips with a yearning strong; +And she murmurs low, that late she lingers, + Her mother will want her, and think her long. + +"Good mother is she, then honor duly + The lightest wish in her heart that stirs; +But there is a bond yet dearer truly, + And there is a love that passeth hers. + +"Mercy, Mercy!" Her heart attendeth-- + Love's birthday blush on her brow lies sweet; +She turns her face when his own he bendeth, + And the lips of the youth and the maiden meet. + + +VII. FATHERS. + +Move through the bowering hops, O lovers,-- + Wander down to the golden West,-- +But two stand mute in the shade that covers + Your love and youth from their souls opprest. + +A little shame on their spirits stealing,-- + A little pride that is loth to sue,-- +A little struggle with soften'd feeling,-- + And a world of fatherly care for you. + +One says: "To this same running water, + May be, Neighbor, your claim is best." +And one--"Your son has kissed my daughter: + Let the matters between us--rest." + + + + +SONNETS. + + +FANCY. + +O fancy, if thou flyest, come back anon, + Thy fluttering wings are soft as love's first word, + And fragrant as the feathers of that bird, +Which feeds upon the budded cinnamon. +I ask thee not to work, or sigh--play on, + From nought that was not, was, or is, deterred; + The flax that Old Fate spun thy flights have stirred, +And waved memorial grass of Marathon. +Play, but be gentle, not as on that day + I saw thee running down the rims of doom +With stars thou hadst been stealing--while they lay + Smothered in light and blue--clasped to thy breast; +Bring rather to me in the firelit room + A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest. + + +COMPENSATION. + +One launched a ship, but she was wrecked at sea; + He built a bridge, but floods have borne it down; +He meant much good, none came: strange destiny, + His corn lies sunk, his bridge bears none to town, + Yet good he had not meant became his crown; +For once at work, when even as nature free, + From thought of good he was, or of renown, +God took the work for good and let good be. +So wakened with a trembling after sleep, + Dread Mona Roa yields her fateful store; +All gleaming hot the scarlet rivers creep, + And fanned of great-leaved palms slip to the shore, +Then stolen to unplumbed wastes of that far deep, + Lay the foundations for one island more. + + +LOOKING DOWN. + +Mountains of sorrow, I have heard your moans, + And the moving of your pines; but we sit high + On your green shoulders, nearer stoops the sky, +And pure airs visit us from all the zones. + Sweet world beneath, too happy far to sigh, +Dost thou look thus beheld from heavenly thrones? +No; not for all the love that counts thy stones, + While sleepy with great light the valleys lie. +Strange, rapturous peace! its sunshine doth enfold + My heart; I have escaped to the days divine, +It seemeth as bygone ages back had rolled, + And all the eldest past was now, was mine; +Nay, even as if Melchizedec of old + Might here come forth to us with bread and wine. + + +WORK. + +Like coral insects multitudinous + The minutes are whereof our life is made. + They build it up as in the deep's blue shade +It grows, it comes to light, and then, and thus +For both there is an end. The populous + Sea-blossoms close, our minutes that have paid + Life's debt of work are spent; the work is laid +Before our feet that shall come after us. +We may not stay to watch if it will speed, + The bard if on some luter's string his song +Live sweetly yet; the hero if his star +Doth shine. Work is its own best earthly meed, + Else have we none more than the sea-born throng +Who wrought those marvellous isles that bloom afar. + + +WISHING. + +When I reflect how little I have done, + And add to that how little I have seen, +Then furthermore how little I have won + Of joy, or good, how little known, or been: + I long for other life more full, more keen, +And yearn to change with such as well have run-- + Yet reason mocks me--nay, the soul, I ween, +Granted her choice would dare to change with none; +No,--not to feel, as Blondel when his lay + Pierced the strong tower, and Richard answered it-- +No,--not to do, as Eustace on the day + He left fair Calais to her weeping lit-- +No,--not to be, Columbus, waked from sleep +When his new world rose from the charmèd deep. + + +TO ----. + +Strange was the doom of Heracles, whose shade + Had dwelling in dim Hades the unblest, + While yet his form and presence sat a guest +With the old immortals when the feast was made. +Thine like, thus differs; form and presence laid + In this dim chamber of enforcèd rest, + It is the unseen "shade" which, risen, hath pressed +Above all heights where feet Olympian strayed. +My soul admires to hear thee speak; thy thought + Falls from a high place like an August star, +Or some great eagle from his air-hung rings-- + When swooping past a snow-cold mountain scar-- +Down he steep slope of a long sunbeam brought, + He stirs the wheat with the steerage of his wings. + + +ON THE BORDERS OF CANNOCK CHASE. + +A cottager leaned whispering by her hives, + Telling the bees some news, as they lit down, + And entered one by one their waxen town. +Larks passioning hung o'er their brooding wives, +And all the sunny hills where heather thrives + Lay satisfied with peace. A stately crown + Of trees enringed the upper headland brown, +And reedy pools, wherein the moor-hen dives, +Glittered and gleamed. + A resting-place for light, +They that were bred here love it; but they say, + "We shall not have it long; in three years' time +A hundred pits will cast out fires by night, +Down yon still glen their smoke shall trail its way, +And the white ash lie thick in lieu of rime." + + +AN ANCIENT CHESS KING. + +Haply some Rajah first in the ages gone + Amid his languid ladies fingered thee, + While a black nightingale, sun-swart as he, +Sang his one wife, love's passionate oraison; +Haply thou may'st have pleased Old Prester John + Among his pastures, when full royally + He sat in tent, grave shepherds at his knee, +While lamps of balsam winked and glimmered on. +What doest thou here? Thy masters are all dead; + My heart is full of ruth and yearning pain +At sight of thee; O king that hast a crown + Outlasting theirs, and tell'st of greatness fled +Through cloud-hung nights of unabated rain +And murmurs of the dark majestic town. + + +COMFORT IN THE NIGHT. + +She thought by heaven's high wall that she did stray + Till she beheld the everlasting gate: + And she climbed up to it to long, and wait, +Feel with her hands (for it was night), and lay +Her lips to it with kisses; thus to pray + That it might open to her desolate. + And lo! it trembled, lo! her passionate +Crying prevailed. A little little way +It opened: there fell out a thread of light, + And she saw wingèd wonders move within; +Also she heard sweet talking as they meant +To comfort her. They said, "Who comes to-night + Shall one day certainly an entrance win;" +Then the gate closed and she awoke content. + + +THOUGH ALL GREAT DEEDS. + +Though all great deeds were proved but fables fine, + Though earth's old story could be told anew, + Though the sweet fashions loved of them that sue +Were empty as the ruined Delphian shrine-- +Though God did never man, in words benign, + With sense of His great Fatherhood endue, + Though life immortal were a dream untrue, +And He that promised it were not divine-- +Though soul, though spirit were not, and all hope + Reaching beyond the bourne, melted away; +Though virtue had no goal and good no scope, + But both were doomed to end with this our clay-- +Though all these were not,--to the ungraced heir +Would this remain,--to live, as though they were. + + +A SNOW MOUNTAIN. + +Can I make white enough my thought for thee, + Or wash my words in light? Thou hast no mate +To sit aloft in the silence silently + And twin those matchless heights undesecrate. +Reverend as Lear, when, lorn of shelter, he + Stood, with his old white head, surprised at fate; +Alone as Galileo, when, set free, + Before the stars he mused disconsolate. + +Ay, and remote, as the dead lords of song, + Great masters who have made us what we are, +For thou and they have taught us how to long + And feel a sacred want of the fair and far: +Reign, and keep life in this our deep desire-- +Our only greatness is that we aspire. + + +SLEEP. + +(A WOMAN SPEAKS.) + +O sleep, we are beholden to thee, sleep, + Thou bearest angels to us in the night, + Saints out of heaven with palms. Seen by thy light +Sorrow is some old tale that goeth not deep; +Love is a pouting child. Once I did sweep + Through space with thee, and lo, a dazzling sight-- + Stars! They came on, I felt their drawing and might; +And some had dark companions. Once (I weep +When I remember that) we sailed the tide, +And found fair isles, where no isles used to bide, + And met there my lost love, who said to me, +_That 'twas a long mistake: he had not died_. + Sleep, in the world to come how strange 'twill be +Never to want, never to wish for thee! + + +PROMISING. + +(A MAN SPEAKS.) + +Once, a new world, the sunswart marinere, + Columbus, promised, and was sore withstood, +Ungraced, unhelped, unheard for many a year; + But let at last to make his promise good. +Promised and promising I go, most dear, + To better my dull heart with love's sweet feud, +My life with its most reverent hope and fear, + And my religion, with fair gratitude. +O we must part; the stars for me contend, + And all the winds that blow on all the seas. +Through wonderful waste places I must wend, + And with a promise my sad soul appease. +Promise then, promise much of far-off bliss; +But--ah, for present joy, give me one kiss. + + +LOVE. + +Who veileth love should first have vanquished fate. + She folded up the dream in her deep heart, + Her fair full lips were silent on that smart, +Thick fringèd eyes did on the grasses wait. +What good? one eloquent blush, but one, and straight + The meaning of a life was known; for art + Is often foiled in playing nature's part, +And time holds nothing long inviolate. +Earth's buried seed springs up--slowly, or fast: +The ring came home, that one in ages past + Flung to the keeping of unfathomed seas: + And golden apples on the mystic trees +Were sought and found, and borne away at last, + Though watched of the divine Hesperides. + + +FAILURE. + +We are much bound to them that do succeed; + But, in a more pathetic sense, are bound +To such as fail. They all our loss expound; +They comfort us for work that will not speed, +And life--itself a failure. + Ay, his deed, +Sweetest in story, who the dusk profound + Of Hades flooded with entrancing sound, +Music's own tears, was failure. Doth it read + Therefore the worse? Ah, no! so much, to dare, + He fronts the regnant Darkness on its throne.-- +So much to do; impetuous even there, + He pours out love's disconsolate sweet moan-- +He wins; but few for that his deed recall: +Its power is in the look which costs him all. + + + + +A BIRTHDAY WALK. + + +(WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND'S BIRTHDAY.) + +"_The days of our life are threescore years and ten_." + + +A birthday:--and a day that rose + With much of hope, with meaning rife-- +A thoughtful day from dawn to close: + The middle day of human life. + +In sloping fields on narrow plains, + The sheep were feeding on their knees +As we went through the winding lanes, + Strewed with red buds of alder-trees. + +So warm the day--its influence lent + To flagging thought a stronger wing; +So utterly was winter spent, + So sudden was the birth of spring. + +Wild crocus flowers in copse and hedge-- + In sunlight, clustering thick below, +Sighed for the firwood's shaded ledge, + Where sparkled yet a line of snow. + +And crowded snowdrops faintly hung + Their fair heads lower for the heat, +While in still air all branches flung + Their shadowy doubles at our feet. + +And through the hedge the sunbeams crept, + Dropped through the maple and the birch; +And lost in airy distance slept + On the broad tower of Tamworth Church. + +Then, lingering on the downward way, + A little space we resting stood, +To watch the golden haze that lay + Adown that river by the wood. + +A distance vague, the bloom of sleep + The constant sun had lent the scene, +A veiling charm on dingles deep + Lay soft those pastoral hills between. + +There are some days that die not out, + Nor alter by reflection's power, +Whose converse calm, whose words devout, + For ever rest, the spirit's dower. + +And they are days when drops a veil-- + A mist upon the distance past; +And while we say to peace--"All hail!" + We hope that always it shall last. + +Times when the troubles of the heart + Are hushed--as winds were hushed that day-- +And budding hopes begin to start, + Like those green hedgerows on our way: + +When all within and all around + Like hues on that sweet landscape blend, +And Nature's hand has made to sound + The heartstrings that her touch attend: + +When there are rays within, like those + That streamed through maple and through birch, +And rested in such calm repose + On the broad tower of Tamworth Church. + + + + +NOT IN VAIN I WAITED. + + + She was but a child, a child, + And I a man grown; + Sweet she was, and fresh, and wild, + And, I thought, my own. +What could I do? The long grass groweth, + The long wave floweth with a murmur on: +The why and the wherefore of it all who knoweth? + Ere I thought to lose her she was grown--and gone. +This day or that day in warm spring weather. +The lamb that was tame will yearn to break its tether. +"But if the world wound thee," I said, "come back to me, +Down in the dell wishing--wishing, wishing for thee." + + The dews hang on the white may, + Like a ghost it stands, + All in the dusk before day + That folds the dim lands: + +Dark fell the skies when once belated, + Sad, and sorrow-fated, I missed the sun; +But wake, heart, and sing, for not in vain I waited. + O clear, O solemn dawning, lo, the maid is won! +Sweet dews, dry early on the grass and clover, +Lest the bride wet her feet while she walks over; +Shine to-day, sunbeams, and make all fair to see: +Down the dell she's coming--coming, coming with me. + + + + +A GLEANING SONG. + + +"Whither away, thou little eyeless rover? + (Kind Roger's true) +Whither away across yon bents and clover, + Wet, wet with dew?" + "Roger here, Roger there-- + Roger--O, he sighed, + Yet let me glean among the wheat, + Nor sit kind Roger's bride." + +"What wilt thou do when all the gleaning's ended, + What wilt thou do? +The cold will come, and fog and frost-work blended + (Kind Roger's true)." + "Sleet and rain, cloud and storm, + When they cease to frown + I'll bind me primrose bunches sweet, + And cry them up the town." + +"What if at last thy careless heart awaking + This day thou rue?" +"I'll cry my flowers, and think for all its breaking, + Kind Roger's true; + Roger here, Roger there, + O, my true love sighed, + Sigh once, once more, I'll stay my feet + And rest kind Roger's bride." + + + + +WITH A DIAMOND. + + +While Time a grim old lion gnawing lay, + And mumbled with his teeth yon regal tomb, +Like some immortal tear undimmed for aye, + This gem was dropped among the dust of doom. + +Dropped, haply, by a sad, forgotten queen, + A tear to outlast name, and fame, and tongue: +Her other tears, and ours, all tears terrene, + For great new griefs to be hereafter sung. + +Take it,--a goddess might have wept such tears, + Or Dame Electra changed into a star, +That waxed so dim because her children's years + In leaguered Troy were bitter through long war. + +Not till the end to end grow dull or waste,-- + Ah, what a little while the light we share! +Hand after hand shall yet with this be graced, + Signing the Will that leaves it to an heir. + + + + +MARRIED LOVERS. + + +Come away, the clouds are high, +Put the flashing needles by. +Many days are not to spare, +Or to waste, my fairest fair! +All is ready. Come to-day, +For the nightingale her lay, +When she findeth that the whole +Of her love, and all her soul, +Cannot forth of her sweet throat, +Sobs the while she draws her breath, +And the bravery of her note +In a few days altereth. + +Come, ere she despond, and see +In a silent ecstasy +Chestnuts heave for hours and hours +All the glory of their flowers +To the melting blue above, +That broods over them like love. +Leave the garden walls, where blow +Apple-blossoms pink, and low +Ordered beds of tulips fine. +Seek the blossoms made divine +With a scent that is their soul. +These are soulless. Bring the white +Of thy gown to bathe in light +Walls for narrow hearts. The whole +Earth is found, and air and sea, +Not too wide for thee and me. + +Not too wide, and yet thy face +Gives the meaning of all space; +And thine eyes, with starbeams fraught, +Hold the measure of all thought; +For of them my soul besought, +And was shown a glimpse of thine-- +A veiled vestal, with divine +Solace, in sweet love's despair, +For that life is brief as fair. +Who hath most, he yearneth most, +Sure, as seldom heretofore, +Somewhere of the gracious more. +Deepest joy the least shall boast, +Asking with new-opened eyes +The remainder; that which lies +O, so fair! but not all conned-- +O, so near! and yet beyond. + +Come, and in the woodland sit, +Seem a wonted part of it. +Then, while moves the delicate air, +And the glories of thy hair +Little flickering sun-rays strike, +Let me see what thou art like; +For great love enthralls me so, +That, in sooth, I scarcely know. +Show me, in a house all green, +Save for long gold wedges' sheen, +Where the flies, white sparks of fire, +Dart and hover and aspire, +And the leaves, air-stirred on high, +Feel such joy they needs must sigh, +And the untracked grass makes sweet +All fair flowers to touch thy feet, +And the bees about them hum. +All the world is waiting. Come! + + + + +A WINTER SONG. + + +Came the dread Archer up yonder lawn-- + Night is the time for the old to die-- +But woe for an arrow that smote the fawn, + When the hind that was sick unscathed went by. + +Father lay moaning, "Her fault was sore + (Night is the time when the old must die), +Yet, ah to bless her, my child, once more, + For heart is failing: the end is nigh." + +"Daughter, my daughter, my girl," I cried + (Night is the time for the old to die), +"Woe for the wish if till morn ye bide"-- + Dark was the welkin and wild the sky. + +Heavily plunged from the roof the snow-- + (Night is the time when the old will die), +She answered, "My mother, 'tis well, I go." + Sparkled the north star, the wrack flew high. + +First at his head, and last at his feet + (Night is the time when the old should die), +Kneeling I watched till his soul did fleet, + None else that loved him, none else were nigh. + +I wept in the night as the desolate weep + (Night is the time for the old to die), +Cometh my daughter? the drifts are deep, + Across the cold hollows how white they lie. + +I sought her afar through the spectral trees + (Night is the time when the old must die), +The fells were all muffled, the floods did freeze, + And a wrathful moon hung red in the sky. + +By night I found her where pent waves steal + (Night is the time when the old should die), +But she lay stiff by the locked mill-wheel, + And the old stars lived in their homes on high. + + + + +BINDING SHEAVES. + + +Hark! a lover binding sheaves + To his maiden sings, +Flutter, flutter go the leaves, + Larks drop their wings. +Little brooks for all their mirth + Are not blythe as he. +"Give me what the love is worth + That I give thee. + +"Speech that cannot be forborne + Tells the story through: +I sowed my love in with the corn, + And they both grew. +Count the world full wide of girth, + And hived honey sweet, +But count the love of more worth + Laid at thy feet. + +"Money's worth is house and land, + Velvet coat and vest. +Work's worth is bread in hand, + Ay, and sweet rest. +Wilt thou learn what love is worth? + Ah! she sits above, +Sighing, 'Weigh me not with earth, + Love's worth is love.'" + + + + +THE MARINER'S CAVE. + + +Once on a time there walked a mariner, + That had been shipwrecked;--on a lonely shore, +And the green water made a restless stir, + And a great flock of mews sped on before. +He had nor food nor shelter, for the tide +Rose on the one, and cliffs on the other side. + +Brown cliffs they were; they seemed to pierce the sky, + That was an awful deep of empty blue, +Save that the wind was in it, and on high + A wavering skein of wild-fowl tracked it through. +He marked them not, but went with movement slow, +Because his thoughts were sad, his courage low. + +His heart was numb, he neither wept nor sighed, + But wearifully lingered by the wave; +Until at length it chanced that he espied, + Far up, an opening in the cliff, a cave, +A shelter where to sleep in his distress, +And lose his sorrow in forgetfulness. + +With that he clambered up the rugged face + Of that steep cliff that all in shadow lay, +And, lo, there was a dry and homelike place, + Comforting refuge for the castaway; +And he laid down his weary, weary head, +And took his fill of sleep till dawn waxed red. + +When he awoke, warm stirring from the south + Of delicate summer air did sough and flow; +He rose, and, wending to the cavern's mouth, + He cast his eyes a little way below +Where on the narrow ledges, sharp and rude, +Preening their wings the blue rock-pigeons cooed. + +Then he looked lower and saw the lavender + And sea-thrift blooming in long crevices, +And the brown wallflower--April's messenger, + The wallflower marshalled in her companies. +Then lower yet he looked adown the steep, +And sheer beneath him lapped the lovely deep. + +The laughing deep;--and it was pacified + As if it had not raged that other day. +And it went murmuring in the morningtide + Innumerable flatteries on its way, +Kissing the cliffs and whispering at their feet +With exquisite advancement, and retreat. + +This when the mariner beheld he sighed, + And thought on his companions lying low. +But while he gazed with eyes unsatisfied + On the fair reaches of their overthow, +Thinking it strange he only lived of all, +But not returning thanks, he heard a call! + +A soft sweet call, a voice of tender ruth, + He thought it came from out the cave. And, lo, +It whispered, "Man, look up!" But he, forsooth, + Answered, "I cannot, for the long waves flow +Across my gallant ship where sunk she lies + With all my riches and my merchandise. + +"Moreover, I am heavy for the fate + Of these my mariners drowned in the deep; +I must lament me for their sad estate + Now they are gathered in their last long sleep. +O! the unpitying heavens upon me frown, +Then how should I look up?--I must look down." + +And he stood yet watching the fair green sea + Till hunger reached him; then he made a fire, +A driftwood fire, and wandered listlessly + And gathered many eggs at his desire, +And dressed them for his meal, and then he lay +And slept, and woke upon the second day. + +Whenas he said, "The cave shall be my home; + None will molest me, for the brown cliffs rise +Like castles of defence behind,--the foam + Of the remorseless sea beneath me lies; +'Tis easy from the cliff my food to win-- +The nations of the rock-dove breed therein. + +"For fuel, at the ebb yon fair expanse + Is strewed with driftwood by the breaking wave, +And in the sea is fish for sustenance. + I will build up the entrance of the cave, +And leave therein a window and a door, +And here will dwell and leave it nevermore." + +Then even so he did: and when his task, + Many long days being over, was complete, +When he had eaten, as he sat to bask + In the red firelight glowing at his feet, +He was right glad of shelter, and he said, +"Now for my comrades am I comforted." + +Then did the voice awake and speak again; + It murmured, "Man, look up!" But he replied, +"I cannot. O, mine eyes, mine eyes are fain + Down on the red wood-ashes to abide +Because they warm me." Then the voice was still, +And left the lonely mariner to his will. + +And soon it came to pass that he got gain. + He had great flocks of pigeons which he fed, +And drew great store of fish from out the main, + And down from eiderducks; and then he said, +"It is not good that I should lead my life +In silence, I will take to me a wife." + +He took a wife, and brought her home to him; + And he was good to her and cherished her +So that she loved him; then when light waxed dim + Gloom came no more; and she would minister +To all his wants; while he, being well content, +Counted her company right excellent. + +But once as on the lintel of the door + She leaned to watch him while he put to sea, +This happy wife, down-gazing at the shore, + Said sweetly, "It is better now with me +Than it was lately when I used to spin +In my old father's house beside the lin." + +And then the soft voice of the cave awoke-- + The soft voice which had haunted it erewhile-- +And gently to the wife it also spoke, + "Woman, look up!" But she, with tender guile, +Gave it denial, answering, "Nay, not so, +For all that I should look on lieth below. + +"The great sky overhead is not so good + For my two eyes as yonder stainless sea, +The source and yielder of our livelihood, + Where rocks his little boat that loveth me." +This when the wife had said she moved away, +And looked no higher than the wave all day. + +Now when the year ran out a child she bore, + And there was such rejoicing in the cave +As surely never had there been before + Since God first made it. Then full, sweet, and grave, +The voice, "God's utmost blessing brims thy cup, +O, father of this child, look up, look up!" + +"Speak to my wife," the mariner replied. + "I have much work--right welcome work 'tis true-- +Another mouth to feed." And then it sighed, + "Woman, look up!" She said, "Make no ado, +For I must needs look down, on anywise, + My heaven is in the blue of these dear eyes." + +The seasons of the year did swiftly whirl, + They measured time by one small life alone; +On such a day the pretty pushing pearl, + That mouth they loved to kiss had sweetly shown, +That smiling mouth, and it had made essay +To give them names on such another day. + +And afterward his infant history, + Whether he played with baubles on the floor, +Or crept to pat the rock-doves pecking nigh, + And feeding on the threshold of the door, +They loved to mark, and all his marvellings dim, +The mysteries that beguiled and baffled him. + +He was so sweet, that oft his mother said, + "O, child, how was it that I dwelt content +Before thou camest? Blessings on thy head, + Thy pretty talk it is so innocent, +That oft for all my joy, though it be deep, +When thou art prattling, I am like to weep." + +Summer and winter spent themselves again, + The rock-doves in their season bred, the cliff +Grew sweet, for every cleft would entertain + Its tuft of blossom, and the mariner's skiff, +Early and late, would linger in the bay, +Because the sea was calm and winds away. + +The little child about that rocky height, + Led by her loving hand who gave him birth, +Might wander in the clear unclouded light, + And take his pastime in the beauteous earth; +Smell the fair flowers in stony cradles swung, +And see God's happy creatures feed their young. + +And once it came to pass, at eventide, + His mother set him in the cavern door, +And filled his lap with grain, and stood aside + To watch the circling rock-doves soar, and soar, +Then dip, alight, and run in circling bands, +To take the barley from his open hands. + +And even while she stood and gazed at him, + And his grave father's eyes upon him dwelt, +They heard the tender voice, and it was dim, + And seemed full softly in the air to melt; +"Father," it murmured, "Mother," dying away, +"Look up, while yet the hours are called to-day." + +"I will," the father answered, "but not now;" + The mother said, "Sweet voice, O speak to me +At a convenient season." And the brow + Of the cliff began to quake right fearfully, +There was a rending crash, and there did leap +A riven rock and plunge into the deep. + +They said, "A storm is coming;" but they slept + That night in peace, and thought the storm had passed, +For there was not a cloud to intercept + The sacred moonlight on the cradle cast; +And to his rocking boat at dawn of day, +With joy of heart the mariner took his way. + +But when he mounted up the path at night, + Foreboding not of trouble or mischance, +His wife came out into the fading light, + And met him with a serious countenance; +And she broke out in tears and sobbings thick, +"The child is sick, my little child is sick." + +They knelt beside him in the sultry dark, + And when the moon looked in his face was pale, +And when the red sun, like a burning barque, + Rose in a fog at sea, his tender wail +Sank deep into their hearts, and piteously +They fell to chiding of their destiny. + +The doves unheeded cooed that livelong day, + Their pretty playmate cared for them no more; +The sea-thrift nodded, wet with glistening spray, + None gathered it; the long wave washed the shore; +He did not know, nor lift his eyes to trace, +The new fallen shadow in his dwelling-place. + +The sultry sun beat on the cliffs all day, + And hot calm airs slept on the polished sea, +The mournful mother wore her time away, + Bemoaning of her helpless misery, +Pleading and plaining, till the day was done, +"O look on me, my love, my little one. + +"What aileth thee, that thou dost lie and moan? + Ah would that I might bear it in thy stead!" +The father made not his forebodings known, + But gazed, and in his secret soul he said, +"I may have sinned, on sin waits punishment, +But as for him, sweet blameless innocent, + +"What has he done that he is stricken down? + O it is hard to see him sink and fade, +When I, that counted him my dear life's crown, + So willingly have worked while he has played; +That he might sleep, have risen, come storm, come heat, +And thankfully would fast that he might eat." + +My God, how short our happy days appear! + How long the sorrowful! They thought it long, +The sultry morn that brought such evil cheer, + And sat, and wished, and sighed for evensong; +It came, and cooling wafts about him stirred, +Yet when they spoke he answered not a word. + +"Take heart," they cried, but their sad hearts sank low + When he would moan and turn his restless head, +And wearily the lagging morns would go, + And nights, while they sat watching by his bed, +Until a storm came up with wind and rain, +And lightning ran along the troubled main. + +Over their heads the mighty thunders brake, + Leaping and tumbling down from rock to rock, +Then burst anew and made the cliffs to quake + As they were living things and felt the shock; +The waiting sea to sob as if in pain, +And all the midnight vault to ring again. + +A lamp was burning in the mariner's cave, + But the blue lightning flashes made it dim; +And when the mother heard those thunders rave, + She took her little child to cherish him; +She took him in her arms, and on her breast +Full wearily she courted him to rest, + +And soothed him long until the storm was spent, + And the last thunder peal had died away, +And stars were out in all the firmament. + Then did he cease to moan, and slumbering lay, +While in the welcome silence, pure and deep, +The care-worn parents sweetly fell asleep. + +And in a dream, enwrought with fancies thick, + The mother thought she heard the rock-doves coo +(She had forgotten that her child was sick), + And she went forth their morning meal to strew; +Then over all the cliff with earnest care +She sought her child, and lo, he was not there! + +But she was not afraid, though long she sought + And climbed the cliff, and set her feet in grass, +Then reached a river, broad and full, she thought, + And at its brink he sat. Alas! alas! +For one stood near him, fair and undefiled, +An innocent, a marvellous man-child. + +In garments white as wool, and O, most fair, + A rainbow covered him with mystic light; +Upon the warmèd grass his feet were bare, + And as he breathed, the rainbow in her sight +In passions of clear crimson trembling lay, +With gold and violet mist made fair the day. + +Her little life! she thought, his little hands + Were full of flowers that he did play withal; +But when he saw the boy o' the golden lands, + And looked him in the face, he let them fall, +Held through a rapturous pause in wistful wise +To the sweet strangeness of those keen child-eyes. + +"Ah, dear and awful God, who chastenest me, + How shall my soul to this be reconciled! +It is the Saviour of the world," quoth she, + "And to my child He cometh as a child." +Then on her knees she fell by that vast stream-- +Oh, it was sorrowful, this woman's dream! + +For lo, that Elder Child drew nearer now, + Fair as the light, and purer than the sun. +The calms of heaven were brooding on his brow, + And in his arms He took her little one, +Her child, that knew her, but with sweet demur +Drew back, nor held his hands to come to her. + +With that in mother misery sore she wept-- + "O Lamb of God, I love my child so MUCH! +He stole away to Thee while we two slept, + But give him back, for Thou hast many such; +And as for me I have but one. O deign, +Dear Pity of God, to give him me again." + +His feet were on the river. Oh, his feet + Had touched the river now, and it was great; +And yet He hearkened when she did entreat, + And turned in quietness as He would wait-- +Wait till she looked upon Him, and behold, +There lay a long way off a city of gold. + +Like to a jasper and a sardine stone, + Whelmed in the rainbow stood that fair man-child, +Mighty and innocent, that held her own, + And as might be his manner at home he smiled, +Then while she looked and looked, the vision brake, +And all amazed she started up awake. + +And lo, her little child was gone indeed! + The sleep that knows no waking he had slept, +Folded to heaven's own heart; in rainbow brede + Clothed and made glad, while they two mourned and wept, +But in the drinking of their bitter cup +The sweet voice spoke once more, and sighed, "Look up!" + +They heard, and straightway answered, "Even so: + For what abides that we should look on here? +The heavens are better than this earth below, + They are of more account and far more dear. +We will look up, for all most sweet and fair, +Most pure, most excellent, is garnered there." + + + + +A REVERIE. + + + When I do sit apart + And commune with my heart, +She brings me forth the treasures once my own; + Shows me a happy place + Where leaf-buds swelled apace, +And wasting rims of snow in sunlight shone. + + Rock, in a mossy glade, + The larch-trees lend thee shade, +That just begin to feather with their leaves; + From out thy crevice deep + White tufts of snowdrops peep, +And melted rime drips softly from thine eaves. + + Ah, rock, I know, I know + That yet thy snowdrops grow, +And yet doth sunshine fleck them through the tree, + Whose sheltering branches hide + The cottage at its side, +That nevermore will shade or shelter me. + + I know the stockdoves' note + Athwart the glen doth float: +With sweet foreknowledge of her twins oppressed, + And longings onward sent, + She broods before the event, +While leisurely she mends her shallow nest. + + Once to that cottage door, + In happy days of yore, +My little love made footprints in the snow. + She was so glad of spring, + She helped the birds to sing, +I know she dwells there yet--the rest I do not know. + + They sang, and would not stop, + While drop, and drop, and drop, +I heard the melted rime in sunshine fall; + And narrow wandering rills, + Where leaned the daffodils, +Murmured and murmured on, and that was all. + + I think, but cannot tell, + I think she loved me well, +And some dear fancy with my future twined. + But I shall never know, + Hope faints, and lets it go, +That passionate want forbid to speak its mind. + + + + +DEFTON WOOD. + + +I held my way through Defton Wood, + And on to Wandor Hall; +The dancing leaf let down the light, + In hovering spots to fall. +"O young, young leaves, you match me well," + My heart was merry, and sung-- +"Now wish me joy of my sweet youth; + My love--she, too, is young! + O so many, many, many + Little homes above my head! + O so many, many, many + Dancing blossoms round me spread! + O so many, many, many + Maidens sighing yet for none! + Speed, ye wooers, speed with any-- + Speed with all but one." + +I took my leave of Wandor Hall, + And trod the woodland ways. +"What shall I do so long to bear + The burden of my days?" +I sighed my heart into the boughs + Whereby the culvers cooed; +For only I between them went + Unwooing and unwooed. + "O so many, many, many + Lilies bending stately heads! + O so many, many, many + Strawberries ripened on their beds! + O so many, many, many + Maids, and yet my heart undone! + What to me are all, are any-- + I have lost my--one." + + + + +THE LONG WHITE SEAM. + + +As I came round the harbor buoy, + The lights began to gleam, +No wave the land-locked water stirred, + The crags were white as cream; +And I marked my love by candle-light + Sewing her long white seam. + It's aye sewing ashore, my dear, + Watch and steer at sea, + It's reef and furl, and haul the line, + Set sail and think of thee. + +I climbed to reach her cottage door; + O sweetly my love sings! +Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, + My soul to meet it springs +As the shining water leaped of old, + When stirred by angel wings. + Aye longing to list anew, + Awake and in my dream, + But never a song she sang like this, + Sewing her long white seam. + +Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights, + That brought me in to thee, +And peace drop down on that low roof + For the sight that I did see, + And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear + All for the love of me. + For O, for O, with brows bent low + By the candle's flickering gleam, + Her wedding gown it was she wrought, + Sewing the long white seam. + + + + +AN OLD WIFE'S SONG. + + +And what will ye hear, my daughters dear?-- + Oh, what will ye hear this night? +Shall I sing you a song of the yuletide cheer, + Or of lovers and ladies bright? + +"Thou shalt sing," they say (for we dwell far away + From the land where fain would we be), +"Thou shalt sing us again some old-world strain + That is sung in our own countrie. + +"Thou shalt mind us so of the times long ago, + When we walked on the upland lea, +While the old harbor light waxed faint in the white, + Long rays shooting out from the sea; + +"While lambs were yet asleep, and the dew lay deep + On the grass, and their fleeces clean and fair. +Never grass was seen so thick nor so green + As the grass that grew up there! + +"In the town was no smoke, for none there awoke-- + At our feet it lay still as still could be; +And we saw far below the long river flow, + And the schooners a-warping out to sea. + +"Sing us now a strain shall make us feel again + As we felt in that sacred peace of morn, +When we had the first view of the wet sparkling dew, + In the shyness of a day just born." + +So I sang an old song--it was plain and not long-- + I had sung it very oft when they were small; +And long ere it was done they wept every one: + Yet this was all the song--this was all:-- + +The snow lies white, and the moon gives light, + I'll out to the freezing mere, +And ease my heart with one little song, + For none will be nigh to hear. + And it's O my love, my love! + And it's O my dear, my dear! +It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring, + When nobody's nigh to hear. + +My love is young, she is young, is young; + When she laughs the dimple dips. +We walked in the wind, and her long locks blew + Till sweetly they touched my lips. + And I'll out to the freezing mere, + Where the stiff reeds whistle so low. +And I'll tell my mind to the friendly wind, + Because I have loved her so. + +Ay, and she's true, my lady is true! + And that's the best of it all; +And when she blushes my heart so yearns + That tears are ready to fall. + And it's O my love, my love! + And it's O my dear, my dear! +It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring, + When nobody's nigh to hear. + + + + +COLD AND QUIET. + + +Cold, my dear,--cold and quiet. + In their cups on yonder lea, +Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet; + So the moss enfoldeth thee. +"Plant me, plant me, O love, a lily flower-- + Plant at my head, I pray you, a green tree; +And when our children sleep," she sighed, "at the dusk hour, + And when the lily blossoms, O come out to me!" + + Lost, my dear? Lost! nay deepest + Love is that which loseth least; + Through the night-time while thou sleepest, + Still I watch the shrouded east. +Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye liveth, + "Lost" is no word for such a love as mine; +Love from her past to me a present giveth, + And love itself doth comfort, making pain divine. + Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showeth + That which was, and not in vain + Sacred have I kept, God knoweth, + Love's last words atween us twain. +"Hold by our past, my only love, my lover; + Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of me!" +Boughs from our garden, white with bloom hang over. + Love, now the children slumber, I come out to thee. + + + + +SLEDGE BELLS. + + +The logs burn red; she lifts her head, + For sledge-bells tinkle and tinkle, O lightly swung. +"Youth was a pleasant morning, but ah! to think 'tis fled, + Sae lang, lang syne," quo' her mother, "I, too, was young." + +No guides there are but the North star, + And the moaning forest tossing wild arms before, +The maiden murmurs, "O sweet were yon bells afar, + And hark! hark! hark! for he cometh, he nears the door." + +Swift north-lights show, and scatter and go. + How can I meet him, and smile not, on this cold shore? +Nay, I will call him, "Come in from the night and the snow, + And love, love, love in the wild wood, wander no more." + + + + +MIDSUMMER NIGHT, NOT DARK, NOT LIGHT. + + +Midsummer night, not dark, not light, + Dusk all the scented air, +I'll e'en go forth to one I love, + And learn how he doth fare. +O the ring, the ring, my dear, for me, + The ring was a world too fine, +I wish it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea, + Or ever thou mad'st it mine. + +Soft falls the dew, stars tremble through, + Where lone he sits apart, +Would I might steal his grief away + To hide in mine own heart. +Would, would 'twere shut in yon blossom fair, + The sorrow that bows thy head, +Then--I would gather it, to thee unaware, + And break my heart in thy stead. + +That charmèd flower, far from thy bower, + I'd bear the long hours through, +Thou should'st forget, and my sad breast + The sorrows twain should rue. +O sad flower, O sad, sad ring to me. + The ring was a world too fine; +And would it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea, + Ere the morn that made it mine. + + + + +THE BRIDEGROOM TO HIS BRIDE. + + + Fairest fair, best of good, + Too high for hope that stood; +White star of womanhood shining apart + O my liege lady, + And O my one lady, +And O my loved lady, come down to my heart. + + Reach me life's wine and gold, + What is man's best all told, +If thou thyself withhold, sweet, from thy throne? + O my liege lady, + And O my loved lady, +And O my heart's lady, come, reign there alone. + + + + +THE FAIRY WOMAN'S SONG. + + +The fairy woman maketh moan, + "Well-a-day, and well-a-day, +Forsooth I brought thee one rose, one, + And thou didst cast my rose away." +Hark! Oh hark, she mourneth yet, + "One good ship--the good ship sailed, +One bright star, at last it set, + One, one chance, forsooth it failed." + +Clear thy dusk hair from thy veiled eyes, + Show thy face as thee beseems, +For yet is starlight in the skies, + Weird woman piteous through my dreams. +"Nay," she mourns, "forsooth not now, + Veiled I sit for evermore, +Rose is shed, and charmèd prow + Shall not touch the charmèd shore." + +There thy sons that were to be, + Thy small gamesome children play; +There all loves that men foresee + Straight as wands enrich the way. +Dove-eyed, fair, with me they worm + Where enthroned I reign a queen, +In the lovely realms foregone, + In the lives that might have been. + + + + +ABOVE THE CLOUDS.[1] + + +And can this be my own world? + 'Tis all gold and snow, +Save where scarlet waves are hurled + Down yon gulf below. +'Tis thy world, 'tis my world, + City, mead, and shore, +For he that hath his own world + Hath many worlds more. + +[Footnote 1: "Above the Clouds," and thirteen poems following, are from +"Mopsa the Fairy."] + + + + +SLEEP AND TIME. + + +"Wake, baillie, wake! the crafts are out; + Wake!" said the knight, "be quick! +For high street, bye street, over the town + They fight with poker and stick." +Said the squire, "A fight so fell was ne'er + In all my bailliewick." +What said the old clock in the tower? + "Tick, tick, tick!" + +"Wake, daughter, wake! the hour draws on; + Wake!" quoth the dame, "be quick! +The meats are set, the guests are coming, + The fiddler waxing his stick." +She said, "The bridegroom waiting and waiting + To see thy face is sick." +What said the new clock in her bower? + "Tick, tick, tick!" + + + + +BEES AND OTHER FELLOW-CREATURES. + + +The dove laid some little sticks, + Then began to coo; +The gnat took his trumpet up + To play the day through; +The pie chattered soft and long-- + But that she always does; +The bee did all he had to do, + And only said, "Buzz." + + + + +THE GYPSY'S SELLING SONG. + + +My good man--he's an old, old man-- + And my good man got a fall, +To buy me a bargain so fast he ran + When he heard the gypsies call: + "Buy, buy brushes, + Baskets wrought o' rushes. + Buy them, buy them, take them, try them, + Buy, dames all." + +My old man, he has money and land, + And a young, young wife am I. +Let him put the penny in my white hand + When he hears the gypsies cry: + "Buy, buy laces, + Veils to screen your faces. + Buy them, buy them, take and try them. + Buy, maids, buy." + + + + +A WOOING SONG. + + +My fair lady's a dear, dear lady-- + I walked by her side to woo. +In a garden alley, so sweet and shady, + She answered, "I love not you, + John, John Brady," + Quoth my dear lady, +"Pray now, pray now, go your way now, + Do, John, do!" + +Yet my fair lady's my own, own lady, + For I passed another day; +While making her moan, she sat all alone, + And thus, and thus did she say: + "John, John Brady," + Quoth my dear lady, +"Do now, do now, once more woo now. + Pray, John, pray!" + + + + +A COURTING SONG. + + +"Master," quoth the auld hound + "Where will ye go?" +"Over moss, over muir, + To court my new jo." +"Master, though the night be merk, + I'se follow through the snow. + +"Court her, master, court her, + So shall ye do weel; +But and ben she'll guide the house, + I'se get milk and meal. +Ye'se get lilting while she sits + With her rock and reel." + +"For, oh! she has a sweet tongue, + And een that look down, +A gold girdle for her waist, + And a purple gown. +She has a good word forbye + Fra a' folk in the town." + + + + +LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD. + + +In the night she told a story, + In the night and all night through, +While the moon was in her glory, + And the branches dropped with dew. + +'Twas my life she told, and round it + Rose the years as from a deep; +In the world's great heart she found it, + Cradled like a child asleep. + +In the night I saw her weaving + By the misty moonbeam cold, +All the weft her shuttle cleaving + With a sacred thread of gold. + +Ah! she wept me tears of sorrow, + Lulling tears so mystic sweet; +Then she wove my last to-morrow, + And her web lay at my feet. + +Of my life she made the story: + I must weep--so soon 'twas told! +But your name did lend it glory, + And your love its thread of gold! + + + + +THE LEAVES OF LIGN ALOES. + + +Drop, drop from the leaves of lign aloes, + O honey-dew! drop from the tree. +Float up through your clear river shallows, + White lilies, beloved of the bee. + +Let the people, O Queen! say, and bless thee, + Her bounty drops soft as the dew, +And spotless in honor confess thee, + As lilies are spotless in hue. + +On the roof stands yon white stork awaking, + His feathers flush rosy the while, +For, lo! from the blushing east breaking, + The sun sheds the bloom of his smile. + +Let them boast of thy word, "It is certain; + We doubt it no more," let them say, +"Than to-morrow that night's dusky curtain + Shall roll back its folds for the day." + + + + +THE DAYS WITHOUT ALLOY. + + +When I sit on market-days amid the comers and the goers, + Oh! full oft I have a vision of the days without alloy, +And a ship comes up the river with a jolly gang of towers, + And a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!" + +There is busy talk around me, all about mine ears it hummeth, + But the wooden wharves I look on, and a dancing, heaving buoy, +For 'tis tidetime in the river, and she cometh--oh, she cometh! + With a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!" + +Then I hear the water washing, never golden waves were brighter, + And I hear the capstan creaking--'tis a sound that cannot cloy. +Bring her to, to ship her lading, brig or schooner, sloop or lighter, + With a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!" + +"Will ye step aboard, my dearest? for the high seas lie before us." + So I sailed adown the river in those days without alloy. +We are launched! But when, I wonder, shall a sweeter sound float o'er us + Than yon "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!" + + + + +FEATHERS AND MOSS. + + +The marten flew to the finch's nest, + Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay: +"The arrow it sped to thy brown mate's breast; + Low in the broom is thy mate to-day." + +"Liest thou low, love? low in the broom? + Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay, +Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom." + She beateth her wings, and away, away. + +"Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told + (Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay)! +Thine eyes are dim, and the eggs grow cold. + O mournful morrow! O dark to-day!" + +The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest, + Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay, +Mine is the trouble that rent her breast, + And home is silent, and love is clay. + + + + +ON THE ROCKS BY ABERDEEN. + + +On the rocks by Aberdeen, +Where the whislin' wave had been, +As I wandered and at e'en + Was eerie; + +There I saw thee sailing west, +And I ran with joy opprest-- +Ay, and took out all my best, + My dearie. + +Then I busked mysel' wi' speed, +And the neighbors cried "What need? +'Tis a lass in any weed + Aye bonny!" + +Now my heart, my heart is sair. +What's the good, though I be fair, +For thou'lt never see me mair, + Man Johnnie! + + + + +LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT. + + +It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye, +All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay. +Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride! +All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side. + +What's the world, my lass, my love!--what can it do? +I am thine, and thou art mine; life is sweet and new. +If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by, +For we two have gotten leave, and once more we'll try. + +Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride! +It's we two, it's we two, happy side by side. +Take a kiss from me thy man; now the song begins: +"All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins." + +When the darker days come, and no sun will shine, +Thou shalt dry my tears, lass, and I'll dry thine. +It's we two, it's we two, while the world's away, +Sitting by the golden sheaves on our wedding-day. + + + + +SONG FOR A BABE. + + +Little babe, while burns the west, +Warm thee, warm thee in my breast; +While the moon doth shine her best, + And the dews distil not. + +All the land so sad, so fair-- +Sweet its toils are, blest its care. +Child, we may not enter there! + Some there are that will not. + +Fain would I thy margins know, +Land of work, and land of snow; +Land of life, whose rivers flow + On, and on, and stay not. + +Fain would I thy small limbs fold, +While the weary hours are told, +Little babe in cradle cold. + Some there are that may not. + + + + +GIVE US LOVE AND GIVE US PEACE. + + +One morning, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, +All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they would cease; +'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, "Hear the story, hear the story!" + And the lark sang, "Give us glory!" + And the dove said, "Give us peace!" + +Then I listened, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, +To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my dear, the dove; +When the nightingale came after, "Give us fame to sweeten duty!" + When the wren sang, "Give us beauty!" + She made answer, "Give us love!" + +Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my beloved, my beloved; +Now for us doth spring, doth morning, wait upon the year's increase, +And my prayer goes up, "Oh, give us, crowned in youth with marriage glory, + Give for all our life's dear story, + Give us love, and give us peace!" + + + + +THE TWO MARGARETS. + + +I. + +MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. + +Lying imbedded in the green champaign + That gives no shadow to thy silvery face, +Open to all the heavens, and all their train, + The marshalled clouds that cross with stately pace, +No steadfast hills on thee reflected rest, +Nor waver with the dimpling of thy breast. + +O, silent Mere! about whose marges spring + Thick bulrushes to hide the reed-bird's nest; +Where the shy ousel dips her glossy wing, + And balanced in the water takes her rest: +While under bending leaves, all gem-arrayed, +Blue dragon-flies sit panting in the shade: + +Warm, stilly place, the sundew loves thee well, + And the green sward comes creeping to thy brink, +And golden saxifrage and pimpernel + Lean down to thee their perfumed heads to drink; +And heavy with the weight of bees doth bend +White clover, and beneath thy wave descend: + +While the sweet scent of bean-fields, floated wide + On a long eddy of the lightsome air +Over the level mead to thy lone side, + Doth lose itself among thy zephyrs rare, +With wafts from hawthorn bowers and new-cut hay, +And blooming orchards lying far away. + +Thou hast thy Sabbaths, when a deeper calm + Descends upon thee, quiet Mere, and then +There is a sound of bells, a far off psalm + From gray church towers, that swims across the fen; +And the light sigh where grass and waters meet, +Is thy meek welcome to the visit sweet. + +Thou hast thy lovers. Though the angler's rod + Dimple thy surface seldom; though the oar +Fill not with silvery globes thy fringing sod, + Nor send long ripples to thy lonely shore; +Though few, as in a glass, have cared to trace +The smile of nature moving on thy face; + +Thou hast thy lovers truly. 'Mid the cold + Of northern tarns the wild-fowl dream of thee, +And, keeping thee in mind, their wings unfold, + And shape their course, high soaring, till they see +Down in the world, like molten silver, rest +Their goal, and screaming plunge them in thy breast. + +Fair Margaret, who sittest all day long + On the gray stone beneath the sycamore, +The bowering tree with branches lithe and strong, + The only one to grace the level shore, +Why dost thou wait? for whom with patient cheer +Gaze yet so wistfully adown the Mere? + +Thou canst not tell, thou dost not know, alas! + Long watchings leave behind them little trace; +And yet how sweetly must the mornings pass, + That bring that dreamy calmness to thy face! +How quickly must the evenings come that find +Thee still regret to leave the Mere behind! + +Thy cheek is resting on thy hand; thine eyes + Are like twin violets but half unclosed, +And quiet as the deeps in yonder skies. + Never more peacefully in love reposed +A mother's gaze upon her offspring dear, +Than thine upon the long far-stretching Mere. + +Sweet innocent! Thy yellow hair floats low + In rippling undulations on thy breast, +Then stealing down the parted love-locks flow, + Bathed in a sunbeam on thy knees to rest, +And touch those idle hands that folded lie, +Having from sport and toil a like immunity. + +Through thy life's dream with what a touching grace + Childhood attends thee, nearly woman grown; +Her dimples linger yet upon thy face, + Like dews upon a lily this day blown; +Thy sighs are born of peace, unruffled, deep; +So the babe sighs on mother's breast asleep. + +It sighs, and wakes,--but thou! thy dream is all, + And thou wert born for it, and it for thee; +Morn doth not take thy heart, nor evenfall + Charm out its sorrowful fidelity, +Nor noon beguile thee from the pastoral shore, +And thy long watch beneath the sycamore. + +No, down the Mere as far as eye can see, + Where its long reaches fade into the sky, +Thy constant gaze, fair child, rests lovingly; + But neither thou nor any can descry +Aught but the grassy banks, the rustling sedge, +And flocks of wild-fowl splashing at their edge. + +And yet 'tis not with expectation hushed + That thy mute rosy mouth doth pouting close; +No fluttering hope to thy young heart e'er rushed, + Nor disappointment troubled its repose; +All satisfied with gazing evermore +Along the sunny Mere and reedy shore. + +The brooding wren flies pertly near thy seat, + Thou wilt not move to mark her glancing wing; +The timid sheep browse close before thy feet, + And heedless at thy side do thrushes sing. +So long amongst them thou hast spent thy days, +They know that harmless hand thou wilt not raise. + +Thou wilt not lift it up--not e'en to take + The foxglove bells that nourish in the shade, +And put them in thy bosom; not to make + A posy of wild hyacinth inlaid +Like bright mosaic in the mossy grass, +With freckled orchis and pale sassafras. + +Gaze on;--take in the voices of the Mere. + The break of shallow water at thy feet, +Its plash among long weeds and grasses sere, + And its weird sobbing,--hollow music meet +For ears like thine; listen and take thy till, +And dream on it by night when all is still. + +Full sixteen years have slowly passed away, + Young Margaret, since thy fond mother here +Came down, a six month's wife, one April day, + To see her husband's boat go down the Mere, +And track its course, till, lost in distance blue, +In mellow light it faded from her view. + +It faded, and she never saw it more;-- + Nor any human eye;--oh, grief! oh, woe! +It faded,--and returned not to the shore; + But far above it still the waters flow-- +And none beheld it sink, and none could tell +Where coldly slept the form she loved so well! + +But that sad day, unknowing of her fate, + She homeward turn'd her still reluctant feet; +And at her wheel she spun, till dark and late +The evening fell--the time when they should meet; +Till the stars paled that at deep midnight burned-- +And morning dawned, and he was not returned. + +And the bright sun came up--she thought too soon-- +And shed his ruddy light along the Mere; +And day wore on too quickly, and at noon +She came and wept beside the waters clear. +"How could he be so late?"--and then hope fled; +And disappointment darkened into dread. + +He NEVER came, and she with weepings sore +Peered in the water-nags unceasingly; +Through all the undulations of the shore, +Looking for that which most she feared to see. +And then she took home sorrow to her heart, +And brooded over its cold cruel smart. + +And after, desolate she sat alone +And mourned, refusing to be comforted, +On the gray stone, the moss-embroidered stone, +With the great sycamore above her head; +Till after many days a broken oar +Hard by her seat was drifted to the shore. + +It came,--a token of his fate,--the whole, +The sum of her misfortune to reveal; +As if sent up in pity to her soul, +The tidings of her widowhood to seal; +And put away the pining hope forlorn, +That made her grief more bitter to be borne. + +And she was patient; through the weary day + She toiled; though none was there her work to bless; +And did not wear the sullen months away, + Nor call on death to end her wretchedness, +But lest the grief should overflow her breast, +She toiled as heretofore, and would not rest. + +But, her work done, what time the evening star + Rose over the cool water, then she came +To the gray stone, and saw its light from far + Drop down the misty Mere white lengths of flame, +And wondered whether there might be the place +Where the soft ripple wandered o'er HIS face. + +Unfortunate! In solitude forlorn + She dwelt, and thought upon her husband's grave, +Till when the days grew short a child was born + To the dead father underneath the wave; +And it brought back a remnant of delight, +A little sunshine to its mother's sight; + +A little wonder to her heart grown numb, + And a sweet yearning pitiful and keen: +She took it as from that poor father come, + Her and the misery to stand between; +Her little maiden babe, who day by day +Sucked at her breast and charmed her woes away. + +But years flew on; the child was still the same, + Nor human language she had learned to speak: +Her lips were mute, and seasons went and came, + And brought fresh beauty to her tender cheek; +And all the day upon the sunny shore +She sat and mused beneath the sycamore. + +Strange sympathy! she watched and wearied not, + Haply unconscious what it was she sought; +Her mother's tale she easily forgot, + And if she listened no warm tears it brought; +Though surely in the yearnings of her heart +The unknown voyager must have had his part. + +Unknown to her; like all she saw unknown, + All sights were fresh as when they first began, +All sounds were new; each murmur and each tone + And cause and consequence she could not scan, +Forgot that night brought darkness in its train, +Nor reasoned that the day would come again. + +There is a happiness in past regret; + And echoes of the harshest sound are sweet. +The mother's soul was struck with grief, and yet, + Repeated in her child, 'twas not unmeet +That echo-like the grief a tone should take +Painless, but ever pensive for her sake. + +For her dear sake, whose patient soul was linked +By ties so many to the babe unborn; +Whose hope, by slow degrees become extinct, + For evermore had left her child forlorn, +Yet left no consciousness of want or woe, +Nor wonder vague that these things should be so. + +Truly her joys were limited and few, + But they sufficed a life to satisfy, +That neither fret nor dim foreboding knew, + But breathed the air in a great harmony +With its own place and part, and was at one +With all it knew of earth and moon and sun. + +For all of them were worked into the dream,-- + The husky sighs of wheat-fields in it wrought; +All the land-miles belonged to it; the stream + That fed the Mere ran through it like a thought. +It was a passion of peace, and loved to wait +'Neath boughs with fair green light illuminate. + +To wait with her alone; always alone: + For any that drew near she heeded not, +Wanting them little as the lily grown + Apart from others in a shady plot, +Wants fellow-lilies of like fair degree, +In her still glen to bear her company. + +Always alone: and yet, there was a child + Who loved this child, and, from his turret towers, +Across the lea would roam to where, in-isled + And fenced in rapturous silence, went her hours, +And, with slow footsteps drawn anear the place +Where mute she sat, would ponder on her face, + +And wonder at her with a childish awe, + And come again to look, and yet again, +Till the sweet rippling of the Mere would draw + His longing to itself; while in her train +The water-hen, come forth, would bring her brood +From slumbering in the rushy solitude; + +Or to their young would curlews call and clang + Their homeless young that down the furrows creep; +Or the wind-hover in the blue would hang, + Still as a rock set in the watery deep. +Then from her presence he would break away, +Unmarked, ungreeted yet, from day to day. + +But older grown, the Mere he haunted yet, + And a strange joy from its sweet wildness caught; +Whilst careless sat alone maid Margaret, + And "shut the gates" of silence on her thought, +All through spring mornings gemmed with melted rime, +All through hay-harvest and through gleaning time. + +O pleasure for itself that boyhood makes, + O happiness to roam the sighing shore, +Plough up with elfin craft the water-flakes, + And track the nested rail with cautious oar; +Then floating lie and look with wonder new +Straight up in the great dome of light and blue. + +O pleasure! yet they took him from the wold, + The reedy Mere, and all his pastime there, +The place where he was born, and would grow old + If God his life so many years should spare; +From the loved haunts of childhood and the plain +And pasture-lands of his own broad domain. + +And he came down when wheat was in the sheaf, + And with her fruit the apple-branch bent low, +While yet in August glory hung the leaf, + And flowerless aftermath began to grow; +He came from his gray turrets to the shore, +And sought the maid beneath the sycamore. + +He sought her, not because her tender eyes + Would brighten at his coming, for he knew +Full seldom any thought of him would rise + In her fair breast when he had passed from view; +But for his own love's sake, that unbeguiled +Drew him in spirit to the silent child. + +For boyhood in its better hour is prone + To reverence what it hath not understood; +And he had thought some heavenly meaning shone + From her clear eyes, that made their watchings good: +While a great peacefulness of shade was shed +Like oil of consecration on her head. + +A fishing wallet from his shoulder slung, + With bounding foot he reached the mossy place, +A little moment gently o'er her hung, + Put back her hair and looked upon her face, +Then fain from that deep dream to wake her yet, +He "Margaret!" low murmured, "Margaret! + +"Look at me once before I leave the land, + For I am going,--going, Margaret." +And then she sighed, and, lifting up her hand, + Laid it along his young fresh cheek, and set +Upon his face those blue twin-deeps, her eyes, +And moved it back from her in troubled wise, + +Because he came between her and her fate, + The Mere. She sighed again as one oppressed; +The waters, shining clear, with delicate + Reflections wavered on her blameless breast; +And through the branches dropt, like flickerings fair, +And played upon her hands and on her hair. + +And he, withdrawn a little space to see, + Murmured in tender ruth that was not pain, +"Farewell, I go; but sometimes think of me, + Maid Margaret;" and there came by again +A whispering in the reed-beds and the sway +Of waters: then he turned and went his way. + +And wilt thou think on him now he is gone? + No; thou wilt gaze: though thy young eyes grow dim, +And thy soft cheek become all pale and wan, + Still thou wilt gaze, and spend no thought on him; +There is no sweetness in his laugh for thee--No +beauty in his fresh heart's gayety. + +But wherefore linger in deserted haunts? + Why of the past, as if yet present, sing? +The yellow iris on the margin flaunts, + With hyacinth the banks are blue in spring, +And under dappled clouds the lark afloat +Pours all the April-tide from her sweet throat. + +But Margaret--ah! thou art there no more, + And thick dank moss creeps over thy gray stone +Thy path is lost that skirted the low shore, + With willow-grass and speedwell overgrown; +Thine eye has closed for ever, and thine ear +Drinks in no more the music of the Mere. + +The boy shall come--shall come again in spring, + Well pleased that pastoral solitude to share, +And some kind offering in his hand will bring + To cast into thy lap, O maid most fair-- +Some clasping gem about thy neck to rest, +Or heave and glimmer on thy guileless breast. + +And he shall wonder why thou art not here + The solitude with "smiles to entertain," +And gaze along the reaches of the Mere; + But he shall never see thy face again-- +Shall never see upon the reedy shore +Maid Margaret beneath her sycamore. + + +II. + +MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. + +["Concerning this man (Robert Delacour), little further is known +than that he served in the king's army, and was wounded in the +battle of Marston Moor, being then about twenty-seven years of age. +After the battle of Nazeby, finding himself a marked man, he quitted +the country, taking with him the child whom he had adopted; and +he made many voyages between the different ports of the Mediterranean +and Levant."] + +Resting within his tent at turn of day, + A wailing voice his scanty sleep beset: +He started up--it did not flee away-- + 'Twas no part of his dream, but still did fret +And pine into his heart, "Ah me! ah me!" +Broken with heaving sobs right mournfully. + +Then he arose, and, troubled at this thing, + All wearily toward the voice he went +Over the down-trod bracken and the ling, + Until it brought him to a soldier's tent, +Where, with the tears upon her face, he found +A little maiden weeping on the ground; + +And backward in the tent an aged crone + Upbraided her full harshly more and more, +But sunk her chiding to an undertone + When she beheld him standing at the door, +And calmed her voice, and dropped her lifted hand, +And answered him with accent soft and bland. + +No, the young child was none of hers, she said, + But she had found her where the ash lay white +About a smouldering tent; her infant head + All shelterless, she through the dewy night +Had slumbered on the field,--ungentle fate +For a lone child so soft and delicate. + +"And I," quoth she, "have tended her with care, + And thought to be rewarded of her kin, +For by her rich attire and features fair + I know her birth is gentle: yet within +The tent unclaimed she doth but pine and weep, +A burden I would fain no longer keep." + +Still while she spoke the little creature wept, + Till painful pity touched him for the flow +Of all those tears, and to his heart there crept + A yearning as of fatherhood, and lo! +Reaching his arms to her, "My sweet," quoth he, +"Dear little madam, wilt thou come with me?" + +Then she left off her crying, and a look + Of wistful wonder stole into her eyes. +The sullen frown her dimpled face forsook, + She let him take her, and forgot her sighs, +Contented in his alien arms to rest, +And lay her baby head upon his breast. + +Ah, sure a stranger trust was never sought + By any soldier on a battle-plain. +He brought her to his tent, and soothed his voice, + Rough with command; and asked, but all in vain, +Her story, while her prattling tongue rang sweet, +She playing, as one at home, about his feet. + +Of race, of country, or of parentage, + Her lisping accents nothing could unfold;-- +No questioning could win to read the page + Of her short life;--she left her tale untold, +And home and kin thus early to forget, +She only knew,--her name was--Margaret. + +Then in the dusk upon his arm it chanced + That night that suddenly she fell asleep; +And he looked down on her like one entranced, + And listened to her breathing still and deep, +As if a little child, when daylight closed, +With half-shut lids had ne'er before reposed. + +Softly he laid her down from off his arm, + With earnest care and new-born tenderness: +Her infancy, a wonder-working charm, + Laid hold upon his love; he stayed to bless +The small sweet head, then went he forth that night +And sought a nurse to tend this new delight. + +And day by day his heart she wrought upon, + And won her way into its inmost fold-- +A heart which, but for lack of that whereon + To fix itself, would never have been cold; +And, opening wide, now let her come to dwell +Within its strong unguarded citadel. + +She, like a dream, unlocked the hidden springs + Of his past thoughts, and set their current free +To talk with him of half-forgotten things-- + The pureness and the peace of infancy, +"Thou also, thou," to sigh, "wert undefiled +(O God, the change!) once, as this little child." + +The baby-mistress of a soldier's heart, + She had but friendlessness to stand her friend, +And her own orphanhood to plead her part, + When he, a wayfarer, did pause, and bend, +And bear with him the starry blossom sweet +Out of its jeopardy from trampling feet. + +A gleam of light upon a rainy day, + A new-tied knot that must be sever'd soon, +At sunrise once before his tent at play, + And hurried from the battle-field at noon, +While face to face in hostile ranks they stood, +Who should have dwelt in peace and brotherhood. + +But ere the fight, when higher rose the sun, + And yet were distant far the rebel bands, +She heard at intervals a booming gun, + And she was pleased, and laughing clapped her hands; +Till he came in with troubled look and tone, +Who chose her desolate to be his own. + +And he said, "Little madam, now farewell, + For there will be a battle fought ere night. +God be thy shield, for He alone can tell + Which way may fall the fortune of the fight. +To fitter hands the care of thee pertain, +My dear, if we two never meet again." + +Then he gave money shortly to her nurse, + And charged her straitly to depart in haste, +And leave the plain, whereon the deadly curse + Of war should light with ruin, death, and waste, +And all the ills that must its presence blight, +E'en if proud victory should bless the right. + +"But if the rebel cause should prosper, then + It were not good among the hills to wend; +But journey through to Boston in the fen, + And wait for peace, if peace our God shall send; +And if my life is spared, I will essay," +Quoth he, "to join you there as best I may." + +So then he kissed the child, and went his way; + But many troubles rolled above his head; +The sun arose on many an evil day, + And cruel deeds were done, and tears were shed; +And hope was lost, and loyal hearts were fain +In dust to hide,--ere they two met again. + +So passed the little child from thought, from view-- + (The snowdrop blossoms, and then is not there, +Forgotten till men welcome it anew), + He found her in his heavy days of care, +And with her dimples was again beguiled, +As on her nurse's knee she sat and smiled. + +And he became a voyager by sea, + And took the child to share his wandering state; +Since from his native land compelled to flee, + And hopeless to avert her monarch's fate; +For all was lost that might have made him pause, +And, past a soldier's help, the royal cause. + +And thus rolled on long days, long months and years, + And Margaret within the Xebec sailed; +The lulling wind made music in her ears, + And nothing to her life's completeness failed. +Her pastime 'twas to see the dolphins spring, +And wonderful live rainbows glimmering. + +The gay sea-plants familiar were to her, + As daisies to the children of the land; +Red wavy dulse the sunburnt mariner + Raised from its bed to glisten in her hand; +The vessel and the sea were her life's stage-- +Her house, her garden, and her hermitage. + +Also she had a cabin of her own, + For beauty like an elfin palace bright, +With Venice glass adorned, and crystal stone + That trembled with a many-colored light; +And there with two caged ringdoves she did play, +And feed them carefully from day to day. + +Her bed with silken curtains was enclosed, + White as the snowy rose of Guelderland; +On Turkish pillows her young head reposed, + And love had gathered with a careful hand +Fair playthings to the little maiden's side, +From distant ports, and cities parted wide. + +She had two myrtle-plants that she did tend, + And think all trees were like to them that grew; +For things on land she did confuse and blend, + And chiefly from the deck the land she knew, +And in her heart she pitied more and more +The steadfast dwellers on the changeless shore. + +Green fields and inland meadows faded out + Of mind, or with sea-images were linked; +And yet she had her childish thoughts about + The country she had left--though indistinct +And faint as mist the mountain-head that shrouds, +Or dim through distance as Magellan's clouds. + +And when to frame a forest scene she tried, + The ever-present sea would yet intrude, +And all her towns were by the water's side, + It murmured in all moorland solitude, +Where rocks and the ribbed sand would intervene, +And waves would edge her fancied village green; + +Because her heart was like an ocean shell, + That holds (men say) a message from the deep, +And yet the land was strong, she knew its spell, + And harbor lights could draw her in her sleep; +And minster chimes from piercèd towers that swim, +Were the land-angels making God a hymn. + +So she grew on, the idol of one heart, + And the delight of many--and her face, +Thus dwelling chiefly from her sex apart, + Was touched with a most deep and tender grace-- +A look that never aught but nature gave, +Artless, yet thoughtful; innocent, yet grave. + +Strange her adornings were, and strangely blent: + A golden net confined her nut-brown hair; +Quaint were the robes that divers lands had lent, + And quaint her aged nurse's skill and care; +Yet did they well on the sea-maiden meet, +Circle her neck, and grace her dimpled feet. + +The sailor folk were glad because of her, + And deemed good fortune followed in her wake; +She was their guardian saint, they did aver-- + Prosperous winds were sent them for her sake; +And strange rough vows, strange prayers, they nightly made, +While, storm or calm, she slept, in nought afraid. + +Clear were her eyes, that daughter of the sea, + Sweet, when uplifted to her aged nurse, +She sat, and communed what the world could be; + And rambling stories caused her to rehearse +How Yule was kept, how maidens tossed the hay, +And how bells rang upon a wedding day. + +But they grew brighter when the evening star + First trembled over the still glowing wave, +That bathed in ruddy light, mast, sail, and spar; + For then, reclined in rest that twilight gave, +With him who served for father, friend, and guide, +She sat upon the deck at eventide. + +Then turned towards the west, that on her hair + And her young cheek shed down its tender glow, +He taught her many things with earnest care + That he thought fitting a young maid should know, +Told of the good deeds of the worthy dead, +And prayers devout, by faithful martyrs said. + +And many psalms he caused her to repeat + And sing them, at his knees reclined the while, +And spoke with her of all things good and meet, + And told the story of her native isle, +Till at the end he made her tears to flow, +Rehearsing of his royal master's woe. + +And of the stars he taught her, and their names, + And how the chartless mariner they guide; +Of quivering light that in the zenith flames, + Of monsters in the deep sea caves that hide; +Then changed the theme to fairy records wild, +Enchanted moor, elf dame, or changeling child. + +To her the Eastern lands their strangeness spread, + The dark-faced Arab in his long blue gown, +The camel thrusting down a snake-like head + To browse on thorns outside a walled white town. +Where palmy clusters rank by rank upright +Float as in quivering lakes of ribbed light. + +And when the ship sat like a broad-winged bird + Becalmed, lo, lions answered in the night +Their fellows, all the hollow dark was stirred + To echo on that tremulous thunder's flight, +Dying in weird faint moans;--till look: the sun +And night, and all the things of night, were done. + +And they, toward the waste as morning brake, + Turned, where, in-isled in his green watered land, +The Lybian Zeus lay couched of old, and spake, + Hemmed in with leagues of furrow-faced sand-- +Then saw the moon (like Joseph's golden cup +Come back) behind some ruined roof swim up. + +But blooming childhood will not always last, + And storms will rise e'en on the tideless sea; +His guardian love took fright, she grew so fast, + And he began to think how sad 'twould be +If he should die, and pirate hordes should get +By sword or shipwreck his fair Margaret. + +It was a sudden thought; but he gave way, + For it assailed him with unwonted force; +And, with no more than one short week's delay, + For English shores he shaped the vessel's course; +And ten years absent saw her landed now, +With thirteen summers on her maiden brow. + +And so he journeyed with her, far inland, + Down quiet lanes, by hedges gemmed with dew, +Where wonders met her eye on every hand, + And all was beautiful and strange and new-- +All, from the forest trees in stately ranks, +To yellow cowslips trembling on the banks. + +All new--the long-drawn slope of evening shades, + The sweet solemnities of waxing light, +The white-haired boys, the blushing rustic maids, + The ruddy gleam through cottage casements bright, +The green of pastures, bloom of garden nooks, +And endless bubbling of the water-brooks. + +So far he took them on through this green land, + The maiden and her nurse, till journeying +They saw at last a peaceful city stand + On a steep mount, and heard its clear bells ring. +High were the towers and rich with ancient state, +In its old wall enclosed and massive gate. + +There dwelt a worthy matron whom he knew, + To whom in time of war he gave good aid, +Shielding her household from the plundering crew + When neither law could bind nor worth persuade, +And to her house he brought his care and pride, +Aweary with the way and sleepy-eyed. + +And he, the man whom she was fain to serve, + Delayed not shortly his request to make, +Which was, if aught of her he did deserve, + To take the maid, and rear her for his sake, +To guard her youth, and let her breeding be +In womanly reserve and modesty. + +And that same night into the house he brought + The costly fruits of all his voyages-- +Rich Indian gems of wandering craftsmen wrought, + Long ropes of pearls from Persian palaces, +With ingots pure and coins of Venice mould, +And silver bars and bags of Spanish gold; + +And costly merchandise of far-off lands, + And golden stuffs and shawls of Eastern dye, +He gave them over to the matron's hands, + With jewelled gauds, and toys of ivory, +To be her dower on whom his love was set,-- +His dearest child, fair Madam Margaret. + +Then he entreated, that if he should die, + She would not cease her guardian mission mild. +Awhile, as undecided, lingered nigh, + Beside the pillow of the sleeping child, +Severed one wandering lock of wavy hair, +Took horse that night, and left her unaware. + +And it was long before he came again-- + So long that Margaret was woman grown; +And oft she wished for his return in vain, + Calling him softly in an undertone; +Repeating words that he had said the while, +And striving to recall his look and smile. + +If she had known--oh, if she could have known-- + The toils, the hardships of those absent years-- +How bitter thraldom forced the unwilling groan-- + How slavery wrung out subduing tears, +Not calmly had she passed her hours away, +Chiding half pettishly the long delay. + +But she was spared. She knew no sense of harm, + While the red flames ascended from the deck; +Saw not the pirate band the crew disarm, + Mourned not the floating spars, the smoking wreck. +She did not dream, and there was none to tell, +That fetters bound the hands she loved so well. + +Sweet Margaret--withdrawn from human view, + She spent long hours beneath the cedar shade, +The stately trees that in the garden grew, + And, overtwined, a towering shelter made; +She mused among the flowers, and birds, and bees, +In winding walks, and bowering canopies; + +Or wandered slowly through the ancient rooms, + Where oriel windows shed their rainbow gleams; +And tapestried hangings, wrought in Flemish looms, + Displayed the story of King Pharaoh's dreams; +And, come at noon because the well was deep, +Beautiful Rachel leading down her sheep. + +At last she reached the bloom of womanhood, + After five summers spent in growing fair; +Her face betokened all things dear and good, + The light of somewhat yet to come was there +Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, +When childish thoughts, like flowers, would drift away. + +O! we are far too happy while they last; + We have our good things first, and they cost naught; +Then the new splendor comes unfathomed, vast, + A costly trouble, ay, a sumptuous thought, +And will not wait, and cannot be possessed, +Though infinite yearnings fold it to the breast. + +And time, that seemed so long, is fleeting by, + And life is more than life; love more than love; +We have not found the whole--and we must die-- + And still the unclasped glory floats above. +The inmost and the utmost faint from sight, +For ever secret in their veil of light. + +Be not too hasty in your flow, you rhymes, + For Margaret is in her garden bower; +Delay to ring, you soft cathedral chimes, + And tell not out too soon the noontide hour: +For one draws nearer to your ancient town, +On the green mount down settled like a crown. + +He journeyed on, and, as he neared the gate, + He met with one to whom he named the maid, +Inquiring of her welfare and her state. + And of the matron in whose house she stayed. +"The maiden dwelt there yet," the townsman said; +"But, for the ancient lady,--she was dead." + +He further said, she was but little known, + Although reputed to be very fair, +And little seen (so much she dwelt alone) + But with her nurse at stated morning prayer; +So seldom passed her sheltering garden wall, +Or left the gate at quiet evening fall. + +Flow softly, rhymes--his hand is on the door; + Ring out, ye noonday bells, his welcoming-- +"He went out rich, but he returneth poor;" + And strong--now something bowed with suffering. +And on his brow are traced long furrowed lines, +Earned in the fight with pirate Algerines. + +Her aged nurse comes hobbling at his call; + Lifts up her withered hand in dull surprise, +And, tottering, leads him through the pillared hall; + "What! come at last to bless my lady's eyes! +Dear heart, sweet heart, she's grown a likesome maid-- +Go, seek her where she sitteth in the shade." + +The noonday chime had ceased--she did not know + Who watched her, while her ringdoves fluttered near: +While, under the green boughs, in accents low + She sang unto herself. She did not hear +His footstep till she turned, then rose to meet +Her guest with guileless blush and wonder sweet. + +But soon she knew him, came with quickened pace, + And put her gentle hands about his neck; +And leaned her fair cheek to his sun-burned face, + As long ago upon the vessel's deck: +As long ago she did in twilight deep, +When heaving waters lulled her infant sleep. + +So then he kissed her, as men kiss their own, + And, proudly parting her unbraided hair, +He said: "I did not think to see thee grown + So fair a woman,"--but a touch of care +The deep-toned voice through its caressing kept, +And, hearing it, she turned away and wept. + +Wept,--for an impress on the face she viewed-- + The stamp of feelings she remembered not; +His voice was calmer now, but more subdued, + Not like the voice long loved and unforgot! +She felt strange sorrow and delightful pain-- +Grief for the change, joy that he came again. + +O pleasant days, that followed his return, + That made his captive years pass out of mind; +If life had yet new pains for him to learn, + Not in the maid's clear eyes he saw it shrined; +And three full weeks he stayed with her, content +To find her beautiful and innocent. + +It was all one in his contented sight + As though she were a child, till suddenly, +Waked of the chimes in the dead time of the night, + He fell to thinking how the urgency +Of Fate had dealt with him, and could but sigh +For those best things wherein she passed him by. + +Down the long river of life how, cast adrift, + She urged him on, still on, to sink or swim; +And all at once, as if a veil did lift, + In the dead time of the night, and bare to him +The want in his deep soul, he looked, was dumb, +And knew himself, and knew his time was come. + +In the dead time of the night his soul did sound + The dark sea of a trouble unforeseen, +For that one sweet that to his life was bound + Had turned into a want--a misery keen: +Was born, was grown, and wounded sorely cried +All 'twixt the midnight and the morning tide. + +He was a brave man, and he took this thing + And cast it from him with a man's strong hand; +And that next morn, with no sweet altering + Of mien, beside the maid he took his stand, +And copied his past self till ebbing day +Paled its deep western blush, and died away. + +And then he told her that he must depart + Upon the morrow, with the earliest light; +And it displeased and pained her at the heart, + And she went out to hide her from his sight +Aneath the cedar trees, where dusk was deep, +And be apart from him awhile to weep + +And to lament, till, suddenly aware + Of steps, she started up as fain to flee, +And met him in the moonlight pacing there, + Who questioned with her why her tears might be, +Till she did answer him, all red for shame, +"Kind sir, I weep--the wanting of a name." + +"A name!" quoth he, and sighed. "I never knew + Thy father's name; but many a stalwart youth +Would give thee his, dear child, and his love too, + And count himself a happy man forsooth. +Is there none here who thy kind thought hath won?" +But she did falter, and made answer, "None." + +Then, as in father-like and kindly mood, + He said, "Dear daughter, it would please me well +To see thee wed; for know it is not good + That a fair woman thus alone should dwell." +She said, "I am content it should be so, +If when you journey I may with you go." + +This when he heard, he thought, right sick at heart, + Must I withstand myself, and also thee? +Thou, also thou! must nobly do thy part; + That honor leads thee on which holds back me. +No, thou sweet woman; by love's great increase, +I will reject thee for thy truer peace. + +Then said he, "Lady!--look upon my face; + Consider well this scar upon my brow; +I have had all misfortune but disgrace; + I do not look for marriage blessings now. +Be not thy gratitude deceived. I know +Thou think'st it is thy duty--I will go! + +"I read thy meaning, and I go from hence, + Skilled in the reason; though my heart be rude, +I will not wrong thy gentle innocence, + Nor take advantage of thy gratitude. +But think, while yet the light these eyes shall bless, +The more for thee--of woman's nobleness." + +Faultless and fair, all in the moony light, + As one ashamed, she looked upon the ground, +And her white raiment glistened in his sight. + And, hark! the vesper chimes began to sound, +Then lower yet she drooped her young, pure cheek, +And still was she ashamed, and could not speak. + +A swarm of bells from that old tower o'erhead, + They sent their message sifting through the boughs +Of cedars; when they ceased his lady said, + "Pray you forgive me," and her lovely brows +She lifted, standing in her moonlit place, +And one short moment looked him in the face. + +Then straight he cried, "O sweetheart, think all one + As no word yet were said between us twain, +And know thou that in this I yield to none-- + love thee, sweetheart, love thee!" So full fain, +While she did leave to silence all her part, +He took the gleaming whiteness to his heart-- + +The white-robed maiden with the warm white throat, + The sweet white brow, and locks of umber flow, +Whose murmuring voice was soft as rock-dove's note, + Entreating him, and saying, "Do not go!" +"I will not, sweetheart; nay, not now," quoth he, +"By faith and troth, I think thou art for me!" + +And so she won a name that eventide, + Which he gave gladly, but would ne'er bespeak, +And she became the rough sea-captain's bride, + Matching her dimples to his sunburnt cheek; +And chasing from his voice the touch of care, +That made her weep when first she heard it there. + +One year there was, fulfilled of happiness, + But O! it went so fast, too fast away. +Then came that trouble which full oft doth bless-- + It was the evening of a sultry day, +There was no wind the thread-hung flowers to stir, +Or float abroad the filmy gossamer. + +Toward the trees his steps the mariner bent, + Pacing the grassy walks with restless feet: +And he recalled, and pondered as he went, + All her most duteous love and converse sweet, +Till summer darkness settled deep and dim, +And dew from bending leaves dropt down on him. + +The flowers sent forth their nightly odors faint-- + Thick leaves shut out the starlight overhead; +While he told over, as by strong constraint + Drawn on, her childish life on shipboard led, +And beauteous youth, since first low kneeling there, +With folded hands she lisped her evening prayer. + +Then he remembered how, beneath the shade, + She wooed him to her with her lovely words, +While flowers were closing, leaves in moonlight played, + And in dark nooks withdrew the silent birds. +So pondered he that night in twilight dim, +While dew from bending leaves dropt down on him. + +The flowers sent forth their nightly odors faint-- + When, in the darkness waiting, he saw one +To whom he said--"How fareth my sweet saint?" + Who answered--"She hath borne to you a son;" +Then, turning, left him,--and the father said, +"God rain down blessings on his welcome head!" + +But Margaret!--_she_ never saw the child, + Nor heard about her bed love's mournful wails; +But to the last, with ocean dreams beguiled, + Murmured of troubled seas and swelling sails-- +Of weary voyages, and rocks unseen, +And distant hills in sight, all calm and green.... + +Woe and alas!--the times of sorrow come, + And make us doubt if we were ever glad! +So utterly that inner voice is dumb, + Whose music through our happy days we had! +So, at the touch of grief, without our will, +The sweet voice drops from us, and all is still. + +Woe and alas! for the sea-captain's wife-- + That Margaret who in the Xebec played-- +She spent upon his knee her baby life; + Her slumbering head upon his breast she laid. +How shall he learn alone his years to pass? +How in the empty house?--woe and alas! + +She died, and in the aisle, the minster aisle, + They made her grave; and there, with fond intent, +Her husband raised, his sorrow to beguile, + A very fair and stately monument: +Her tomb (the careless vergers show it yet), +The mariner's wife, his love, his Margaret. + +A woman's figure, with the eyelids closed, + The quiet head declined in slumber sweet; +Upon an anchor one fair hand reposed, + And a long ensign folded at her feet, +And carved upon the bordering of her vest +The motto of her house--"_He giveth rest."_ + +There is an ancient window richly fraught + And fretted with all hues most rich, most bright, +And in its upper tracery enwrought + An olive-branch and dove wide-winged and white, +An emblem meet for her, the tender dove, +Her heavenly peace, her duteous earthly love. + +Amid heraldic shields and banners set, + In twisted knots and wildly-tangled bands, +Crimson and green, and gold and violet, + Fall softly on the snowy sculptured hands; +And, when the sunshine comes, full sweetly rest +The dove and olive-branch upon her breast. + + + + +A STORY OF DOOM. + + +BOOK I. + +Niloiya said to Noah, "What aileth thee, +My master, unto whom is my desire, +The father of my sons?" He answered her, +"Mother of many children, I have heard +The Voice again." "Ah, me!" she saith, "ah, me! +What spake it?" and with that Niloiya sighed. + +This when the Master-builder heard, his heart +Was sad in him, the while he sat at home +And rested after toil. The steady rap +O' the shipwright's hammer sounding up the vale +Did seem to mock him; but her distaff down +Niloiya laid, and to the doorplace went, +Parted the purple covering seemly hung +Before it, and let in the crimson light +Of the descending sun. Then looked he forth,-- +Looked, and beheld the hollow where the ark +Was a-preparing; where the dew distilled +All night from leaves of old lign aloe-trees, +Upon the gliding river; where the palm, +The almug, and the gophir shot their heads +Into the crimson brede that dyed the world: +And lo! he marked--unwieldy, dark, and huge--The +ship, his glory and his grief,--too vast +For that still river's floating,--building far +From mightier streams, amid the pastoral dells +Of shepherd kings. + + Niloiya spake again: +"What said the Voice, thou well-beloved man?" +He, laboring with his thought that troubled him, +Spoke on behalf of God: "Behold," said he, +"A little handful of unlovely dust +He fashioned to a lordly grace, and when +He laughed upon its beauty, it waxed warm, +And with His breath awoke a living soul. + +"Shall not the Fashioner command His work? +And who am I, that, if He whisper, 'Rise, +Go forth upon Mine errand,' should reply, +'Lord, God, I love the woman and her sons,--I +love not scorning: I beseech Thee, God, +Have me excused.'" + + She answered him, "Tell on." +And he continuing, reasoned with his soul: +"What though I,--like some goodly lama sunk +In meadow grass, eating her way at ease, +Unseen of them that pass, and asking not +A wider prospect than of yellow-flowers +That nod above her head,--should lay me down, +And willingly forget this high behest, +There should be yet no tarrying. Furthermore, +Though I went forth to cry against the doom, +Earth crieth louder, and she draws it down: +It hangeth balanced over us; she crieth, +And it shall fall. O! as for me, my life +Is bitter, looking onward, for I know +That in the fulness of the time shall dawn +That day: my preaching shall not bring forth fruit, +Though for its sake I leave thee. I shall float +Upon the abhorréd sea, that mankind hate, +With thee and thine." + She answered: "God forbid! +For, sir, though men be evil, yet the deep +They dread, and at the last will surely turn +To Him, and He long-suffering will forgive. +And chide the waters back to their abyss, +To cover the pits where doleful creatures feed. +Sir, I am much afraid: I would not hear +Of riding on the waters: look you, sir, +Better it were to die with you by hand +Of them that hate us, than to live, ah me! +Rolling among the furrows of the unquiet, +Unconsecrate, unfriendly, dreadful sea." + +He saith again: "I pray thee, woman, peace, +For thou wilt enter, when that day appears, +The fateful ship." + + "My lord," quoth she, "I will. +But O, good sir, be sure of this, be sure +The Master calleth; for the time is long +That thou hast warned the world: thou art but here +Three days; the song of welcoming but now +Is ended. I behold thee, I am glad; +And wilt thou go again? Husband, I say, +Be sure who 't is that calleth; O, be sure, +Be sure. My mother's ghost came up last night, +Whilst I thy beard, held in my hands did kiss, +Leaning anear thee, wakeful through my love, +And watchful of thee till the moon went down. + +"She never loved me since I went with thee +To sacrifice among the hills: she smelt +The holy smoke, and could no more divine +Till the new moon. I saw her ghost come up; +It had a snake with a red comb of fire +Twisted about its waist,--the doggish head +Lolled on its shoulder, and so leered at me. +'This woman might be wiser,' quoth the ghost; +'Shall there be husbands for her found below, +When she comes down to us? O, fool! O, fool! +She must not let her man go forth, to leave +Her desolate, and reap the whole world's scorn, +A harvest for himself.' With that they passed." + +He said, "My crystal drop of perfectness, +I pity thee; it was an evil ghost: +Thou wilt not heed the counsel?" "I will not," +Quoth she; "I am loyal to the Highest. Him +I hold by even as thou, and deem Him best. +Sir, am I fairer than when last we met?" + + "God add," said he, "unto thy much yet more, +As I do think thou art." "And think you, sir," +Niloiya saith, "that I have reached the prime?" +He answering, "Nay, not yet." "I would 't were so," +She plaineth, "for the daughters mock at me: +Her locks forbear to grow, they say, so sore +She pineth for the master. Look you, sir, +They reach but to the knee. But thou art come, +And all goes merrier. Eat, my lord, of all +My supper that I set, and afterward +Tell me, I pray thee, somewhat of thy way; +Else shall I be despised as Adam was, +Who compassed not the learning of his sons, +But, grave and silent, oft would lower his head +And ponder, following of great Isha's feet, +When she would walk with her fair brow upraised, +Scorning the children that she bare to him." + +"Ay," quoth the Master; "but they did amiss +When they despised their father: knowest thou that?" + +"Sure he was foolisher," Niloiya saith, +"Than any that came after. Furthermore, +He had not heart nor courage for to rule: +He let the mastery fall from his slack hand. +Had not our glorious mother still borne up +His weakness, chid with him, and sat apart, +And listened, when the fit came over him +To talk on his lost garden, he had sunk +Into the slave of slaves." + + "Nay, thou must think +How he had dwelt long, God's loved husbandman, +And looked in hope among the tribes for one +To be his fellow, ere great Isha, once +Waking, he found at his left side, and knew +The deep delight of speech." So Noah, and thus +Added, "And therefore was his loss the more; +For though the creatures he had singled out +His favorites, dared for him the fiery sword +And followed after him,--shall bleat of lamb +Console one for the foregone talk of God? +Or in the afternoon, his faithful dog, +Fawning upon him, make his heart forget +At such a time, and such a time, to have heard +What he shall hear no more? + + "O, as for him, +It was for this that he full oft would stop, +And, lost in thought, stand and revolve that deed, +Sad muttering, Woman! we reproach thee not; +Though thou didst eat mine immortality; +Earth, be not sorry; I was free to choose. +Wonder not, therefore, if he walked forlorn. +Was not the helpmeet given to raise him up +From his contentment with the lower things? +Was she not somewhat that he could not rule +Beyond the action, that he could not have +By the mere holding, and that still aspired +And drew him after her? So, when deceived +She fell by great desire to rise, he fell +By loss of upward drawing, when she took +An evil tongue to be her counsellor: +'Death is not as the death of lower things, +Rather a glorious change, begrudged of Heaven, +A change to being as gods,'--he from her hand, +Upon reflection, took of death that hour, +And ate it (not the death that she had dared); +He ate it knowing. Then divisions came. +She, like a spirit strayed who lost the way, +Too venturesome, among the farther stars, +And hardly cares, because it hardly hopes +To find the path to heaven; in bitter wise +Did bear to him degenerate seed, and he, +Once having felt her upward drawing, longed, +And yet aspired, and yearned to be restored, +Albeit she drew no more." + + "Sir, ye speak well," +Niloiya saith, "but yet the mother sits +Higher than Adam. He did understand +Discourse of birds and all four-footed things, +But she had knowledge of the many tribes +Of angels and their tongues; their playful ways +And greetings when they met. Was she not wise? +They say she knew much that she never told, +And had a voice that called to her as thou." + +"Nay," quoth the Master-shipwright, "who am I +That I should answer? As for me, poor man, +Here is my trouble: 'if there be a Voice,' +At first I cried, 'let me behold the mouth +That uttereth it,' Thereon it held its peace. +But afterward, I, journeying up the hills, +Did hear it hollower than an echo fallen +Across some clear abyss; and I did stop, +And ask of all my company, 'What cheer? +If there be spirits abroad that call to us, +Sirs, hold your peace and hear,' So they gave heed, +And one man said, 'It is the small ground-doves +That peck upon the stony hillocks': one, +'It is the mammoth in yon cedar swamp +That cheweth in his dream': and one, 'My lord, +It is the ghost of him that yesternight +We slew, because he grudged to yield his wife +To thy great father, when he peaceably +Did send to take her,' Then I answered, 'Pass,' +And they went on; and I did lay mine ear +Close to the earth; but there came up therefrom +No sound, nor any speech; I waited long. +And in the saying, 'I will mount my beast +And on,' I was as one that in a trance +Beholdeth what is coming, and I saw +Great waters and a ship; and somewhat spake, +'Lo, this shall be; let him that heareth it, +And seeth it, go forth to warn his kind, +For I will drown the world,'" + + Niloiya saith, +"Sir, was that all that ye went forth upon?" +The master, he replieth, "Ay, at first, +That same was all; but many days went by, +While I did reason with my heart and hope +For more, and struggle to remain, and think. +'Let me be certain'; and so think again, +'The counsel is but dark; would I had more! +When I have more to guide me, I will go,' +And afterward, when reasoned on too much, +It seemed remoter, then I only said, +'O, would I had the same again'; and still +I had it not. + + "Then at the last I cried, +'If the unseen be silent, I will speak +And certify my meaning to myself. +Say that He spoke, then He will make that good +Which He hath spoken. Therefore it were best +To go, and do His bidding. All the earth +Shall hear the judgment so, and none may cry +When the doom falls, "Thou God art hard on us; +We knew not Thou wert angry. O! we are lost, +Only for lack of being warned." + + "'But say +That He spoke not, and merely it befell +That I being weary had a dream. Why, so +He could not suffer damage; when the time +Was past, and that I threatened had not come, +Men would cry out on me, haply me kill, +For troubling their content. They would not swear, +"God, that did send this man, is proved untrue," +But rather, "Let him die; he lied to us; +God never sent him." Only Thou, great King, +Knowest if Thou didst speak or no. I leave +The matter here. If Thou wilt speak again, +I go in gladness; if Thou wilt not speak, +Nay, if Thou never didst, I not the less +Shall go, because I have believed, what time +I seemed to hear Thee, and the going stands +With memory of believing,' Then I washed, +And did array me in the sacred gown, +And take a lamb." + + "Ay, sir," Niloiya sighed, +"I following, and I knew not anything +Till, the young lamb asleep in thy two arms, +We, moving up among the silent hills, +Paused in a grove to rest; and many slaves +Came near to make obeisance, and to bring +Wood for the sacrifice, and turf and fire. +Then in their hearing thou didst say to me, +'Behold, I know thy good fidelity, +And theirs that are about us; they would guard +The mountain passes, if it were my will +Awhile to leave thee'; and the pygmies laughed +For joy, that thou wouldst trust inferior things; +And put their heads down, as their manner is, +To touch our feet. They laughed, but sore I wept; +Sir, I could weep now; ye did ill to go +If that was all your bidding; I had thought +God drave thee, and thou couldst not choose but go." + +Then said the son of Lamech, "Afterward, +When I had left thee, He whom I had served +Met with me in the visions of the night, +To comfort me for that I had withdrawn +From thy dear company. He sware to me +That no man should molest thee, no, nor touch +The bordering of mine outmost field. I say, +When I obeyed, He made His matters plain. +With whom could I have left thee, but with them, +Born in thy mother's house, and bound thy slaves?" + +She said, "I love not pygmies; they are naught." +And he, "Who made them pygmies?" Then she pushed +Her veiling hair back from her round, soft eyes, +And answered, wondering, "Sir, my mothers did, +Ye know it." And he drew her near to sit +Beside him on the settle, answering, "Ay." +And they went on to talk as writ below, +If any one shall read: + + "Thy mother did, +And they that went before her. Thinkest thou +That they did well?" + + "They had been overcome; +And when the angered conquerors drave them out, +Behoved them find some other way to rule,-- +They did but use their wits. Hath not man aye +Been cunning in dominion, among beasts +To breed for size or swiftness, or for sake +Of the white wool he loveth, at his choice? +What harm if coveting a race of men +That could but serve, they sought among their thralls, +Such as were low of stature, men and maids; +Ay, and of feeble will and quiet mind? +Did they not spend much gear to gather out +Such as I tell of, and for matching them +One with another for a thousand years? +What harm, then, if there came of it a race, +Inferior in their wits, and in their size, +And well content to serve?" + + "'What harm?' thou sayest. +My wife doth ask, 'What harm? '" + + "Your pardon, sir. +I do remember that there came one day, +Two of the grave old angels that God made, +When first He invented life (right old they were, +And plain, and venerable); and they said, +Rebuking of my mother as with hers +She sat, 'Ye do not well, you wives of men, +To match your wit against the Maker's will, +And for your benefit to lower the stamp +Of His fair image, which He set at first +Upon man's goodly frame; ye do not well +To treat his likeness even as ye treat +The bird and beast that perish.'" + + "Said they aught +To appease the ancients, or to speak them fair?" + + "How know I? 'T was a slave that told it me. +My mother was full old when I was born, +And that was in her youth. What think you, sir? +Did not the giants likewise ill?" + + "To that +I have no answer ready. If a man, +When each one is against his fellow, rule, +Or unmolested dwell, or unreproved, +Because, for size and strength, he standeth first, +He will thereof be glad; and if he say, +'I will to wife choose me a stately maid, +And leave a goodly offspring'; 'sooth, I think, +He sinneth not; for good to him and his +He would be strong and great. Thy people's fault +Was, that for ill to others, they did plot +To make them weak and small." + + "But yet they steal +Or take in war the strongest maids, and such +As are of highest stature; ay, and oft +They fight among themselves for that same cause. +And they are proud against the King of heaven: +They hope in course of ages they shall come +To be as strong as He." + + The Master said, +"I will not hear thee talk thereof; my heart +Is sick for all this wicked world. Fair wife, +I am right weary. Call thy slaves to thee, +And bid that they prepare the sleeping place. +O would that I might rest! I fain would rest, +And, no more wandering, tell a thankless world +My never-heeded tale!" + With that she called. +The moon was up, and some few stars were out, +While heavy at the heart he walked abroad +To meditate before his sleep. And yet +Niloiya pondered, "Shall my master go? +And will my master go? What 'vaileth it, +That he doth spend himself, over the waste +A wandering, till he reach outlandish folk, +That mock his warning? O, what 'vaileth it, +That he doth lavish wealth to build yon ark, +Whereat the daughters, when they eat with me, +Laugh? O my heart! I would the Voice were stilled. +Is not he happy? Who, of all the earth, +Obeyed like to me? Have not I learned +From his dear mouth to utter seemly words, +And lay the powers my mother gave me by? +Have I made offerings to the dragon? Nay, +And I am faithful, when he leaveth me +Lonely betwixt the peakéd mountain tops +In this long valley, where no stranger foot +Can come without my will. He shall not go. +Not yet, not yet! But three days--only three-- +Beside me, and a muttering on the third, +'I have heard the Voice again.' Be dull, O dull, +Mind and remembrance! Mother, ye did ill; +'T is hard unlawful knowledge not to use. +Why, O dark mother! opened ye the way?" +Yet when he entered, and did lay aside +His costly robe of sacrifice, the robe +Wherein he had been offering, ere the sun +Went down; forgetful of her mother's craft, +She lovely and submiss did mourn to him: +"Thou wilt not go,--I pray thee, do not go, +Till thou hast seen thy children." And he said, +"I will not. I have cried, and have prevailed: +To-morrow it is given me by the Voice +Upon a four days' journey to proceed, +And follow down the river, till its waves +Are swallowed in the sand, where no flesh dwells. + +"'There,' quoth the Unrevealed, 'we shall meet, +And I will counsel thee; and thou shalt turn +And rest thee with the mother, and with them +She bare.' Now, therefore, when the morn appears, +Thou fairest among women, call thy slaves, +And bid them yoke the steers, and spread thy car +With robes, the choicest work of cunning hands; +Array thee in thy rich apparel, deck +Thy locks with gold; and while the hollow vale +I thread beside yon river, go thou forth +Atween the mountains to my father's house, +And let thy slaves make all obeisance due, +And take and lay an offering at his feet. +Then light, and cry to him, 'Great king, the son +Of old Methuselah, thy son hath sent +To fetch the growing maids, his children, home.'" + +"Sir," quoth the woman, "I will do this thing, +So thou keep faith with me, and yet return. +But will the Voice, think you, forbear to chide, +Nor that Unseen, who calleth, buffet thee, +And drive thee on?" + He saith, "It will keep faith. +Fear not. I have prevailed, for I besought, +And lovingly it answered. I shall rest, +And dwell with thee till after my three sons +Come from the chase." She said, "I let them forth +In fear, for they are young. Their slaves are few. +The giant elephants be cunning folk; +They lie in ambush, and will draw men on +To follow,--then will turn and tread them down." +"Thy father's house unwisely planned," said he, +"To drive them down upon the growing corn +Of them that were their foes; for now, behold, +They suffer while the unwieldy beasts delay +Retirement to their lands, and, meanwhile, pound +The damp, deep meadows, to a pulpy mash; +Or wallowing in the waters foul them; nay, +Tread down the banks, and let them forth to flood +Their cities; or, assailed and falling, shake +The walls, and taint the wind, ere thirty men, +Over the hairy terror piling stones +Or earth, prevail to cover it." + She said, +"Husband, I have been sorry, thinking oft +I would my sons were home; but now so well +Methinks it is with me, that I am fain +To wish they might delay, for thou wilt dwell +With me till after they return, and thou +Hast set thine eyes upon them. Then,--ah, me! +I must sit joyless in my place; bereft, +As trees that suddenly have dropped their leaves, +And dark as nights that have no moon." + She spake: +The hope o' the world did hearken, but reply +Made none. He left his hand on her fair locks +As she lay sobbing; and the quietness +Of night began to comfort her, the fall +Of far-off waters, and the wingéd wind +That went among the trees. The patient hand, +Moreover, that was steady, wrought with her, +Until she said, "What wilt thou? Nay, I know. +I therefore answer what thou utterest not. +_Thou lovest me well, and not for thine own will +Consentest to depart_. What more? Ay, this: +_I do avow that He which calleth thee, +Hath right to call; and I do swear, the Voice +Shall have no let of me, to do Its will_." + + +BOOK II + +Now ere the sunrise, while the morning star +Hung yet behind the pine bough, woke and prayed +The world's great shipwright, and his soul was glad +Because the Voice was favorable. Now +Began the tap o' the hammer, now ran forth +The slaves preparing food. They therefore ate +In peace together; then Niloiya forth +Behind the milk-white steers went on her way; +And the great Master-builder, down the course +Of the long river, on his errand sped, +And as he went, he thought: + [They do not well +Who, walking up a trodden path, all smooth +With footsteps of their fellows, and made straight +From town to town, will scorn at them that worm +Under the covert of God's eldest trees +(Such as He planted with His hand, and fed +With dew before rain fell, till they stood close +And awful; drank the light up as it dropt, +And kept the dusk of ages at their roots); +They do not well who mock at such, and cry, +"We peaceably, without or fault or fear, +Proceed, and miss not of our end; but these +Are slow and fearful: with uncertain pace, +And ever reasoning of the way, they oft, +After all reasoning, choose the worser course, +And plunged in swamp, or in the matted growth +Nigh smothered struggle, all to reach a goal +Not worth their pains." Nor do they well whose work +Is still to feed and shelter them and theirs, +Get gain, and gathered store it, to think scorn +Of those who work for a world (no wages paid +By a Master hid in light), and sent alone +To face a laughing multitude, whose eyes +Are full of damaging pity, that forbears +To tell the harmless laborer, "Thou art mad."] + +And as he went, he thought: "They counsel me, +Ay, with a kind of reason in their talk, +'Consider; call thy soberer thought to aid; +Why to but one man should a message come? +And why, if but to one, to thee? Art thou +Above us, greater, wiser? Had He sent, +He had willed that we should heed. Then since He knoweth +That such as thou, a wise man cannot heed, +He did not send.' My answer, 'Great and wise, +If He had sent with thunder, and a voice +Leaping from heaven, ye must have heard; but so +Ye had been robbed of choice, and, like the beasts, +Yoked to obedience. God makes no men slaves,' +They tell me, 'God is great above thy thought: +He meddles not: and this small world is ours, +These many hundred years we govern it; +Old Adam, after Eden, saw Him not.' +Then I, 'It may be He is gone to knead +More clay. But look, my masters; one of you +Going to warfare, layeth up his gown, +His sickle, or his gold, and thinks no more +Upon it, till young trees have waxen great; +At last, when he returneth, he will seek +His own. And God, shall He not do the like? +And having set new worlds a-rolling, come +And say, "I will betake Me to the earth +That I did make": and having found it vile, +Be sorry. Why should man be free, you wise, +And not the Master?' Then they answer, 'Fool! +A man shall cast a stone into the air +For pastime, or for lack of heed,--but He! +Will He come fingering of His ended work, +Fright it with His approaching face, or snatch +One day the rolling wonder from its ring, +And hold it quivering, as a wanton child +Might take a nestling from its downy bed, +And having satisfied a careless wish, +Go thrust it back into its place again?' +To such I answer, and, that doubt once mine, +I am assured that I do speak aright: +'Sirs, the significance of this your doubt +Lies in the reason of it; ye do grudge +That these your lands should have another Lord; +Ye are not loyal, therefore ye would fain +Your King would bide afar. But if ye looked +For countenance and favor when He came, +Knowing yourselves right worthy, would ye care, +With cautious reasoning, deep and hard, to prove +That He would never come, and would your wrath +Be hot against a prophet? Nay, I wot +That as a flatterer you would look on him,-- +Full of sweet words thy mouth is: if He come,-- +We think not that He will,--but if He come, +Would it might be to-morrow, or to-night, +Because we look for praise.'" + + Now, as he went, +The noontide heats came on, and he grew faint; +But while he sat below an almug-tree, +A slave approached with greeting. "Master, hail!" +He answered, "Hail! what wilt thou?" Then she said, +"The palace of thy fathers standeth nigh." +"I know it," quoth he; and she said again, +"The Elder, learning thou wouldst pass, hath sent +To fetch thee"; then he rose and followed her. +So first they walked beneath a lofty roof +Of living bough and tendril, woven on high +To let no drop of sunshine through, and hung +With gold and purple fruitage, and the white +Thick cups of scented blossom. Underneath, +Soft grew the sward and delicate, and flocks +Of egrets, ay, and many cranes, stood up. +Fanning their wings, to agitate and cool +The noonday air, as men with heed and pains +Had taught them, marshalling and taming them +To bear the wind in, on their moving wings. +So long time as a nimble slave would spend +In milking of her cow, they walked at ease; +Then reached the palace, all of forest trunks, +Brought whole, and set together, made. Therein +Had dwelt old Adam, when his mighty sons +Had finished it, and up to Eden gate +Had journeyed for to fetch him. "Here," they said +"Mother and father, ye may dwell, and here +Forget the garden wholly." + So he came +Under the doorplace, and the women sat, +Each with her finger on her lips; but he, +Having been called, went on, until he reached +The jewelled settle, wrought with cunning work +Of gold and ivory, whereon they wont +To set the Elder. All with sleekest skins, +That striped and spotted creatures of the wood +Had worn, the seat was covered, but thereon +The Elder was not; by the steps thereof, +Upon the floor, whereto his silver beard +Did reach, he sat, and he was in his trance. +Upon the settle many doves were perched, +That set the air a going with their wings: +These opposite, the world's great shipwright stood +To wait the burden; and the Elder spake: +"Will He forget me? Would He might forget! +Old, old! The hope of old Methuselah +Is all in His forgetfulness." With that, +A slave-girl took a cup of wine, and crept +Anear him, saying, "Taste"; and when his lips +Had touched it, lo, he trembled, and he cried, +"Behold, I prophesy." + Then straight they fled +That were about him, and did stand apart +And stop their ears. For he, from time to time, +Was plagued with that same fate to prophesy, +And spake against himself, against his day +And time, in words that all men did abhor. +Therefore, he warning them what time the fit +Came on him, saved them, that they heard it not +So while they fled, he cried: "I saw the God +Reach out of heaven His wonderful right hand. +Lo, lo! He dipped it in the unquiet sea, +And in its curved palm behold the ark, +As in a vast calm lake, came floating on. +Ay, then, His other hand--the cursing hand-- +He took and spread between us and the sun. +And all was black; the day was blotted out, +And horrible staggering took the frighted earth. +I heard the water hiss, and then methinks +The crack as of her splitting. Did she take +Their palaces that are my brothers dear, +And huddle them with all their ancientry +Under into her breast? If it was black, +How could this old man see? There was a noise +I' the dark, and He drew back His hand again. +I looked,--It was a dream,--let no man say +It was aught else. There, so--the fit goes by. +Sir, and my daughters, is it eventide?-- +Sooner than that, saith old Methuselah, +Let the vulture lay his beak to my green limbs. +What! art Thou envious?--are the sons of men +Too wise to please Thee, and to do Thy will? +Methuselah, he sitteth on the ground, +Clad in his gown of age, the pale white gown, +And goeth not forth to war; his wrinkled hands +He claspeth round his knees: old, very old. +Would he could steal from Thee one secret more-- +The secret of Thy youth! O, envious God! +We die. The words of old Methuselah +And his prophecy are ended." + + Then the wives, +Beholding how he trembled, and the maids +And children, came anear, saying, "Who art thou +That standest gazing on the Elder? Lo, +Thou dost not well: withdraw; for it was thou +Whose stranger presence troubled him, and brought +The fit of prophecy." And he did turn +To look upon them, and their majesty +And glorious beauty took away his words; +And being pure among the vile, he cast +In his thought a veil of snow-white purity +Over the beauteous throng. "Thou dost not well," +They said. He answered: "Blossoms o' the world, +Fruitful as fair, never in watered glade, +Where in the youngest grass blue cups push forth, +And the white lily reareth up her head, +And purples cluster, and the saffron flower +Clear as a flame of sacrifice breaks out, +And every cedar bough, made delicate +With climbing roses, drops in white and red,-- +Saw I (good angels keep you in their care) +So beautiful a crowd." + + With that, they stamped, +Gnashed their white teeth, and turning, fled and spat +Upon the floor. The Elder spake to him, +Yet shaking with the burden, "Who art thou?" +He answered, "I, the man whom thou didst send +To fetch through this thy woodland, do forbear +To tell my name; thou lovest it not, great sire,-- +No, nor mine errand. To thy house I spake, +Touching their beauty." "Wherefore didst thou spite," +Quoth he, "the daughters?" and it seemed he lost +Count of that prophecy, for very age, +And from his thin lips dropt a trembling laugh. +"Wicked old man," quoth he, "this wise old man +I see as 't were not I. Thou bad old man, +What shall be done to thee? for thou didst burn +Their babes, and strew the ashes all about, +To rid the world of His white soldiers. Ay, +Scenting of human sacrifice, they fled. +Cowards! I heard them winnow their great wings: +They went to tell Him; but they came no more. +The women hate to hear of them, so sore +They grudged their little ones; and yet no way +There was but that. I took it; I did well." + +With that he fell to weeping. "Son," said he, +"Long have I hid mine eyes from stalwart men, +For it is hard to lose the majesty +And pride and power of manhood: but to-day, +Stand forth into the light, that I may look +Upon thy strength, and think, EVEN THUS DID I, +IN THE GLORY OF MY YOUTH, MORE LIKE TO GOD +THAN LIKE HIS SOLDIERS, FACE THE VASSAL WORLD." + +Then Noah stood forward in his majesty, +Shouldering the golden billhook, wherewithal +He wont to cut his way, when tangled in +The matted hayes. And down the opened roof +Fell slanting beams upon his stately head, +And streamed along his gown, and made to shine +The jewelled sandals on his feet. + + And, lo, +The Elder cried aloud: "I prophesy. +Behold, my son is as a fruitful field +When all the lands are waste. The archers drew,-- +They drew the bow against him; they were fain +To slay: but he shall live,--my son shall live, +And I shall live by him in the other days. +Behold the prophet of the Most High God: +Hear him. Behold the hope o' the world, what time +She lieth under. Hear him; he shall save +A seed alive, and sow the earth with man. +O, earth! earth! earth! a floating shell of wood +Shall hold the remnant of thy mighty lords +Will this old man be in it? Sir, and you +My daughters, hear him! Lo, this white old man +He sitteth on the ground. (Let be, let be: +Why dost Thou trouble us to make our tongue +Ring with abhorred words?) The prophecy +Of the Elder, and the vision that he saw, +They both are ended." + + Then said Noah: "The life +Of this my lord is low for very age: +Why then, with bitter words upon thy tongue, +Father-of Lamech, dost thou anger Him? +Thou canst not strive against Him now." He said: +"Thy feet are toward the valley, where lie bones +Bleaching upon the desert. Did I love +The lithe strong lizards that I yoked and set +To draw my car? and were they not possessed? +Yea, all of them were liars. I loved them well. +What did the Enemy, but on a day +When I behind my talking team went forth, +They sweetly lying, so that all men praised +Their flattering tongues and mild persuasive eyes,-- +What did the Enemy but send His slaves, +Angels, to cast down stones upon their heads +And break them? Nay, I could not stir abroad +But havoc came; they never crept or flew +Beyond the shelter that I builded here. +But straight the crowns I had set upon their heads +Were marks for myrmidons that in the clouds +Kept watch to crush them. Can a man forgive +That hath been warred on thus? I will not. Nay, +I swear it,--I, the man Methuselah." +The Master-shipwright, he replied, "'Tis true, +Great loss was that; but they that stood thy friends, +The wicked spirits, spoke upon their tongues, +And cursed the God of heaven. What marvel, sir, +If He was angered?" But the Elder cried, +"They all are dead,--the toward beasts I loved; +My goodly team, my joy, they all are dead; +Their bones lie bleaching in the wilderness: +And I will keep my wrath for evermore +Against the Enemy that slew them. Go, +Thou coward servant of a tyrant King, +Go down the desert of the bones, and ask, +'My King, what bones are these? Methuselah, +The white old man that sitteth on the ground, +Sendeth a message, "Bid them that they live, +And let my lizards run up every path +They wont to take when out of silver pipes, +The pipes that Tubal wrought into my roof, +I blew a sweeter cry than song-bird's throat +Hath ever formed; and while they laid their heads +Submiss upon my threshold, poured away +Music that welled by heartsful out, and made +The throats of men that heard to swell, their breasts +To heave with the joy of grief; yea, caused the lips +To laugh of men asleep. + Return to me +The great wise lizards; ay, and them that flew +My pursuivants before me. Let me yoke +Again that multitude; and here I swear +That they shall draw my car and me thereon +Straight to the ship of doom. So men shall know +My loyalty, that I submit, and Thou +Shalt yet have honor. O mine Enemy, +By me. The speech of old Methuselah."'" +Then Noah made answer, "By the living God, +That is no enemy to men, great sire, +I will not take thy message; hear thou Him. +'Behold (He saith that suffereth thee), behold, +The earth that I made green cries out to Me, +Red with the costly blood of beauteous man. +I am robbed, I am robbed (He saith); they sacrifice +To evil demons of My blameless flocks, +That I did fashion with My hand. Behold, +How goodly was the world! I gave it thee +Fresh from its finishing. What hast thou done? +I will cry out to the waters, _Cover it_, +_And hide it from its Father. Lo, Mine eyes_ +_Turn from it shamed._'" + + With that the old man laughed +Full softly. "Ay," quoth he, "a goodly world, +And we have done with it as we did list. +Why did He give it us? Nay, look you, son: +Five score they were that died in yonder waste; +And if He crieth, 'Repent, be reconciled,' +I answer, 'Nay, my lizards'; and again, +If He will trouble me in this mine age, +'Why hast Thou slain my lizards?' Now my speech +Is cut away from all my other words, +Standing alone. The Elder sweareth it, +The man of many days, Methuselah." +Then answered Noah, "My Master, hear it not; +But yet have patience"; and he turned himself, +And down betwixt the ordered trees went forth, +And in the light of evening made his way +Into the waste to meet the Voice of God. + + +BOOK III. + +Above the head of great Methuselah +There lay two demons in the opened roof +Invisible, and gathered up his words; +For when the Elder prophesied, it came +About, that hidden things were shown to them, +And burdens that he spake against his time. + +(But never heard them, such as dwelt with him; +Their ears they stopped, and willed to live at ease +In all delight; and perfect in their youth, +And strong, disport them in the perfect world.) + +Now these were fettered that they could not fly, +For a certain disobedience they had wrought +Against the ruler of their host; but not +The less they loved their cause; and when the feet +O' the Master-builder were no longer heard, +They, slipping to the sward, right painfully +Did follow, for the one to the other said, +"Behoves our master know of this; and us, +Should he be favorable, he may loose +From these our bonds." + + And thus it came to pass, +That while at dead of night the old dragon lay +Coiled in the cavern where he dwelt, the watch +Pacing before it saw in middle air +A boat, that gleamed like fire, and on it came, +And rocked as it drew near, and then it burst +And went to pieces, and there fell therefrom, +Close at the cavern's mouth, two glowing balls. + +Now there was drawn a curtain nigh the mouth +Of that deep cave, to testify of wrath. +The dragon had been wroth with some that served, +And chased them from him; and his oracles, +That wont to drop from him, were stopped, and men +Might only pray to him through that fell web +That hung before him. Then did whisper low +Some of the little spirits that bat-like clung +And clustered round the opening. "Lo," they said, +While gazed the watch upon those glowing balls, +"These are like moons eclipsed; but let them lie +Red on the moss, and sear its dewy spires, +Until our lord give leave to draw the web, +And quicken reverence by his presence dread, +For he will know and call to them by name, +And they will change. At present he is sick, +And wills that none disturb him." So they lay, +And there was silence, for the forest tribes +Came never near that cave. Wiser than men, +They fled the serpent hiss that oft by night +Came forth of it, and feared the wan dusk forms +That stalked among the trees, and in the dark +Those whiffs of flame that wandered up the sky +And made the moonlight sickly. + + Now, the cave +Was marvellous for beauty, wrought with tools +Into the living rock, for there had worked +All cunning men, to cut on it with signs +And shows, yea, all the manner of mankind. +The fateful apple-tree was there, a bough +Bent with the weight of him that us beguiled; +And lilies of the field did seem to blow +And bud in the storied stone. There Tubal sat, +Who from his harp delivered music, sweet +As any in the spheres. Yea, more; +Earth's latest wonder, on the walls appeared, +Unfinished, workmen clustering on its ribs; +And farther back, within the rock hewn out, +Angelic figures stood, that impious hands +Had fashioned; many golden lamps they held +By golden chains depending, and their eyes +All tended in a reverend quietude +Toward the couch whereon the dragon lay. +The floor was beaten gold; the curly lengths +Of his last coils lay on it, hid from sight +With a coverlet made stiff with crusting gems, +Fire opals shooting, rubies, fierce bright eyes +Of diamonds, or the pale green emerald, +That changed their lustre when he breathed. + + His head +Feathered with crimson combs, and all his neck, +And half-shut fans of his admired wings, +That in their scaly splendor put to shame +Or gold or stone, lay on his ivory couch +And shivered; for the dragon suffered pain: +He suffered and he feared. It was his doom, +The tempter, that he never should depart +From the bright creature that in Paradise +He for his evil purpose erst possessed, +Until it died. Thus only, spirit of might +And chiefest spirit of ill, could he be free. + +But with its nature wed, as souls of men +Are wedded to their clay, he took the dread +Of death and dying, and the coward heart +Of the beast, and craven terrors of the end +Sank him that habited within it to dread +Disunion. He, a dark dominion erst +Rebellious, lay and trembled, for the flesh +Daunted his immaterial. He was sick +And sorry. Great ones of the earth had sent +Their chief musicians for to comfort him, +Chanting his praise, the friend of man, the god +That gave them knowledge, at so great a price +And costly. Yea, the riches of the mine, +And glorious broidered work, and woven gold, +And all things wisely made, they at his feet +Laid daily; for they said, "This mighty one, +All the world wonders after him. He lieth +Sick in his dwelling; he hath long foregone +(To do us good) dominion, and a throne, +And his brave warfare with the Enemy, +So much he pitieth us that were denied +The gain and gladness of this knowledge. Now +Shall he be certified of gratitude, +And smell the sacrifice that most he loves." + +The night was dark, but every lamp gave forth +A tender, lustrous beam. His beauteous wings +The dragon fluttered, cursed awhile, then turned +And moaned with lamentable voice, "I thirst, +Give me to drink." Thereon stepped out in haste, +From inner chambers, lovely ministrants, +Young boys, with radiant locks and peaceful eyes, +And poured out liquor from their cups, to cool +His parched tongue, and kneeling held it nigh +In jewelled basins sparkling; and he lapped, +And was appeased, and said, "I will not hide +Longer, my much desired face from men. +Draw back the web of separation." Then +With cries of gratulation ran they forth, +And flung it wide, and all the watch fell low, +Each on his face, as drunk with sudden joy. +Thus marked he, glowing on the branched moss, +Those red rare moons, and let his serpent eyes +Consider them full subtly, "What be these?" +Enquiring: and the little spirits said, +"As we for thy protection (having heard +That wrathful sons of darkness walk, to-night, +Such as do oft ill use us), clustered here, +We marked a boat a-fire that sailed the skies, +And furrowed up like spray a billowy cloud, +And, lo, it went to pieces, scattering down +A rain of sparks and these two angry moons." +Then said the dragon, "Let my guard, and you, +Attendant hosts, recede"; and they went back, +And formed about the cave a widening ring, +Then halting, stood afar; and from the cave +The snaky wonder spoke, with hissing tongue, +"If ye were Tartis and Deleisonon, +Be Tartis and Deleisonon once more." + +Then egg-like cracked the glowing balls, and forth +Started black angels, trampling hard to free +Their fettered feet from out the smoking shell. + +And he said, "Tartis and Deleisonon, +Your lord I am: draw nigh." "Thou art our lord," +They answered, and with fettered limbs full low +They bent, and made obeisance. Furthermore, +"O fiery flying serpent, after whom +The nations go, let thy dominion last," +They said, "forever." And the serpent said, +"It shall: unfold your errand." They replied, +One speaking for a space, and afterward +His fellow taking up the word with fear +And panting, "We were set to watch the mouth +Of great Methuselah. There came to him +The son of Lamech two days since. My lord, +They prophesied, the Elder prophesied, +Unwitting, of the flood of waters,--ay, +A vision was before him, and the lands +Lay under water drowned: he saw the ark,-- +It floated in the Enemy's right hand." +Lord of the lost, the son of Lamech fled +Into the wilderness to meet His voice +That reigneth; and we, diligent to hear +Aught that might serve thee, followed, but, forbid +To enter, lay upon its boundary cliff, +And wished for morning. + + "When the dawn was red, +We sought the man, we marked him; and he prayed,-- +Kneeling, he prayed in the valley, and he said--" +"Nay," quoth the serpent, "spare me, what devout +He fawning grovelled to the All-powerful; +But if of what shall hap he aught let fall, +Speak that." They answered, "He did pray as one +That looketh to outlive mankind,--and more, +We are certified by all his scattered words, +That HE will take from men their length of days, +And cut them off like grass in its first flower: +From henceforth this shall be." + + That when he heard, +The dragon made to the night his moan. + + "And more," +They said, "that He above would have men know +That He doth love them, whoso will repent, +To that man he is favorable, yea, +Will be his loving Lord." + + The dragon cried, +"The last is worse than all. O, man, thy heart +Is stout against His wrath. But will He love? +I heard it rumored in the heavens of old, +(And doth He love?) Thou wilt not, canst not, stand +Against the love of God. Dominion fails; +I see it float from me, that long have worn +Fetters of flesh to win it. Love of God! +I cry against thee; thou art worse than all." +They answered, "Be not moved, admired chief +And trusted of mankind"; and they went on, +And fed him with the prophecies that fell +From the Master-shipwright in his prayer. + + But prone +He lay, for he was sick: at every word +Prophetic cowering. As a bruising blow, +It fell upon his head and daunted him, +Until they ended, saying, "Prince, behold, +Thy servants have revealed the whole." + + Thereon +He out of snaky lips did hiss forth thanks. +Then said he, "Tartis and Deleisonon, +Receive your wages." So their fetters fell; +And they retiring, lauded him, and cried, +"King, reign forever." Then he mourned, "Amen." + +And he,--being left alone,--he said: "A light! +I see a light,--a star among the trees,-- +An angel." And it drew toward the cave, +But with its sacred feet touched not the grass, +Nor lifted up the lids of its pure eyes, +But hung a span's length from that ground pollute, +At the opening of the cave. + + And when he looked, +The dragon cried, "Thou newly-fashioned thing, +Of name unknown, thy scorn becomes thee not. +Doth not thy Master suffer what thine eyes +Thou countest all too clean to open on?" +But still it hovered, and the quietness +Of holy heaven was on the drooping lids; +And not as one that answereth, it let fall +The music from its mouth, but like to one +That doth not hear, or, hearing, doth not heed. + +"A message: 'I have heard thee, while remote +I went My rounds among the unfinished stars.' +A message: 'I have left thee to thy ways, +And mastered all thy vileness, for thy hate +I have made to serve the ends of My great love. +Hereafter will I chain thee down. To-day +One thing thou art forbidden; now thou knowest +The name thereof: I told it thee in heaven, +When thou wert sitting at My feet. Forbear +To let that hidden thing be whispered forth: +For man, ungrateful (and thy hope it was, +That so ungrateful he might prove), would scorn, +And not believe it, adding so fresh weight +Of condemnation to the doomed world. +Concerning that, thou art forbid to speak; +Know thou didst count it, falling from My tongue, +A lovely song, whose meaning was unknown, +Unknowable, unbearable to thought, +But sweeter in the hearing than all harps +Toned in My holy hollow. Now thine ears +Are opened, know it, and discern and fear, +Forbearing speech of it for evermore.'" + +So said, it turned, and with a cry of joy, +As one released, went up: and it was dawn, +And all boughs dropped with dew, and out of mist +Came the red sun and looked into the cave. + +But the dragon, left a-tremble, called to him, +From the nether kingdom, certain of his friends,-- +Three whom he trusted, councillors accursed. +A thunder-cloud stooped low and swathed the place +In its black swirls, and out of it they rushed, +And hid them in recesses of the cave, +Because they could not look upon the sun, +Sith light is pure. And Satan called to them,-- +All in the dark, in his great rage he spake: +"Up," quoth the dragon; "it is time to work, +Or we are all undone." And he did hiss, +And there came shudderings over land and trees, +A dimness after dawn. The earth threw out +A blinding fog, that crept toward the cave, +And rolled up blank before it like a veil,-- +curtain to conceal its habiters. +Then did those spirits move upon the floor, +Like pillars of darkness, and with eyes aglow. +One had a helm for covering of the scars +That seamed what rested of a goodly face; +He wore his vizor up, and all his words +Were hollower than an echo from the hills: +He was hight Make. And, lo, his fellow-fiend +Came after, holding down his dastard head, +Like one ashamed: now this for craft was great; +The dragon honored him. A third sat down +Among them, covering with his wasted hand +Somewhat that pained his breast. + + And when the fit +Of thunder, and the sobbings of the wind, +Were lulled, the dragon spoke with wrath and rage, +And told them of his matters: "Look to this, +If ye be loyal"; adding, "Give your thoughts, +And let me have your counsel in this need." + +One spirit rose and spake, and all the cave +Was full of sighs, "The words of Make the Prince, +Of him once delegate in Betelgeux: +Whereas of late the manner is to change, +We know not where 't will end; and now my words +Go thus: give way, be peaceable, lie still +And strive not, else the world that we have won +He may, to drive us out, reduce to naught. + +"For while I stood in mine obedience yet, +Steering of Betelgeux my sun, behold, +A moon, that evil ones did fill, rolled up +Astray, and suddenly the Master came, +And while, a million strong, like rooks they rose, +He took and broke it, flung it here and there, +And called a blast to drive the powder forth; +And it was fine as dust, and blurred the skies +Farther than 'tis from hence to this young sun. +Spirits that passed upon their work that day, +Cried out, 'How dusty 'tis.' Behoves us, then, +That we depart, as leaving unto Him +This goodly world and goodly race of man. +Not all are doomed; hereafter it may be +That we find place on it again. But if, +Too zealous to preserve it, and the men +Our servants, we oppose Him, He may come +And choosing rather to undo His work +Than strive with it for aye, make so an end." + +He sighing paused. Lo, then the serpent hissed +In impotent rage, "Depart! and how depart! +Can flesh be carried down where spirits wonn? +Or I, most miserable, hold my life +Over the airless, bottomless gulf, and bide +The buffetings of yonder shoreless sea? +O death, thou terrible doom: O death, thou dread +Of all that breathe." + A spirit rose and spake; +"Whereas in Heaven is power, is much to fear; +For this admired country we have marred. +Whereas in Heaven is love (and there are days +When yet I can recall what love was like), +Is naught to fear. A threatening makes the whole, +And clogged with strong conditions: 'O, repent, +Man, and I turn,' He, therefore, powerful now, +And more so, master, that ye bide in clay, +Threateneth that He may save. They shall not die." + +The dragon said, "I tremble, I am sick." +He said with pain of heart, "How am I fallen! +For I keep silence; yea, I have withdrawn +From haunting of His gates, and shouting up +Defiance. Wherefore doth He hunt me out +From this small world, this little one, that I +Have been content to take unto myself, +I here being loved and worshipped? He knoweth +How much I have foregone; and must He stoop +To whelm the world, and heave the floors o' the deep, +Of purpose to pursue me from my place? +And since I gave men knowledge, must He take +Their length of days whereby they perfect it? +So shall He scatter all that I have stored, +And get them by degrading them. I know +That in the end it is appointed me +To fade. I will not fade before the time." + +A spirit rose, the third, a spirit ashamed +And subtle, and his face he turned aside: +"Whereas," said he, "we strive against both power +And love, behoves us that we strive aright. +Now some of old my comrades, yesterday +I met, as they did journey to appear +In the Presence; and I said, 'My master lieth +Sick yonder, otherwise (for no decree +There stands against it) he would also come +And make obeisance with the sons of God.' +They answered, naught denying. Therefore, lord, +'Tis certain that ye have admittance yet; +And what doth hinder? Nothing but this breath. +Were it not well to make an end, and die, +And gain admittance to the King of kings? +What if thy slaves by thy consent should take +And bear thee on their wings above the earth, +And suddenly let fall,--how soon 't were o'er! +We should have fear and sinking at the heart; +But in a little moment we should see, +Rising majestic from a ruined heap, +The stately spirit that we served of yore." + +The serpent turned his subtle deadly eyes +Upon the spirit, and hissed; and sick with shame, +It bowed itself together, and went back +With hidden face. "This counsel is not good," +The other twain made answer; "look, my lord, +Whereas 'tis evil in thine eyes, in ours +'Tis evil also; speak, for we perceive +That on thy tongue the words of counsel sit, +Ready to fly to our right greedy ears, +That long for them." And Satan, flattered thus +(Forever may the serpent kind be charmed, +With soft sweet words, and music deftly played), +Replied, "Whereas I surely rule the world, +Behoves that ye prepare for me a path, +And that I, putting of my pains aside, +Go stir rebellion in the mighty hearts +O' the giants; for He loveth them, and looks +Full oft complacent on their glorious strength. +He willeth that they yield, that He may spare; +But, by the blackness of my loathed den, +I say they shall not, no, they shall not yield; +Go, therefore, take to you some harmless guise, +And spread a rumor that I come. I, sick, +Sorry, and aged, hasten. I have heard +Whispers that out of heaven dropped unaware. +I caught them up, and sith they bode men harm, +I am ready for to comfort them; yea, more, +To counsel, and I will that they drive forth +The women, the abhorréd of my soul; +Let not a woman breathe where I shall pass, +Lest the curse fall, and that she bruise my head. +Friends, if it be their mind to send for me +An army, and triumphant draw me on +In the golden car ye wot of, and with shouts, +I would not that ye hinder them. Ah, then +Will I make hard their hearts, and grieve Him sore, +That loves them, O, by much too well to wet +Their stately heads, and soil those locks of strength +Under the fateful brine. Then afterward, +While He doth reason vainly with them, I +Will offer Him a pact: 'Great King, a pact, +And men shall worship Thee, I say they shall, +For I will bid them do it, yea, and leave +To sacrifice their kind, so Thou my name +Wilt suffer to be worshipped after Thine.'" + +"Yea, my lord Satan," quoth they, "do this thing, +And let us hear thy words, for they are sweet." + +Then he made answer, "By a messenger +Have I this day been warned. There is a deed +I may not tell of, lest the people add +Scorn to a Coming Greatness to their faults. +Why this? Who careth when about to slay, +And slay indeed, how well they have deserved +Death, whom he slayeth? Therefore yet is hid +A meaning of some mercy that will rob +The nether world. Now look to it,--'Twere vain +Albeit this deluge He would send indeed, +That we expect the harvest; He would yet +Be the Master-reaper; for I heard it said, +Them that be young and know Him not, and them +That are bound and may not build, yea, more, their wives, +Whom, suffering not to hear the doom, they keep +Joyous behind the curtains, every one +With maidens nourished in the house, and babes +And children at her knees,--(then what remain!) +He claimeth and will gather for His own. +Now, therefore, it were good by guile to work, +Princes, and suffer not the doom to fall. +There is no evil like to love. I heard +Him whisper it. Have I put on this flesh +To ruin his two children beautiful, +And shall my deed confound me in the end, +Through awful imitation? Love of God, +I cry against thee; thou art worst of all." + + +BOOK IV. + +Now while these evil ones took counsel strange, +The son of Lamech journeyed home; and, lo! +A company came down, and struck the track +As he did enter it. There rode in front +Two horsemen, young and noble, and behind +Were following slaves with tent gear; others led +Strong horses, others bare the instruments +O' the chase, and in the rear dull camels lagged, +Sighing, for they were burdened, and they loved +The desert sands above that grassy vale. + +And as they met, those horsemen drew the rein, +And fixed on him their grave untroubled eyes; +He in his regal grandeur walked alone, +And had nor steed nor follower, and his mien +Was grave and like to theirs. He said to them, +"Fair sirs, whose are ye?" They made answer cold, +"The beautiful woman, sir, our mother dear, +Niloiya, bear us to great Lamech's son." +And he, replying, "I am he." They said, +"We know it, sir. We have remembered you +Through many seasons. Pray you let us not; +We fain would greet our mother." And they made +Obeisance and passed on; then all their train, +Which while they spoke had halted, moved apace, +And, while the silent father stood, went by, +He gazing after, as a man that dreams; +For he was sick with their cold, quiet scorn, +That seemed to say, "Father, we own you not. +We love you not, for you have left us long,-- +So long, we care not that you come again." + +And while the sullen camels moved, he spake +To him that led the last, "There are but two +Of these my sons; but where doth Japhet ride? +For I would see him." And the leader said, +"Sir, ye shall find him, if ye follow up +Along the track. Afore the noonday meal +The young men, even our masters, bathed; (there grows +A clump of cedars by the bend of yon +Clear river)--there did Japhet, after meat, +Being right weary, lay him down and sleep. +There, with a company of slaves and some +Few camels, ye shall find him." + + And the man +The father of these three, did let him pass, +And struggle and give battle to his heart, +Standing as motionless as pillar set +To guide a wanderer in a pathless waste; +But all his strength went from him, and he strove +Vainly to trample out and trample down +The misery of his love unsatisfied,-- +Unutterable love flung in his face. + +Then he broke out in passionate words, that cried +Against his lot, "I have lost my own, and won +None other; no, not one! Alas, my sons! +That I have looked to for my solacing, +In the bitterness to come. My children dear!" +And when from his own lips he heard those words, +With passionate stirring of the heart, he wept. + +And none came nigh to comfort him. His face +Was on the ground; but, having wept, he rose +Full hastily, and urged his way to find +The river; and in hollow of his hand +Raised up the water to his brow: "This son, +This other son of mine," he said, "shall see +No tears upon my face." And he looked on, +Beheld the camels, and a group of slaves +Sitting apart from some one fast asleep, +Where they had spread out webs of broidery work +Under a cedar-tree; and he came on, +And when they made obeisance he declared +His name, and said, "I will beside my son +Sit till he wakeneth." So Japhet lay +A-dreaming, and his father drew to him. +He said, "This cannot scorn me yet"; and paused, +Right angry with himself, because the youth, +Albeit of stately growth, so languidly +Lay with a listless smile upon his mouth, +That was full sweet and pure; and as he looked, +He half forgot his trouble in his pride. +"And is this mine?" said he, "my son! mine own! +(God, thou art good!) O, if this turn away, +That pang shall be past bearing. I must think +That all the sweetness of his goodly face +Is copied from his soul. How beautiful +Are children to their fathers! Son, my heart +Is greatly glad because of thee; my life +Shall lack of no completeness in the days +To come. If I forget the joy of youth, +In thee shall I be comforted; ay, see +My youth, a dearer than my own again." + +And when he ceased, the youth, with sleep content, +Murmured a little, turned himself and woke. + +He woke, and opened on his father's face +The darkness of his eyes; but not a word +The Master-shipwright said,--his lips were sealed; +He was not ready, for he feared to see +This mouth curl up with scorn. And Japhet spoke, +Full of the calm that cometh after sleep: +"Sir, I have dreamed of you. I pray you, sir, +What is your name?" and even with his words +His countenance changed. The son of Lamech said, +"Why art thou sad? What have I done to thee?" +And Japhet answered, "O, methought I fled +In the wilderness before a maddened beast, +And you came up and slew it; and I thought +You were my father; but I fear me, sir, +My thoughts were vain." With that his father said, +"Whatever of blessing Thou reserv'st for me, +God! if Thou wilt not give to both, give here: +Bless him with both Thy hands"; and laid his own +On Japhet's head. + Then Japhet looked on him, +Made quiet by content, and answered low, +With faltering laughter, glad and reverent: "Sir, +You are my father?" "Ay," quoth he, "I am! +Kiss me, my son; and let me hear my name, +My much desiréd name, from your dear lips." + +Then after, rested, they betook them home: +And Japhet, walking by the Master, thought, +"I did not will to love this sire of mine; +But now I feel as if I had always known +And loved him well; truly, I see not why, +But I would rather serve him than go free +With my two brethren." And he said to him, +"Father!"--who answered, "I am here, my son." +And Japhet said, "I pray you, sir, attend +To this my answer: let me go with you, +For, now I think on it, I do not love +The chase, nor managing the steed, nor yet +The arrows and the bow; but rather you, +For all you do and say, and you yourself, +Are goodly and delightsome in mine eyes. +I pray you, sir, when you go forth again, +That I may also go." And he replied, +"I will tell thy speech unto the Highest; He +Shall answer it. But I would speak to thee +Now of the days to come. Know thou, most dear +To this thy father, that the drenched world, +When risen clean washed from water, shall receive +From thee her lordliest governors, from thee +Daughters of noblest soul." + So Japhet said, +"Sir, I am young, but of my mother straight +I will go ask a wife, that this may be. +I pray you, therefore, as the manner is +Of fathers, give me land that I may reap +Corn for sustaining of my wife, and bruise +The fruit of the vine to cheer her." But he said, +"Dost thou forget? or dost thou not believe, +My son?" He answered, "I did ne'er believe, +My father, ere to-day; but now, methinks, +Whatever thou believest I believe, +For thy belovéd sake. If this then be +As thou (I hear) hast said, and earth doth bear +The last of her wheat harvests, and make ripe +The latest of her grapes; yet hear me, sir, +None of the daughters shall be given to me +If I be landless." Then his father said, +"Lift up thine eyes toward the north, my son" +And so he did. "Behold thy heritage!" +Quoth the world's prince and master, "far away +Upon the side o' the north, where green the field +Lies every season through, and where the dews +Of heaven are wholesome, shall thy children reign; +I part it to them, for the earth is mine; +The Highest gave it me: I make it theirs. +Moreover, for thy marriage gift, behold +The cedars where thou sleepedst! There are vines; +And up the rise is growing wheat. I give +(For all, alas! is mine),--I give thee both +For dowry, and my blessing." + And he said, +"Sir, you are good, and therefore the Most High +Shall bless me also. Sir, I love you well." + + +BOOK V. + +And when two days were over, Japhet said, +"Mother, so please you, get a wife for me." +The mother answered, "Dost thou mock me, son? +'Tis not the manner of our kin to wed +So young. Thou knowest it; art thou not ashamed? +Thou carest not for a wife." And the youth blushed, +And made for answer: "This, my father, saith +The doom is nigh; now therefore find a maid, +Or else shall I be wifeless all my days. +And as for me, I care not; but the lands +Are parted, and the goodliest share is mine. +And lo! my brethren are betrothed; their maids +Are with thee in the house. Then why not mine? +Didst thou not diligently search for these +Among the noblest born of all the earth, +And bring them up? My sisters, dwell they not +With women that bespake them for their sons? +Now, therefore, let a wife be found for me, +Fair as the day, and gentle to my will +As thou art to my father's." When she heard, +Niloiya sighed, and answered, "It is well." +And Japhet went out from her presence. + Then +Quoth the great Master: "Wherefore sought ye not, +Woman, these many days, nor tired at all, +Till ye had found, a maiden for my son? +In this ye have done ill." Niloiya said: +"Let not my lord be angry. All my soul +Is sad: my lord hath walked afar so long, +That some despise thee; yea, our servants fail +Lately to bring their stint of corn and wood. +And, sir, thy household slaves do steal away +To thy great father, and our lands lie waste,-- +None till them: therefore think the women scorn +To give me,--whatsoever gems I send, +And goodly raiment,--(yea, I seek afar, +And sue with all desire and humbleness +Through every master's house, but no one gives)-- +A daughter for my son." With that she ceased. + +Then said the Master: "Some thou hast with thee, +Brought up among thy children, dutiful +And fair; thy father gave them for my slaves,-- +Children of them whom he brought captive forth +From their own heritage." And she replied, +Right scornfully: "Shall Japhet wed a slave?" +Then said the Master: "He shall wed: look thou +To that. I say not he shall wed a slave; +But by the might of One that made him mine, +I will not quit thee for my doomed way +Until thou wilt betroth him. Therefore, haste, +Beautiful woman, loved of me and mine, +To bring a maiden, and to say, 'Behold +A wife for Japhet.'" Then she answered, "Sir, +It shall be done." + And forth Niloiya sped. +She gathered all her jewels,--all she held +Of costly or of rich,--and went and spake +With some few slaves that yet abode with her, +For daily they were fewer; and went forth, +With fair and flattering words, among her feres, +And fain had wrought with them: and she had hope +That made her sick, it was so faint; and then +She had fear, and after she had certainty, +For all did scorn her. "Nay," they cried. "O fool! +If this be so, and on a watery world +Ye think to rock, what matters if a wife +Be free or bond? There shall be none to rule, +If she have freedom: if she have it not, +None shall there be to serve." + And she alit, +The time being done, desponding at her door, +And went behind a screen, where should have wrought +The daughters of the captives; but there wrought +One only, and this rose from off the floor, +Where she the river rush full deftly wove, +And made obeisance. Then Niloiya said, +"Where are thy fellows?" And the maid replied, +"Let not Niloiya, this my lady loved, +Be angry; they are fled since yesternight." +Then said Niloiya, "Amarant, my slave, +When have I called thee by thy name before?" +She answered, "Lady, never"; and she took +And spread her broidered robe before her face. +Niloiya spoke thus: "I am come to woe, +And thou to honor." Saying this, she wept +Passionate tears; and all the damsel's soul +Was full of yearning wonder, and her robe +Slipped from her hand, and her right innocent face +Was seen betwixt her locks of tawny hair +That dropped about her knees, and her two eyes, +Blue as the much-loved flower that rims the beck, +Looked sweetly on Niloiya; but she knew +No meaning in her words; and she drew nigh, +And kneeled and said, "Will this my lady speak? +Her damsel is desirous of her words." +Then said Niloiya, "I, thy mistress, sought +A wife for Japhet, and no wife is found." +And yet again she wept with grief of heart, +Saying, "Ah me, miserable! I must give +A wife: the Master willeth it: a wife, +Ah me! unto the high-born. He will scorn +His mother and reproach me. I must give-- +None else have I to give--a slave,--even thee." +This further spake Niloiya: "I was good,-- +Had rue on thee, a tender sucking child, +When they did tear thee from thy mother's breast; +I fed thee, gave thee shelter, and I taught +Thy hands all cunning arts that women prize. +But out on me! my good is turned to ill. +O, Japhet, well-beloved!" And she rose up, +And did restrain herself, saying, "Dost thou heed? +Behold, this thing shall be." The damsel sighed, +"Lady, I do." Then went Niloiya forth. + +And Amarant murmured in her deep amaze, +"Shall Japhet's little children kiss my mouth? +And will he sometimes take them from my arms, +And almost care for me for their sweet sake? +I have not dared to think I loved him,--now +I know it well: but O, the bitterness +For him!" And ending thus, the damsel rose, +For Japhet entered. And she bowed herself +Meekly and made obeisance, but her blood +Ran cold about her heart, for all his face +Was colored with his passion. + Japhet spoke: +He said, "My father's slave"; and she replied, +Low drooping her fair head, "My master's son." +And after that a silence fell on them, +With trembling at her heart, and rage at his. +And Japhet, mastered of his passion, sat +And could not speak. O! cruel seemed his fate,-- +So cruel her that told it, so unkind. +His breast was full of wounded love and wrath +Wrestling together; and his eyes flashed out +Indignant lights, as all amazed he took +The insult home that she had offered him, +Who should have held his honor dear. + And, lo, +The misery choked him and he cried in pain, +"Go, get thee forth"; but she, all white and still, +Parted her lips to speak, and yet spake not, +Nor moved. And Japhet rose up passionate, +With lifted arm as one about to strike; +But she cried out and met him, and she held +With desperate might his hand, and prayed to him, +"Strike not, or else shall men from henceforth say, +'Japhet is like to us.'" And he shook off +The damsel, and he said, "I thank thee, slave; +For never have I stricken yet or child +Or woman. Not for thy sake am I glad, +Nay, but for mine. Get hence. Obey my words." +Then Japhet lifted up his voice, and wept. + +And no more he restrained himself, but cried, +With heavings of the heart, "O hateful day! +O day that shuts the door upon delight. +A slave! to wed a slave! O loathéd wife, +Hated of Japhet's soul." And after, long, +With face between his hands, he sat, his thoughts +Sullen and sore; then scorned himself, and saying, +"I will not take her, I will die unwed, +It is but that"; lift up his eyes and saw +The slave, and she was sitting at his feet; +And he, so greatly wondering that she dared +The disobedience, looked her in the face +Less angry than afraid, for pale she was +As lily yet unsmiled on by the sun; +And he, his passion being spent, sighed out, +"Low am I fallen indeed. Hast thou no fear, +That thou dost flout me?" but she gave to him +The sighing echo of his sigh, and mourned, +"No." + And he wondered, and he looked again, +For in her heart there was a new-born pang, +That cried; but she, as mothers with their young, +Suffered, yet loved it; and there shone a strange +Grave sweetness in her blue unsullied eyes. +And Japhet, leaning from the settle, thought, +"What is it? I will call her by her name, +To comfort her, for also she is naught +To blame; and since I will not her to wife, +She falls back from the freedom she had hoped." +Then he said "Amarant"; and the damsel drew +Her eyes down slowly from the shaded sky +Of even, and she said, "My master's son, +Japhet"; and Japhet said, "I am not wroth +With thee, but wretched for my mother's deed, +Because she shamed me." + And the maiden said, +"Doth not thy father love thee well, sweet sir?" +"Ay," quoth he, "well." She answered, "Let the heart +Of Japhet, then, be merry. Go to him +And say, 'The damsel whom my mother chose, +Sits by her in the house; but as for me, +Sir, ere I take her, let me go with you +To that same outland country. Also, sir, +My damsel hath not worked as yet the robe +Of her betrothal'; now, then, sith he loves, +He will not say thee nay. Herein for awhile +Is respite, and thy mother far and near +Will seek again: it may be she will find +A fair, free maiden." + Japhet said, "O maid, +Sweet are thy words; but what if I return, +And all again be as it is to-day?" +Then Amarant answered, "Some have died in youth; +But yet, I think not, sir, that I shall die. +Though ye shall find it even as I had died,-- +Silent, for any words I might have said; +Empty, for any space I might have filled. +Sir, I will steal away, and hide afar; +But if a wife be found, then will I bide +And serve." He answered, "O, thy speech is good; +Now therefore (since my mother gave me thee), +I will reward it; I will find for thee +A goodly husband, and will make him free +Thee also." + Then she started from his feet, +And, red with shame and anger, flashed on him +The passion of her eyes; and put her hands +With catching of the breath to her fair throat, +And stood in her defiance lost to fear, +Like some fair hind in desperate danger turned +And brought to bay, and wild in her despair. +But shortly, "I remember," quoth she, low, +With raining down of tears and broken sighs, +"That I am Japhet's slave; beseech you, sir, +As ye were ever gentle, ay, and sweet +Of language to me, be not harder now. +Sir, I was yours to take; I knew not, sir, +That also ye might give me. Pray you, sir, +Be pitiful,--be merciful to me, +A slave." He said, "I thought to do thee good, +For good hath been thy counsel"; but she cried, +"Good master, be you therefore pitiful +To me, a slave." And Japhet wondered much +At her, and at her beauty, for he thought, +"None of the daughters are so fair as this, +Nor stand with such a grace majestical; +She in her locks is like the travelling sun, +Setting, all clad in coifing clouds of gold. +And would she die unmatched?" He said to her, +"What! wilt thou sail alone in yonder ship, +And dwell alone hereafter?" "Ay," she said, +"And serve my mistress." + "It is well," quoth he, +And held his hand to her, as is the way +Of masters. Then she kissed it, and she said, +"Thanks for benevolence," and turned herself, +Adding, "I rest, sir, on your gracious words"; +Then stepped into the twilight and was gone. + +And Japhet, having found his father, said, +"Sir, let me also journey when ye go." +Who answered, "Hath thy mother done her part?" + +He said, "Yea, truly, and my damsel sits +Before her in the house; and also, sir, +She said to me, 'I have not worked, as yet, +The garment of betrothal.'" And he said, +"'Tis not the manner of our kin to speak +Concerning matters that a woman rules; +But hath thy mother brought a damsel home, +And let her see thy face, then all is one +As ye were wed." He answered, "Even so, +It matters nothing; therefore hear me, sir: +The damsel being mine, I am content +To let her do according to her will; +And when we shall return, so surely, sir, +As I shall find her by my mother's side, +Then will I take her"; and he left to speak; +His father answering, "Son, thy words are good." + + +BOOK VI. + +Night. Now a tent was pitched, and Japhet sat +In the door and watched, for on a litter lay +The father of his love. And he was sick +To death; but daily he would rouse him up, +And stare upon the light, and ever say, +"On, let us journey"; but it came to pass +That night, across their path a river ran, +And they who served the father and the son +Had pitched the tents beside it, and had made +A fire, to scare away the savagery +That roamed in that great forest, for their way +Had led among the trees of God. + The moon +Shone on the river, like a silver road +To lead them over; but when Japhet looked, +He said, "We shall not cross it. I shall lay +This well-belovéd head low in the leaves,-- +Not on the farther side." From time to time, +The water-snakes would stir its glassy flow +With curling undulations, and would lay +Their heads along the bank, and, subtle-eyed, +Consider those long spirting flames, that danced, +When some red log would break and crumble down; +And show his dark despondent eyes, that watched, +Wearily, even Japhet's. But he cared +Little; and in the dark, that was not dark, +But dimness of confused incertitude, +Would move a-near all silently, and gaze +And breathe, and shape itself, a manéd thing +With eyes; and still he cared not, and the form +Would falter, then recede, and melt again +Into the farther shade. And Japhet said: +"How long? The moon hath grown again in heaven, +After her caving twice, since we did leave +The threshold of our home; and now what 'vails +That far on tumbled mountain snow we toiled, +Hungry, and weary, all the day; by night +Waked with a dreadful trembling underneath, +To look, while every cone smoked, and there ran +Red brooks adown, that licked the forest up, +While in the pale white ashes wading on +We saw no stars?--what 'vails if afterward, +Astonished with great silence, we did move +Over the measureless, unknown desert mead; +While all the day, in rents and crevices, +Would lie the lizard and the serpent kind, +Drowsy; and in the night take fearsome shapes, +And oft-times woman-faced and woman-haired +Would trail their snaky length, and curse and mourn; +Or there would wander up, when we were tired, +Dark troops of evil ones, with eyes morose, +Withstanding us, and staring;--O! what 'vails +That in the dread deep forest we have fought +With following packs of wolves? These men of might, +Even the giants, shall not hear the doom +My father came to tell them of. Ah, me! +If God indeed had sent him, would he lie +(For he is stricken with a sore disease) +Helpless outside their city?" + Then he rose, +And put aside the curtains of the tent, +To look upon his father's face; and lo! +The tent being dark, he thought that somewhat sat +Beside the litter; and he set his eyes +To see it, and saw not; but only marked +Where, fallen away from manhood and from power, +His father lay. Then he came forth again, +Trembling, and crouched beside the dull red fire, +And murmured, "Now it is the second time: +An old man, as I think (but scarcely saw). +Dreadful of might. Its hair was white as wool: +I dared not look; perhaps I saw not aught, +But only knew that it was there: the same +Which walked beside us once when he did pray." +And Japhet hid his face between his hands +For fear, and grief of heart, and weariness +Of watching; and he slumbered not, but mourned +To himself, a little moment, as it seemed, +For sake of his loved father: then he lift +His eyes, and day had dawned. Right suddenly +The moon withheld her silver, and she hung +Frail as a cloud. The ruddy flame that played, +By night on dim, dusk trees, and on the flood, +Crept red amongst the logs, and all the world +And all the water blushed and bloomed. The stars +Were gone, and golden shafts came up, and touched +The feathered heads of palms, and green was born +Under the rosy cloud, and purples flew +Like veils across the mountains; and he saw, +Winding athwart them, bathed in blissful peace, +And the sacredness of morn, the battlements +And out-posts of the giants; and there ran +On the other side the river, as it were, +White mounds of marble, tabernacles fair, +And towers below a line of inland cliff: +These were their fastnesses, and here their homes. + +In valleys and the forest, all that night, +There had been woe; in every hollow place, +And under walls, like drifted flowers, or snow, +Women lay mourning; for the serpent lodged +That night within the gates, and had decreed, +"I will (or ever I come) that ye drive out +The women, the abhorred of my soul." +Therefore, more beauteous than all climbing bloom, +Purple and scarlet, cumbering of the boughs, +Or flights of azure doves that lit to drink +The water of the river; or, new born, +The quivering butterflies in companies, +That slowly crept adown the sandy marge, +Like living crocus beds, and also drank, +And rose an orange cloud; their hollowed hands +They dipped between the lilies, or with robes +Full of ripe fruitage, sat and peeled and ate, +Weeping; or comforting their little ones, +And lulling them with sorrowful long hymns +Among the palms. + So went the earlier morn. +Then came a messenger, while Japhet sat +Mournfully, and he said, "The men of might +Are willing; let thy master, youth, appear." +And Japhet said, "So be it"; and he thought, +"Now will I trust in God"; and he went in +And stood before his father, and he said, +"My father"; but the Master answered not, +But gazed upon the curtains of his tent, +Nor knew that one had called him. He was clad +As ready for the journey, and his feet +Were sandalled, and his staff was at his side; +And Japhet took the gown of sacrifice +And spread it on him, and he laid his crown +Upon his knees, and he went forth, and lift +His hand to heaven, and cried, "My father's God!" +But neither whisper came nor echo fell +When he did listen. Therefore he went on: +"Behold, I have a thing to say to thee. +My father charged thy servant, 'Let not ruth +Prevail with thee, to turn and bear me hence, +For God appointed me my task, to preach +Before the mighty.' I must do my part +(O! let it not displease thee), for he said +But yesternight, 'When they shall send for me, +Take me before them.' And I sware to him. +I pray thee, therefore, count his life and mine +Precious; for I that sware, I will perform." + +Then cried he to his people, "Let us hence: +Take up the litter." And they set their feet +Toward the raft whereby men crossed that flood. +And while they journeyed, lo, the giants sat +Within the fairest hall where all were fair, +Each on his carven throne, o'er-canopied +With work of women. And the dragon lay +In a place of honor; and with subtlety +He counselled them, for they did speak by turns; +And they being proud, might nothing master them, +But guile alone: and he did fawn on them; +And when the younger taunted him, submiss +He testified great humbleness, and cried, +"A cruel God, forsooth! but nay, O nay, +I will not think it of Him, that He meant +To threaten these. O, when I look on them, +How doth my soul admire." + + And one stood forth, +The youngest; of his brethren, named "the Rock." +"Speak out," quoth he, "thou toothless slavering thing, +What is it? thinkest thou that such as we +Should be afraid? What is this goodly doom?" +And Satan laughed upon him. "Lo," said he, +"Thou art not fully grown, and every one +I look on, standeth higher by the head, +Yea, and the shoulders, than do other men; +Forsooth, thy servant thought not thou wouldst fear, +Thou and thy fellows." Then with one accord, +"Speak," cried they; and with mild persuasive eyes, +And flattering tongue, he spoke. + + "Ye mighty ones, +It hath been known to you these many days +How that for piety I am much famed. +I am exceeding pious: if I lie, +As hath been whispered, it is but for sake +Of God, and that ye should not think Him hard, +For I am all for God. Now some have thought +that He hath also (and it, may be so +Or yet may not be so) on me been hard; +Be not ye therefore wroth, for my poor sake; +I am contented to have earned your weal, +Though I must therefore suffer. + + "Now to-day +One cometh, yea, an harmless man, a fool, +Who boasts he hath a message from our God, +And lest that you, for bravery of heart +And stoutness, being angered with his prate, +Should lift a hand, and kill him, I am here." + +Then spoke the Leader, "How now, snake? Thy words +Ring false. Why ever liest thou, snake, to us? +Thou coward! none of us will see thee harmed. +I say thou liest. The land is strewed with slain; +Myself have hewn down companies, and blood +Makes fertile all the field. Thou knowest it well; +And hast thou, driveller, panting sore for age, +Come with a force to bid us spare one fool?" + +And Satan answered, "Nay you! be not wroth; +Yet true it is, and yet not all the truth. +Your servant would have told the rest, if now +(For fulness of your life being fretted sore +At mine infirmities, which God in vain +I supplicate to heal) ye had not caused +My speech to stop." And he they called "the Oak" +Made answer, "'Tis a good snake; let him be. +Why would ye fright the poor old craven beast? +Look how his lolling tongue doth foam for fear. +Ye should have mercy, brethren, on the weak. +Speak, dragon, thou hast leave; make stout thy heart. +What! hast thou lied to this great company? +It was, we know it was, for humbleness; +Thou wert not willing to offend with truth." + +"Yea, majesties," quoth Satan, "thus it was," +And lifted up appealing eyes, and groaned; +"O, can it be, compassionate as brave, +And housed in cunning works themselves have reared, +And served in gold, and warmed with minivere, +And ruling nobly,--that He, not content +Unless alone He reigneth, looks to bend +O break them in, like slaves to cry to Him, +'What is Thy will with us, O Master dear?' +Or else to eat of death? + + "For my part, lords, +I cannot think it: for my piety +And reason, which I also share with you, +Are my best lights, and ever counsel me, +'Believe not aught against thy God; believe, +Since thou canst never reach to do Him wrong, +That He will never stoop to do thee wrong. +Is He not just and equal, yea, and kind?' +Therefore, O majesties, it is my mind +Concerning him ye wot of, thus to think +The message is not like what I have learned +By reason and experience, of the God. +Therefore no message 'tis. The man is mad." +Thereat the great Leader laughed for scorn. "Hold, snake; +If God be just, there SHALL be reckoning days. +We rather would He were a partial God, +And being strong, He sided with the strong. +Turn now thy reason to the other side, +And speak for that; for as to justice, snake, +We would have none of it." + + And Satan fawned: +"My lord is pleased to mock at my poor wit; +Yet in my pious fashion I must talk: +For say that God was wroth with man, and came +And slew him, that should make an empty world, +But not a bettor nation." + + This replied, +"Truth, dragon, yet He is not bound to mean +A better nation; may be, He designs, +If none will turn again, a punishment +Upon an evil one." + And Satan cried, +"Alas! my heart being full of love for men, +I cannot choose but think of God as like +To me; and yet my piety concludes, +Since He will have your fear, that love alone +Sufficeth not, and I admire, and say, +'Give me, O friends, your love, and give to God +Your fear.'" But they cried out in wrath and rage, +"We are not strong that any we will fear, +Nor specially a foe that means us ill." + + +BOOK VII. + +And while he spoke there was a noise without; +The curtains of the door were flung aside, +And some with heavy feet bare in, and set +A litter on the floor. + The Master lay +Upon it, but his eyes were dimmed and set; +And Japhet, in despairing weariness, +Leaned it beside. He marked the mighty ones, +Silent for pride of heart, and in his place +The jewelled dragon; and the dragon laughed, +And subtly peered at him, till Japhet shook +With rage and fear. The snaky wonder cried, +Hissing, "Thou brown-haired youth, come up to me; +I fain would have thee for my shrine afar, +To serve among an host as beautiful +As thou: draw near." It hissed, and Japhet felt +Horrible drawings, and cried out in fear, +"Father! O help, the serpent draweth me!" +And struggled and grew faint, as in the toils +A netted bird. But still his father lay +Unconscious, and the mighty did not speak, +But half in fear and half for wonderment +Beheld. And yet again the dragon laughed, +And leered at him and hissed; and Japhet strove +Vainly to take away his spell-set eyes, +And moved to go to him, till piercingly +Crying out, "God! forbid it, God in heaven!" +The dragon lowered his head, and shut his eyes +As feigning sleep; and, suddenly released, +He fell back staggering; and at noise of it, +And clash of Japhet's weapons on the floor, +And Japhet's voice crying out, "I loathe thee, snake! +I hate thee! O, I hate thee!" came again, +The senses of the shipwright; and he, moved, +And looking, as one 'mazed, distressfully +Upon the mighty, said, "One called on God: +Where is my God? If God have need of me, +Let Him come down and touch my lips with strength, +Or dying I shall die." + + It came to pass, +While he was speaking, that the curtains swayed; +A rushing wind did move throughout the place, +And all the pillars shook, and on the head +Of Noah the hair was lifted, and there played +A somewhat, as it were a light, upon +His breast; then fell a darkness, and men heard +A whisper as of one that spake. With that, +The daunted mighty ones kept silent watch +Until the wind had ceased and darkness fled. +When it grew light, there curled a cloud of smoke +From many censers where the dragon lay. +It hid him. He had called his ministrants, +And bid them veil him thus, that none might look; +Also the folk who came with Noah had fled. + +But Noah was seen, for he stood up erect, +And leaned on Japhet's hand. Then, after pause, +The Leader said, "My brethren, it were well +(For naught we fear) to let this sorcerer speak." +And they did reach toward the man their staves, +And cry with loud accord, "Hail, sorcerer, hail!" + +And he made answer, "Hail! I am a man +That is a shipwright. I was born afar +To Lamech, him that reigns a king, to wit, +Over the land of Jalal. Majesties, +I bring a message,--lay you it to heart; +For there is wrath in heaven: my God is wroth. +'Prepare your houses, or I come,' saith He, +'A Judge.' Now, therefore, say not in your hearts, +'What have we done?' Your dogs may answer that, +To make whom fiercer for the chase, ye feed +With captives whom ye slew not in the war, +But saved alive, and living throw to them +Daily. Your wives may answer that, whose babes +Their firstborn ye do take and offer up +To this abhorred snake, while yet the milk +Is in their innocent mouths,--your maiden babes +Tender. Your slaves may answer that,--the gangs +Whose eyes ye did put out to make them work +By night unwitting (yea, by multitudes +They work upon the wheel in chains). Your friends +May answer that,--(their bleachéd bones cry out.) +For ye did, wickedly, to eat their lands, +Turn on their valleys, in a time of peace, +The rivers, and they, choking in the night, +Died unavenged. But rather (for I leave +To tell of more, the time would be so long +To do it, and your time, O mighty ones, +Is short),--but rather say, 'We sinners know +Why the Judge standeth at the door,' and turn +While yet there may be respite, and repent. + +"'Or else,' saith He that forméd you, 'I swear, +By all the silence of the times to come, +By the solemnities of death,--yea, more,. +By Mine own power and love which ye have scorned, +That I will come. I will command the clouds, +And raining they shall rain; yea, I will stir +With all my storms the ocean for your sake, +And break for you the boundary of the deep. + +"'Then shall the mighty mourn. + Should I forbear, +That have been patient? I will not forbear! +For yet,' saith He, 'the weak cry out; for yet +The little ones do languish; and the slave +Lifts up to Me his chain. I therefore, I +Will hear them. I by death will scatter you; +Yea, and by death will draw them to My breast, +And gather them to peace. + "'But yet,' saith He, +'Repent, and turn you. Wherefore will ye die?' + +"Turn then, O turn, while yet the enemy +Untamed of man fatefully moans afar; +For if ye will not turn, the doom is near. +Then shall the crested wave make sport, and beat +You mighty at your doors. Will ye be wroth? +Will ye forbid it? Monsters of the deep +Shall suckle in your palaces their young, +And swim atween your hangings, all of them +Costly with broidered work, and rare with gold +And white and scarlet (there did ye oppress,-- +There did ye make you vile); but ye shall lie +Meekly, and storm and wind shall rage above, +And urge the weltering wave. + + "'Yet,' saith thy God, +'Son,' ay, to each of you He saith, 'O son, +Made in My image, beautiful and strong, +Why wilt thou die? Thy Father loves thee well. +Repent and turn thee from thine evil ways, +O son! and no more dare the wrath of love. +Live for thy Father's sake that formed thee. +Why wilt thou die?' Here will I make an end." + +Now ever on his dais the dragon lay, +Feigning to sleep; and all the mighty ones +Were wroth, and chided, some against the woe, +And some at whom the sorcerer they had named,-- +Some at their fellows, for the younger sort,-- +As men the less acquaint with deeds of blood, +And given to learning and the arts of peace +(Their fathers having crushed rebellion out +Before their time)--lent favorable ears. +They said, "A man, or false or fanatic, +May claim good audience if he fill our ears +With what is strange: and we would hear again." + +The Leader said, "An audience hath been given. +The man hath spoken, and his words are naught; +A feeble threatener, with a foolish threat, +And it is not our manner that we sit +Beyond the noonday"; then they grandly rose, +A stalwart crowd, and with their Leader moved +To the tones of harping, and the beat of shawms, +And the noise of pipes, away. But some were left +About the Master; and the feigning snake +Couched on his dais. + Then one to Japhet said, +One called "the Cedar-Tree," "Dost thou, too, think +To reign upon our lands when we lie drowned?" +And Japhet said, "I think not, nor desire, +Nor in my heart consent, but that ye swear +Allegiance to the God, and live." He cried, +To one surnamed "the Pine,"--"Brother, behooves +That deep we cut our names in yonder crag. +Else when this youth returns, his sons may ask +Our names, and he may answer, 'Matters not, +For my part I forget them.'" + Japhet said, +"They might do worse than that, they might deny +That such as you have ever been." With that +They answered, "No, thou dost not think it, no!" +And Japhet, being chafed, replied in heat, +"And wherefore? if ye say of what is sworn, +'He will not do it,' shall it be more hard +For future men, if any talk on it, +To say, 'He did not do it'?" They replied, +With laughter, "Lo you! he is stout with us. +And yet he cowered before the poor old snake. +Sirrah, when you are saved, we pray you now +To bear our might in mind,--do, sirrah, do; +And likewise tell your sons, '"The Cedar Tree" +Was a good giant, for he struck me not, +Though he was young and full of sport, and though +I taunted him.'" + With that they also passed. +But there remained who with the shipwright spoke: +"How wilt thou certify to us thy truth?" +And he related to them all his ways +From the beginning: of the Voice that called; +Moreover, how the ship of doom was built. + +And one made answer, "Shall the mighty God +Talk with a man of wooden beams and bars? +No, thou mad preacher, no. If He, Eterne, +Be ordering of His far infinitudes, +And darkness cloud a world, it is but chance, +As if the shadow of His hand had fallen +On one that He forgot, and troubled it." +Then said the Master, "Yet,--who told thee so?" + +And from his daïs the feigning serpent hissed: +"Preacher, the light within, it was that shined, +And told him so. The pious will have dread +Him to declare such as ye rashly told. +The course of God is one. It likes not us +To think of Him as being acquaint with change: +It were beneath Him. Nay, the finished earth +Is left to her great masters. They must rule; +They do; and I have set myself between,-- +A visible thing for worship, sith His face +(For He is hard) He showeth not to men. +Yea, I have set myself 'twixt God and man, +To be interpreter, and teach mankind +A pious lesson by my piety, +He loveth not, nor hateth, nor desires,-- +It were beneath Him." + And the Master said, +"Thou liest. Thou wouldst lie away the world, +If He, whom thou hast dared speak against, +Would suffer it." "I may not chide with thee," +It answered, "NOW; but if there come such time +As thou hast prophesied, as I now reign +In all men's sight, shall my dominion then +Reach to be mighty in their souls. Thou too +Shalt feel it, prophet." And he lowered his head. + +Then quoth the Leader of the young men: "Sir, +We scorn you not; speak further; yet our thought +First answer. Not but by a miracle +Can this thing be. The fashion of the world +We heretofore have never known to change; +And will God change it now?" + He then replied: +"What is thy thought? THERE is NO MIRACLE? +There is a great one, which thou hast not read. +And never shalt escape. Thyself, O man, +Thou art the miracle. Lo, if thou sayest, +'I am one, and fashioned like the gracious world, +Red clay is all my make, myself, my whole, +And not my habitation,' then thy sleep +Shall give thee wings to play among the rays +O' the morning. If thy thought be, 'I am one,-- +A spirit among spirits,--and the world +A dream my spirit dreameth of, my dream +Being all,' the dominating mountains strong +Shall not for that forbear to take thy breath, +And rage with all their winds, and beat thee back, +And beat thee down when thou wouldst set thy feet +Upon their awful crests. Ay, thou thyself, +Being in the world and of the world, thyself +Hast breathed in breath from Him that made the world. +Thou dost inherit, as thy Maker's son, +That which He is, and that which He hath made: +Thou art thy Father's copy of Himself,-- +THOU art thy FATHER'S MIRACLE. + Behold +He buildeth up the stars in companies; +He made for them a law. To man He said, +'Freely I give thee freedom.' What remains? +O, it remains, if thou, the image of God, +Wilt reason well, that thou shalt know His ways; +But first thou must be loyal,--love, O man, +Thy Father,--hearken when He pleads with thee, +For there is something left of Him e'en now,-- +A witness for thy Father in thy soul, +Albeit thy better state thou hast foregone. + +"Now, then, be still, and think not in thy soul, +'The rivers in their course forever run, +And turn not from it. He is like to them +Who made them,' Think the rather, 'With my foot +I have turned the rivers from their ancient way, +To water grasses that were fading. What! +Is God my Father as the river wave, +That yet descendeth, like the lesser thing +He made, and not like me, a living son, +That changed the watercourse to suit his will?' + +"Man is the miracle in nature. God +Is the ONE MIRACLE to man. Behold, +'There is a God,' thou sayest. Thou sayest well: +In that thou sayest all. To Be is more +Of wonderful, than being, to have wrought, +Or reigned, or rested. +Hold then there, content; +Learn that to love is the one way to know, +Or God or man: it is not love received +That maketh man to know the inner life +Of them that love him; his own love bestowed +Shall do it. Love thy Father, and no more +His doings shall be strange. Thou shalt not fret +At any counsel, then, that He will send,-- +No, nor rebel, albeit He have with thee +Great reservations. Know, to Be is more +Than to have acted; yea, or after rest +And patience, to have risen and been wroth, +Broken the sequence of an ordered earth, +And troubled nations." + Then the dragon sighed. +"Poor fanatic," quoth he, "thou speakest well. +Would I were like thee, for thy faith is strong, +Albeit thy senses wander. Yea, good sooth, +My masters, let us not despise, but learn +Fresh loyalty from this poor loyal soul. +Let us go forth--(myself will also go +To head you)--and do sacrifice; for that, +We know, is pleasing to the mighty God: +But as for building many arks of wood, +O majesties! when He shall counsel you +HIMSELF, then build. What say you, shall it be +An hundred oxen,--fat, well liking, white? +An hundred? why, a thousand were not much +To such as you." Then Noah lift up his arms +To heaven, and cried, "Thou aged shape of sin, +The Lord rebuke thee." + + +BOOK VIII. + +Then one ran, crying, while Niloiya wrought, +"The Master cometh!" and she went within +To adorn herself for meeting him. And Shem +Went forth and talked with Japhet in the field, +And said, "Is it well, my brother?" He replied, +"Well! and, I pray you, is it well at home?" + +But Shem made answer, "Can a house be well, +If he that should command it bides afar? +Yet well is thee, because a fair free maid +Is found to wed thee; and they bring her in +This day at sundown. Therefore is much haste +To cover thick with costly webs the floor, +And pluck and cover thick the same with leaves +Of all sweet herbs,--I warrant, ye shall hear +No footfall where she treadeth; and the seats +Are ready, spread with robes; the tables set +With golden baskets, red pomegranates shred +To fill them; and the rubied censers smoke, +Heaped up with ambergris and cinnamon, +And frankincense and cedar." + Japhet said, +"I will betroth her to me straight"; and went +(Yet labored he with sore disquietude) +To gather grapes, and reap and bind the sheaf +For his betrothal. And his brother spake, +"Where is our father? doth he preach to-day?" +And Japhet answered, "Yea. He said to me, +'Go forward; I will follow when the folk +By yonder mountain-hold I shall have warned.'" + +And Shem replied, "How thinkest thou?--thine ears +Have heard him oft." He answered, "I do think +These be the last days of this old fair world." + +Then he did tell him of the giant folk: +How they, than he, were taller by the head; +How one must stride that will ascend the steps +That lead to their wide halls; and how they drave, +With manful shouts, the mammoth to the north; +And how the talking dragon lied and fawned, +They seated proudly on their ivory thrones, +And scorning him: and of their peakéd hoods, +And garments wrought upon, each with the tale +Of him that wore it,--all his manful deeds +(Yea, and about their skirts were effigies +Of kings that they had slain; and some, whose swords +Many had pierced, wore vestures all of red, +To signify much blood): and of their pride +He told, but of the vision in the tent +He told him not. + And when they reached the house, +Niloiya met them, and to Japhet cried, +"All hail, right fortunate! Lo, I have found +A maid. And now thou hast done well to reap +The late ripe corn." So he went in with her, +And she did talk with him right motherly: +"It hath been fully told me how ye loathed +To wed thy father's slave; yea, she herself, +Did she not all declare to me?" + He said, +"Yet is thy damsel fair, and wise of heart." +"Yea," quoth his mother; "she made clear to me +How ye did weep, my son, and ye did vow, +'I will not take her!' Now it was not I +That wrought to have it so." And he replied, +"I know it." Quoth the mother, "It is well; +For that same cause is laughter in my heart." +"But she is sweet of language," Japhet said. +"Ay," quoth Niloiya, "and thy wife no less +Whom thou shalt wed anon,--forsooth, anon,-- +It is a lucky hour. Thou wilt?" He said, +"I will." And Japhet laid the slender sheaf +From off his shoulder, and he said, "Behold, +My father!" Then Niloiya turned herself, +And lo! the shipwright stood. "All hail!" quoth she. +And bowed herself, and kissed him on the mouth; +But while she spake with him, sorely he sighed; +And she did hang about his neck the robe +Of feasting, and she poured upon his hands +Clear water, and anointed him, and set +Before him bread. + And Japhet said to him, +"My father, my belovéd, wilt thou yet +Be sad because of scorning? Eat this day; +For as an angel in their eyes thou art +Who stand before thee." But he answered, "Peace! +Thy words are wide." + And when Niloiya heard, +She said, "Is this a time for mirth of heart +And wine? Behold, I thought to wed my son, +Even this Japhet; but is this a time, +When sad is he to whom is my desire, +And lying under sorrow as from God?" + +He answered, "Yea, it is a time of times; +Bring in the maid." Niloiya said, "The maid +That first I spoke on, shall not Japhet wed; +It likes not her, nor yet it likes not me. +But I have found another; yea, good sooth, +The damsel will not tarry, she will come +With all her slaves by sundown." + And she said, +"Comfort thy heart, and eat: moreover, know +How that thy great work even to-day is done. +Sir, thy great ship is finished, and the folk +(For I, according to thy will, have paid +All that was left us to them for their wage,) +Have brought, as to a storehouse, flour of wheat, +Honey and oil,--much victual; yea, and fruits, +Curtains and household gear. And, sir, they say +It is thy will to take it for thy hold +Our fastness and abode." He answered, "Yea, +Else wherefore was it built?" She said, "Good sir, +I pray you make us not the whole earth's scorn. +And now, to-morrow in thy father's house +Is a great feast, and weddings are toward; +Let be the ship, till after, for thy words +Have ever been, 'If God shall send a flood, +There will I dwell'; I pray you therefore wait +At least till He DOTH send it." + And he turned, +And answered nothing. Now the sun was low +While yet she spake; and Japhet came to them +In goodly raiment, and upon his arm +The garment of betrothal. And with that +A noise, and then brake in a woman slave +And Amarant. This, with folding of her hands, +Did say full meekly, "If I do offend, +Yet have not I been willing to offend; +For now this woman will not be denied +Herself to tell her errand." + And they sat. +Then spoke the woman, "If I do offend, +Pray you forgive the bondslave, for her tongue +Is for her mistress. 'Lo!' my mistress saith, +'Put off thy bravery, bridegroom; fold away, +Mother, thy webs of pride, thy costly robes +Woven of many colors. We have heard +Thy master. Lo, to-day right evil things +He prophesied to us, that were his friends; +Therefore, my answer:--God do so to me; +Yea, God do so to me, more also, more +Than He did threaten, if my damsel's foot +Ever draw nigh thy door.'" + And when she heard, +Niloiya sat amazed, in grief of soul. +But Japhet came unto the slave, where low +She bowed herself for fear. He said, "Depart; +Say to thy mistress, 'It is well.'" With that +She turned herself, and she made haste to flee, +Lest any, for those evil words she brought, +Would smite her. But the bondmaid of the house +Lift up her hand and said, "If I offend, +It was not of my heart: thy damsel knew +Naught of this matter." And he held to her +His hand and touched her, and said, "Amarant!" +And when she looked upon him, she did take +And spread before her face her radiant locks, +Trembling. And Japhet said, "Lift up thy face, +O fairest of the daughters, thy fair face; +For, lo! the bridegroom standeth with the robe +Of thy betrothal! "--and he took her locks +In his two hands to part them from her brow, +And laid them on her shoulders; and he said, +"Sweet are the blushes of thy face," and put +The robe upon her, having said, "Behold, +I have repented me; and oft by night, +In the waste wilderness, while all things slept, +I thought upon thy words, for they were sweet. + +"For this I make thee free. And now thyself +Art loveliest in mine eyes; I look, and lo! +Thou art of beauty more than any thought +I had concerning thee. Let, then, this robe, +Wrought on with imagery of fruitful bough, +And graceful leaf, and birds with tender eyes, +Cover the ripples of thy tawny hair." +So when she held her peace, he brought her nigh +To hear the speech of wedlock; ay, he took +The golden cup of wine to drink with her, +And laid the sheaf upon her arms. He said, +"Like as my fathers in the older days +Led home the daughters whom they chose, do I; +Like as they said, 'Mine honor have I set +Upon thy head!' do I. Eat of my bread, +Rule in my house, be mistress of my slaves, +And mother of my children." + And he brought +The damsel to his father, saying, "Behold +My wife! I have betrothed her to myself; +I pray you, kiss her." And the Master did: +He said, "Be mother of a multitude, +And let them to their father even so +Be found, as he is found to me." + With that +She answered, "Let this woman, sir, find grace +And favor in your sight." + And Japhet said, +"Sweet mother, I have wed the maid ye chose +And brought me first. I leave her in thy hand; +Have care on her, till I shall come again +And ask her of thee." So they went apart, +He and his father to the marriage feast. + + +BOOK IX. + +The prayer of Noah. The man went forth by night +And listened; and the earth was dark and still, +And he was driven of his great distress +Into the forest; but the birds of night +Sang sweetly; and he fell upon his face, +And cried, "God, God! Thy billows and Thy waves +Have swallowed up my soul. + + "Where is my God? +For I have somewhat yet to plead with Thee; +For I have walked the strands of Thy great deep, +Heard the dull thunder of its rage afar, +And its dread moaning. O, the field is sweet,-- +Spare it. The delicate woods make white their trees +With blossom,--spare them. Life is sweet; behold +There is much cattle, and the wild and tame, +Father, do feed in quiet,--spare them. + + "God! +Where is my God? The long wave doth not rear +Her ghostly crest to lick the forest up, +And like a chief in battle fall,--not yet. +The lightnings pour not down, from ragged holes +In heaven, the torment of their forkéd tongues, +And, like fell serpents, dart and sting,--not yet. +The winds awake not, with their awful wings +To winnow, even as chaff, from out their track, +All that withstandeth, and bring down the pride +Of all things strong and all things high-- + + "Not yet. +O, let it not be yet. Where is my God? +How am I saved, if I and mine be saved +Alone? I am not saved, for I have loved +My country and my kin. Must I, Thy thrall, +Over their lands be lord when they are gone? +I would not: spare them. Mighty. Spare Thyself, +For Thou dost love them greatly,--and if not ..." + +Another praying unremote, a Voice +Calm as the solitude between wide stars. + +"Where is my God, who loveth this lost world,-- +Lost from its place and name, but won for Thee? +Where is my multitude, my multitude, +That I shall gather?" And white smoke went up +From incense that was burning, but there gleamed +No light of fire, save dimly to reveal +The whiteness rising, as the prayer of him +That mourned. "My God, appear for me, appear; +Give me my multitude, for it is mine. +The bitterness of death I have not feared, +To-morrow shall Thy courts, O God, be full. +Then shall the captive from his bonds go free, +Then shall the thrall find rest, that knew not rest +From labor and from blows. The sorrowful-- +That said of joy, 'What is it?' and of songs, +'We have not heard them'--shall be glad and sing; +Then shall the little ones that knew not Thee, +And such as heard not of Thee, see Thy face, +And seeing, dwell content." + The prayer of Noah. +He cried out in the darkness, "Hear, O God, +Hear HIM: hear this one; through the gates of death, +If life be all past praying for, O give +To Thy great multitude a way to peace; +Give them to HIM. + + "But yet," said he, "O yet, +If there be respite for the terrible, +The proud, yea, such as scorn Thee,--and if not.... +Let not mine eyes behold their fall." + He cried, +"Forgive. I have not done Thy work, Great Judge, +With a perfect heart; I have but half believed, +While in accustomed language I have warned; +And now there is no more to do, no place +For my repentance, yea, no hour remains +For doing of that work again. O, lost, +Lost world!" And while he prayed, the daylight dawned. + +And Noah went up into the ship, and sat +Before the Lord. And all was still; and now +In that great quietness the sun came up, +And there were marks across it, as it were +The shadow of a Hand upon the sun,-- +Three fingers dark and dread, and afterward +There rose a white, thick mist, that peacefully +Folded the fair earth in her funeral shroud, +The earth that gave no token, save that now +There fell a little trembling under foot. + +And Noah went down, and took and hid his face +Behind his mantle, saying, "I have made +Great preparation, and it may be yet, +Beside my house, whom I did charge to come +This day to meet me, there may enter in +Many that yesternight thought scorn of all +My bidding." And because the fog was thick, +He said, "Forbid it, Heaven, if such there be, +That they should miss the way." And even then +There was a noise of weeping and lament; +The words of them that were affrighted, yea, +And cried for grief of heart. There came to him +The mother and her children, and they cried, +"Speak, father, what is this? What hast thou done?" +And when he lifted up his face, he saw +Japhet, his well-belovéd, where he stood +Apart; and Amarant leaned upon his breast, +And hid her face, for she was sore afraid; +And lo! the robes of her betrothal gleamed +White in the deadly gloom. + And at his feet +The wives of his two other sons did kneel, +And wring their hands. + + One cried, "O, speak to us; +We are affrighted; we have dreamed a dream, +Each to herself. For me, I saw in mine +The grave old angels, like to shepherds, walk, +Much cattle following them. Thy daughter looked, +And they did enter here." + The other lay +And moaned, "Alas! O father, for my dream +Was evil: lo, I heard when it was dark, +I heard two wicked ones contend for me. +One said, 'And wherefore should this woman live, +When only for her children, and for her, +Is woe and degradation?' Then he laughed, +The other crying, 'Let alone, O prince; +Hinder her not to live and bear much seed, +Because I hate her.'" + But he said, "Rise up, +Daughters of Noah, for I have learned no words +To comfort you." Then spake her lord to her, +"Peace! or I swear that for thy dream, myself +Will hate thee also." + And Niloiya said, +"My sons, if one of you will hear my words, +Go now, look out, and tell me of the day, +How fares it?" + And the fateful darkness grew. +But Shem went up to do his mother's will; +And all was one as though the frighted earth +Quivered and fell a-trembling; then they hid +Their faces every one, till he returned, +And spake not. "Nay," they cried, "what hast thou seen? +O, is it come to this?" He answered them, +"The door is shut." + + +NOTES TO "A STORY OF DOOM." + + +PAGE 358. + +The name of the patriarch's wife is intended to be pronounced +Nigh-loi-ya. + +Of the three sons of Noah,--Shem, Ham, and Japhet,--I have called +Japhet the youngest (because he is always named last), and have supposed +that, in the genealogies where he is called "Japhet the elder," +he may have received the epithet because by that time there were +younger Japhets. + + +PAGE 425. + + The quivering butterflies in companies, + That slowly crept adown the sandy marge, + Like _living crocus beds_. + +This beautiful comparison is taken from "The Naturalist on the +River Amazons." "Vast numbers of orange-colored butterflies congregated +on the moist sands. They assembled in densely-packed masses, +sometimes two or three yards in circumference, their wings +all held in an upright position, so that the sands looked as though +variegated with _beds of crocuses_." + + + + +THE END. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, +Volume II., by Jean Ingelow + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13224 *** diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ee97493 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #13224 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13224) diff --git a/old/13224-8.txt b/old/13224-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..97d5844 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/13224-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14983 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, +Volume II., by Jean Ingelow + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. 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 II. + +Author: Jean Ingelow + +Release Date: August 19, 2004 [EBook #13224] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS BY JEAN INGELOW, II *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland and PG Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + +[Illustration: MISS INGELOW'S FORMER HOME. + +BOSTON, LINCOLNSHIRE, ENG. + +ST. BOTOLPH'S CHURCH IN THE DISTANCE.] + + + + + +POEMS BY JEAN INGELOW + +VOLUME II. + + + + +_TO JEAN INGELOW. + + +When youth was high, and life was new +And days sped musical and fleet, +She stood amid the morning dew, +And sang her earliest measures sweet,-- +Sang as the lark sings, speeding fair +To touch and taste the purer air, +To gain a nearer view of Heaven; +'Twas then she sang "The Songs of Seven." + +Now, farther on in womanhood, +With trainèd voice and ripened art, +She gently stands where once she stood, +And sings from out her deeper heart. +Sing on, dear Singer! sing again; +And we will listen to the strain, +Till soaring earth greets bending Heaven, +And seven-fold songs grow seventy-seven. + +SUSAN COOLIDGE_ + + + + +POEMS + +BY + +JEAN INGELOW + +_IN TWO VOLUMES_ + +VOL. II. + + + + +BOSTON + +ROBERTS BROTHERS + +1896 + +AUTHOR'S COMPLETE EDITION. + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. II. + + +ROSAMUND +ECHO AND THE FERRY +PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING +KISMET +DORA +SPERANZA +THE BEGINNING +IN THE NURSERY +THE AUSTRALIAN BELL-BIRD +LOSS AND WASTE +ON A PICTURE +THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND +A MAID-MARTYR +A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST +LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE +THE WHITE MOON +AN ARROW-SLIT +WENDOVER +THE LOVER PLEADS +SONG IN THREE PARTS +'IF I FORGET THEE, O JERUSALEM' +NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE +PERDITA + + +SERIOUS POEMS, AND SONGS AND POEMS OF LOVE AND CHILDHOOD. + +LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING +THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN +THE SHEPHERD LADY + +POEMS ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. + HENRY + SAMUEL + KATIE + +THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT (IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL) + +HYMNS. + THE MEASURELESS GULFS OF AIR ARE FULL OF THEE + THOU WERT FAR OFF AND IN THE SIGHT OF HEAVEN + THICK ORCHARDS ALL IN WHITE + SWEET ARE HIS WAYS WHO RULES ABOVE + O NIGHT OF NIGHTS + DEAR IS THE LOST WIFE TO A LONE MAN'S HEART + WEEPING AND WAILING NEEDS MUST BE + JESUS, THE LAMB OF GOD + THOU HAST BEEN ALWAY GOOD TO ME + THOU THAT SLEEPEST NOT AFRAID + NOW WINTER PAST, THE WHITE-THORN BOWER + SUCH AS HAVE NOT GOLD TO BRING THEE + A MORN OF GUILT, AN HOUR OF DOOM + MARY OF MAGDALA + WOULD I, TO SAVE MY DEAR CHILD? + +AT ONE AGAIN + +SONNETS. + FANCY + COMPENSATION + LOOKING DOWN + WORK + WISHING + TO ---- + ON THE BORDERS OF CANNOCK CHASE + AN ANCIENT CHESS KING + COMFORT IN THE NIGHT + THOUGH ALL GREAT DEEDS + A SNOW MOUNTAIN + SLEEP + PROMISING + LOVE + FAILURE + +A BIRTHDAY WALK +NOT IN VAIN I WAITED +A GLEANING SONG +WITH A DIAMOND +MARRIED LOVERS +A WINTER SONG +BINDING SHEAVES +THE MARINER'S CAVE +A REVERIE +DEFTON WOOD +THE LONG WHITE SEAM +AN OLD WIFE'S SONG +COLD AND QUIET +SLEDGE BELLS +MIDSUMMER NIGHT, NOT DARK, NOT LIGHT +THE BRIDEGROOM TO HIS BRIDE +THE FAIRY WOMAN'S SONG +ABOVE THE CLOUDS +SLEEP AND TIME +BEES AND OTHER-FELLOW-CREATURES +THE GYPSY'S SELLING SONG +A WOOING SONG +A COURTING SONG +LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD +THE LEAVES OF LIGN ALOES +THE DAYS WITHOUT ALLOY +FEATHERS AND MOSS +ON THE ROCKS BY ABERDEEN +LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT +SONG FOR A BABE +GIVE US LOVE AND GIVE US PEACE + +THE TWO MARGARETS + MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE + MARGARET IN THE XEBEC + +A STORY OF DOOM + + + + +POEMS + + + + +ROSAMUND. + + +_His blew His winds, and they were scattered._ + +'One soweth and another reapeth.' + Ay, +Too true, too true. One soweth--unaware +Cometh a reaper stealthily while he dreams-- +Bindeth the golden sheaf, and in his bosom +As 't were between the dewfall and the dawn +Bears it away. Who other was to blame? +Is it I? Is it I?--No verily, not I, +'T was a good action, and I smart therefore; +Oblivion of a righteous enmity +Wrought me this wrong. I pay with my self ruth +That I had ruth toward mine enemy; +It needed not to slay mine enemy, +Only to let him lie and succourless +Drift to the foot o' the Everlasting Throne; +Being mine enemy, he had not accused +One of my nation there of unkind deeds +Or ought the way of war forbids. + Let be! +I will not think upon it. Yet she was-- +O, she was dear; my dutiful, dear child. +One soweth--Nay, but I will tell this out, +The first fyte was the best, I call it such +For now as some old song men think on it. + +I dwell where England narrows running north; +And while our hay was cut came rumours up +Humming and swarming round our heads like bees: + +'Drake from the bay of Cadiz hath come home, +And they are forth, the Spaniards with a force +Invincible.' + 'The Prince of Parma, couched +At Dunkirk, e'en by torchlight makes to toil +His shipwright thousands--thousands in the ports +Of Flanders and Brabant. An hundred hendes +Transports to his great squadron adding, all +For our confusion.' + 'England's great ally +Henry of France, by insurrection fallen, +Of him the said Prince Parma mocking cries, +He shall not help the Queen of England now +Not even with his tears, more needing them +To weep his own misfortune.' + Was that all +The truth? Not half, and yet it was enough +(Albeit not half that half was well believed), +For all the land stirred in the half belief +As dreamers stir about to wake; and now +Comes the Queen's message, all her lieges bid +To rise, 'lieftenants, and the better sort +Of gentlemen' whereby the Queen's grace meant, +As it may seem the sort that willed to rise +And arm, and come to aid her. + Distance wrought +Safety for us, my neighbours and near friends, +The peril lay along our channel coast +And marked the city, undefended fair +Rich London. O to think of Spanish mail +Ringing--of riotous conquerors in her street, +Chasing and frighting (would there were no more +To think on) her fair wives and her fair maids. +--But hope is fain to deem them forth of her. + +Then Spain to the sacking; then they tear away +Arras and carvèd work. O then they break +And toss, and mar her quaint orfèverie +Priceless--then split the wine kegs, spill the mead, +Trail out the pride of ages in the dust; +Turn over with pikes her silken merchandise, +Strip off the pictures of her kings, and spoil +Their palaces that nigh five hundred years +Have rued no alien footsteps on the floor, +And work--for the days of miracle are gone-- +All unimaginable waste and woe. + +Some cried, 'But England hath the better cause; +We think not those good days indeed are done; +We look to Heaven for aid on England's side.' +Then other, 'Nay, the harvest is above, +God comforts there His own, and ill men leaves +To run long scores up in this present world, +And pay in another. + Look not here for aid. +Latimer, poor old saint, died in the street +With nigh, men say, three hundred of his kind, +All bid to look for worse death after death, +Succourless, comfortless, unfriended, curst. +Mary, and Gardiner, and the Pope's man Pole +Died upon down, lulled in a silken shade, +Soothed with assurance of a waiting heaven, +And Peter peering through the golden gate, +With his gold key in 's hand to let them in.' + +'Nay, leave,' quoth I, 'the martyrs to their heaven, +And all who live the better that they died. +But look you now, a nation hath no heaven, +A nation's life and work and wickedness +And punishment--or otherwise, I say +A nation's life and goodness and reward +Are here. And in my nation's righteous cause +I look for aid, and cry, SO HELP ME GOD +As I will help my righteous nation now +With all the best I have, and know, and am, +I trust Thou wilt not let her light be quenched; +I go to aid, and if I fall--I fall, +And, God of nations, leave my soul to Thee.' + +Many did say like words, and all would give +Of gold, of weapons, and of horses that +They had to hand or on the spur o' the time +Could gather. My fair dame did sell her rings, +So others. And they sent us well equipped +Who minded to be in the coming fray +Whether by land or sea; my hope the last, +For I of old therewith was conversant. + +Then as we rode down southward all the land +Was at her harvesting. The oats were cut +Ere we were three days down, and then the wheat, +And the wide country spite of loathèd threat +Was busy. There was news to hearten us: +The Hollanders were coming roundly in +With sixty ships of war, all fierce, and full +Of spleen, for not alone our sake but theirs +Willing to brave encounter where they might. + +So after five days we did sight the Sound, +And look on Plymouth harbour from the hill. +Then I full glad drew bridle, lighted straight, +Ran down and mingled with a waiting crowd. + +Many stood gazing on the level deep +That scarce did tremble; 't was in hue as sloes +That hang till winter on a leafless bough, +So black bulged down upon it a great cloud +And probed it through and through with forkèd stabs +Incessant, and rolled on it thunder bursts +Till the dark water lowered as one afraid. + +That was afar. The land and nearer sea +Lay sweltering in hot sunshine. The brown beach +Scarce whispered, for a soft incoming tide +Was gentle with it. Green the water lapped +And sparkled at all edges. The night-heavens +Are not more thickly speckled o'er with stars +Than that fair harbour with its fishing craft. +And crowds of galleys shooting to and fro +Did feed the ships of war with their stout crews, +And bear aboard fresh water, furniture +Of war, much lesser victual, sallets, fruit, +All manner equipment for the squadron, sails, +Long spars. + Also was chaffering on the Hoe, +Buying and bargaining, taking of leave +With tears and kisses, while on all hands pushed +Tall lusty men with baskets on their heads +Piled of fresh bread, and biscuit newly drawn. + +Then shouts, 'The captains!' + Raleigh, Hawkins, Drake, +Old Martin Frobisher, and many more; +Howard, the Lord High Admiral, headed them-- +They coming leisurely from the bowling green, +Elbowed their way. For in their stoutness loth +To hurry when ill news first brake on them, +They playing a match ashore--ill news I say, +'The Spaniards are toward'--while panic-struck +The people ran about them, Drake cries out, +Knowing their fear should make the danger worse, +'Spaniards, my masters! Let the Spaniards wait. +Fall not a-shouting for the boats; is time +To play the match out, ay to win, and then +To beat the Spaniards.' + So the rest gave way +At his insistance, playing that afternoon +The bravest match (one saith) was ever scored. + +'T was no time lost; nay, not a moment lost; +For look you, when the winning cast was made, +The town was calm, the anchors were all up, +The boats were manned to row them each to his ship, +The lowering cloud in the offing had gone south +Against the wind, and all was work, stir, heed, +Nothing forgot, nor grudged, nor slurred, and most +Men easy at heart as those brave sailors seemed. + +And specially the women had put by +On a sudden their deep dread; yon Cornish coast +Neared of his insolency by the foe, +With his high seacastles numerous, seaforts +Many, his galleys out of number, manned +Each by three hundred slaves chained to the oar; +All his strong fleet of lesser ships, but great +As any of ours--why that same Cornish coast +Might have lain farther than the far west land, +So had a few stout-hearted looks and words +Wasted the meaning, chilled the menace of +That frightful danger, imminent, hard at hand. + +'The captains come, the captains!' and I turned +As they drew on. I marked the urgency +Flashing in each man's eye: fain to be forth +But willing to be held at leisure. Then +Cried a fair woman of the better sort +To Howard, passing by her pannier'd ass, +'Apples, Lord Admiral, good captains all, +Look you, red apples sharp and sweet are these,' + +Quoth he a little chafed, 'Let be, let be, +No time is this for bargaining, good dame. +Let be;' and pushing past, 'Beshrew thy heart +(And mine that I should say it), bargain! nay. +I meant not bargaining,' she falters; crying, +'I brought them my poor gift. Pray you now take, +Pray you.' + He stops, and with a childlike smile +That makes the dame amend, stoops down to choose, +While I step up that love not many words, +'What should he do,' quoth I, 'to help this need +That hath a bag of money, and good will?' +'Charter a ship,' he saith, nor e'er looks up, +'And put aboard her victual, tackle, shot, +Ought he can lay his hand on--look he give +Wide sea room to the Spanish hounds, make sail +For ships of ours, to ease of wounded men, +And succour with that freight he brings withal.' + +His foot, yet speaking, was aboard his boat, +His comrades, each red apples in the hand, +Come after, and with blessings manifold +Cheering, and cries, 'Good luck, good luck!' they speed. + +'T was three years three months past. + O yet methinks +I hear that thunder crash i' the offing; hear +Their words who when the crowd melted away +Gathered together. Comrades we of old, +About to adventure us at Howard's best +On the unsafe sea. For he, a Catholic, +As is my wife, and therefore my one child, +Detested and defied th' most Catholic King +Philip. He, trusted of her grace--and cause +She had, the nation following suit--he deemed, +'T was whisper'd, ay and Raleigh, and Francis Drake +No less, the event of battle doubtfuller +Than English tongue might own; the peril dread +As ought in this world ever can be deemed +That is not yet past praying for. + So far +So good. As birds awaked do stretch their wings +The ships did stretch forth sail, full clad they towered +And right into the sunset went, hull down +E'en with the sun. + To us in twilight left, +Glory being over, came despondent thought +That mocked men's eager act. From many a hill, +As if the land complained to Heaven, they sent +A towering shaft of murky incense high, +Livid with black despair in lieu of praise. +The green wood hissed at every beacon's edge +That widen'd fear. The smell of pitchpots fled +Far over the field, and tongues of fire leaped up, +Ay, till all England woke, and knew, and wailed. + +But we i' the night through that detested reek +Rode eastward. Every mariner's voice was given +'Gainst any fear for the western shires. The cry +Was all, 'They sail for Calais roads, and thence, +The goal is London.' + Nought slept, man nor beast. +Ravens and rooks flew forth, and with black wings, +Affrighted, swept our eyes. Pale eddying moths +Came by in crowds and whirled them on the flames. + +We rode till pierced those beacon fires the shafts +O' the sun, and their red smouldering ashes dulled. +Beside them, scorched, smoke-blackened, weary, leaned +Men that had fed them, dropped their tired arms +And dozed. + And also through that day we rode, +Till reapers at their nooning sat awhile +On the shady side of corn-shocks: all the talk +Of high, of low, or them that went or stayed +Determined but unhopeful; desperate +To strike a blow for England ere she fell. + +And ever loomed the Spaniard to our thought, +Still waxed the fame of that great Armament-- +New horsemen joining, swelled it more and more-- +Their bulky ship galleons having five decks, +Zabraes, pataches, galleys of Portugal, +Caravels rowed with oars, their galliasses +Vast, and complete with chapels, chambers, towers. +And in the said ships of free mariners +Eight thousand, and of slaves two thousand more, +An army twenty thousand strong. O then +Of culverin, of double culverin, +Ordnance and arms, all furniture of war, +Victual, and last their fierceness and great spleen, +Willing to founder, burn, split, wreck themselves, +But they would land, fight, overcome, and reign. + +Then would we count up England. Set by theirs, +Her fleet as walnut shells. And a few pikes +Stored in the belfries, and a few brave men +For wielding them. But as the morning wore, +And we went ever eastward, ever on, +Poured forth, poured down, a marching multitude +With stir about the towns; and waggons rolled +With offerings for the army and the fleet. +Then to our hearts valour crept home again, +The loathèd name of Alva fanning it; +Alva who did convert from our old faith +With many a black deed done for a white cause +(So spake they erewhile to it dedicate) +Them whom not death could change, nor fire, nor sword, +To thirst for his undoing. + +Ay, as I am a Christian man, our thirst +Was comparable with Queen Mary's. All +The talk was of confounding heretics, +The heretics the Spaniards. Yet methought, +'O their great multitude! Not harbour room +On our long coast for that great multitude. +They land--for who can let them--give us battle, +And after give us burial. Who but they, +For he that liveth shall be flying north +To bear off wife and child. Our very graves +Shall Spaniards dig, and in the daisied grass +Trample them down.' + Ay, whoso will be brave, +Let him be brave beforehand. After th' event +If by good pleasure of God it go as then +He shall be brave an' liketh him. I say +Was no man but that deadly peril feared. + +Nights riding two. Scant rest. Days riding three, +Then Foulkstone. Need is none to tell all forth +The gathering stores and men, the charter'd ship +That I, with two, my friends, got ready for sea. +Ready she was, so many another, small +But nimble; and we sailing hugged the shore, +Scarce venturing out, so Drake had willed, a league, +And running westward aye as best we might, +When suddenly--behold them! + On they rocked, +Majestical, slow, sailing with the wind. +O such a sight! O such a sight, mine eyes, +Never shall you see more! + In crescent form, +A vasty crescent nigh two leagues across +From horn to horn, the lesser ships within, +The great without, they did bestride as 't were +And make a township on the narrow seas. + +It was about the point of dawn: and light. +All grey the sea, and ghostly grey the ships; +And after in the offing rocked our fleet, +Having lain quiet in the summer dark. + +O then methought, 'Flash, blessed gold of dawn, +And touch the topsails of our Admiral, +That he may after guide an emulous flock, +Old England's innocent white bleating lambs. +Let Spain within a pike's length hear them bleat, +Delivering of their pretty talk in a tongue +Whose meaning cries not for interpreter.' + +And while I spoke, their topsails, friend and foe, +Glittered--and there was noise of guns; pale smoke +Lagged after, curdling on the sun-fleck'd main. +And after that? What after that, my soul? +Who ever saw weakling white butterflies +Chasing of gallant swans, and charging them, +And spitting at them long red streaks of flame? +We saw the ships of England even so +As in my vaunting wish that mocked itself +With 'Fool, O fool, to brag at the edge of loss.' +We saw the ships of England even so +Run at the Spaniards on a wind, lay to, +Bespatter them with hail of battle, then +Take their prerogative of nimble steerage, +Fly off, and ere the enemy, heavy in hand, +Delivered his reply to the wasteful wave +That made its grave of foam, race out of range, +Then tack and crowd all sail, and after them +Again. + So harassed they that mighty foe, +Moving in all its bravery to the east. +And some were fine with pictures of the saints, +Angels with flying hair and peakèd wings, +And high red crosses wrought upon their sails; +From every mast brave flag or ensign flew, +And their long silken pennons serpented +Loose to the morning. And the galley slaves, +Albeit their chains did clink, sang at the oar. + +The sea was striped e'en like a tiger skin +With wide ship wakes. + And many cried, amazed, +'What means their patience?' + 'Lo you,' others said, +'They pay with fear for their great costliness. +Some of their costliest needs must other guard; +Once guarded and in port look to yourselves, +They count one hundred and fifty. It behoves +Better they suffer this long running fight-- +Better for them than that they give us battle, +And so delay the shelter of their roads. + +'Two of their caravels we sank, and one +(Fouled with her consort in the rigging) took +Ere she could catch the wind when she rode free. +And we have riddled many a sail, and split +Of spars a score or two. What then? To-morrow +They look to straddle across the strait, and hold +Having aye Calais for a shelter--hold +Our ships in fight. To-morrow shall give account +For our to-day. They will not we pass north +To meddle with Parma's flotilla; their hope +Being Parma, and a convoy they would be +For his flat boats that bode invasion to us; +And if he reach to London--ruin, defeat.' + +Three fleets the sun went down on, theirs of fame +Th' Armada. After space old England's few; +And after that our dancing cockle-shells, +The volunteers. They took some pride in us, +For we were nimble, and we brought them powder, +Shot, weapons. They were short of these. Ill found, +Ill found. The bitter fruit of evil thrift. +But while obsequious, darting here and there, +We took their messages from ship to ship, +From ship to shore, the moving majesties +Made Calais Roads, cast anchor, all their less +In the middle ward; their greater ships outside +Impregnable castles fearing not assault. + +So did we read their thought, and read it wrong, +While after the running fight we rode at ease, +For many (as is the way of Englishmen) +Having made light of our stout deeds, and light +O' the effects proceeding, saw these spread +To view. The Spanish Admiral's mighty host, +Albeit not broken, harass'd. + Some did tow +Others that we had plagued, disabled, rent; +Many full heavily damaged made their berths. + +Then did the English anchor out of range. +To close was not their wisdom with such foe, +Rather to chase him, following in the rear. +Ay, truly they were giants in our eyes +And in our own. They took scant heed of us, +And we looked on, and knew not what to think, +Only that we were lost men, a lost Isle, +In every Spaniard's mind, both great and small. + +But no such thought had place in Howard's soul, +And when 't was dark, and all their sails were furled, +When the wind veered a few points to the west, +And the tide turned ruffling along the roads, +He sent eight fireships forging down to them. + +Terrible! Terrible! + Blood-red pillars of reek +They looked on that vast host and troubled it, +As on th' Egyptian host One looked of old. + +Then all the heavens were rent with a great cry, +The red avengers went right on, right on, +For none could let them; then was ruin, reek, flame; +Against th' unwieldy huge leviathans +They drave, they fell upon them as wild beasts, +And all together they did plunge and grind, +Their reefed sails set a-blazing, these flew loose +And forth like banners of destruction sped. +It was to look on as the body of hell +Seething; and some, their cables cut, ran foul +Of one the other, while the ruddy fire +Sped on aloft. One ship was stranded. One +Foundered, and went down burning; all the sea +Red as an angry sunset was made fell +With smoke and blazing spars that rode upright, +For as the fireships burst they scattered forth +Full dangerous wreckage. All the sky they scored +With flying sails and rocking masts, and yards +Licked of long flames. And flitting tinder sank +In eddies on the plagued mixed mob of ships +That cared no more for harbour, and were fain +At any hazard to be forth, and leave +Their berths in the blood-red haze. + + It was at twelve +O' the clock when this fell out, for as the eight +Were towed, and left upon the friendly tide +To stalk like evil angels over the deep +And stare upon the Spaniards, we did hear +Their midnight bells. It was at morning dawn +After our mariners thus had harried them +I looked my last upon their fleet,--and all, +That night had cut their cables, put to sea, +And scattering wide towards the Flemish coast +Did seem to make for Greveline. + + As for us, +The captains told us off to wait on them, +Bearers of wounded enemies and friends, +Bearers of messages, bearers of store. + +We saw not ought, but heard enough: we heard +(And God be thanked) of that long scattering chase +And driving of Sidonia from his hope, +Parma, who could not ought without his ships +And looked for them to break the Dutch blockade, +He meanwhile chafing lion-like in his lair. +We heard--and he--for all one summer day, +Fenning and Drake and Raynor, Fenton, Cross, +And more, by Greveline, where they once again +Did get the wind o' the Spaniards, noise of guns. +For coming with the wind, wielding themselves +Which way they listed (while in close array +The Spaniards stood but on defence), our own +Went at them, charged them high and charged them sore, +And gave them broadside after broadside. Ay, +Till all the shot was spent both great and small. +It failed; and in regard of that same want +They thought it not convenient to pursue +Their vessels farther. + They were huge withal, +And might not be encountered one to one, +But close conjoined they fought, and poured great store +Of ordnance at our ships, though many of theirs, +Shot thorow and thorow, scarce might keep afloat. + +Many were captured fighting, many sank. +This news they brought returned perforce, and left +The Spaniards forging north. Themselves did watch +The river mouth, till Howard, his new store +Gathered, encounter coveting, once more +Made after them with Drake. + And lo! the wind +Got up to help us. He yet flying north +(Their doughty Admiral) made all his wake +To smoke, and would not end to fight, but strewed +The ocean with his wreckage. And the wind +Drave him before it, and the storm was fell, +And he went up to th' uncouth northern sea. +There did our mariners leave him. Then did joy +Run like a sunbeam over the land, and joy +Rule in the stout heart of a regnant Queen. + +But now the counsel came, 'Every man home, +For after Scotland rounded, when he curves +Southward, and all the batter'd armament, +What hinders on our undefended coast +To land where'er he listeth? Every man +Home.' + And we mounted and did open forth +Like a great fan, to east, to north, to west, +And rumour met us flying, filtering +Down through the border. News of wicked joy, +The wreckers rich in the Faroes, and the Isles +Orkney, and all the clansmen full of gear +Gathered from helpless mariners tempted in +To their undoing; while a treacherous crew +Let the storm work upon their lives its will, +Spoiled them and gathered all their riches up. +Then did they meet like fate from Irish kernes, +Who dealt with them according to their wont. + +In a great storm of wind that tore green leaves +And dashed them wet upon me, came I home. +Then greeted me my dame, and Rosamund, +Our one dear child, the heir of these my fields-- +That I should sigh to think it! There, no more. + +Being right weary I betook me straight +To longed-for sleep, and I did dream and dream +Through all that dolourous storm; though noise of guns +Daunted the country in the moonless night, +Yet sank I deep and deeper in the dream +And took my fill of rest. + A voice, a touch, +'Wake.' Lo! my wife beside me, her wet hair +She wrung with her wet hands, and cried, 'A ship! +I have been down the beach. O pitiful! +A Spanish ship ashore between the rocks, +And none to guide our people. Wake.' + Then I +Raised on mine elbow looked; it was high day; +In the windy pother seas came in like smoke +That blew among the trees as fine small rain, +And then the broken water sun-besprent +Glitter'd, fell back and showed her high and fast +A caravel, a pinnace that methought +To some great ship had longed; her hap alone +Of all that multitude it was to drive +Between this land of England her right foe, +And that most cruel, where (for all their faith +Was one) no drop of water mote they drink +For love of God nor love of gold. + I rose +And hasted; I was soon among the folk, +But late for work. The crew, spent, faint, and bruised +Saved for the most part of our men, lay prone +In grass, and women served them bread and mead, +Other the sea laid decently alone +Ready for burial. And a litter stood +In shade. Upon it lying a goodly man, +The govourner or the captain as it seemed, +Dead in his stiff gold-broider'd bravery, +And epaulet and sword. They must have loved +That man, for many had died to bring him in, +Their boats stove in were stranded here and there. +In one--but how I know not--brought they him, +And he was laid upon a folded flag, +Many times doubled for his greater ease, +That was our thought--and we made signs to them +He should have sepulture. But when they knew +They must needs leave him, for some marched them off +For more safe custody, they made great moan. + +After, with two my neighbours drawing nigh, +One of them touched the Spaniard's hand and said, +'Dead is he but not cold;' the other then, +'Nay in good truth methinks he be not dead.' +Again the first, 'An' if he breatheth yet +He lies at his last gasp.' And this went off, +And left us two, that by the litter stayed, +Looking on one another, and we looked +(For neither willed to speak), and yet looked on. +Then would he have me know the meet was fixed +For nine o' the clock, and to be brief with you +He left me. And I had the Spaniard home. +What other could be done? I had him home. +Men on his litter bare him, set him down +In a fair chamber that was nigh the hall. + +And yet he waked not from his deathly swoon, +Albeit my wife did try her skill, and now +Bad lay him on a bed, when lo the folds +Of that great ensign covered store of gold, +Rich Spanish ducats, raiment, Moorish blades +Chased in right goodly wise, and missals rare, +And other gear. I locked it for my part +Into an armoury, and that fair flag +(While we did talk full low till he should end) +Spread over him. Methought, the man shall die +Under his country's colours; he was brave, +His deadly wound to that doth testify. + +And when 't was seemly order'd, Rosamund, +My daughter, who had looked not yet on death, +Came in, a face all marvel, pity, and dread-- +Lying against her shoulder sword-long flowers, +White hollyhocks to cross upon his breast. +Slowly she turned as of that sight afeard, +But while with daunted heart she moved anigh, +His eyelids quiver'd, quiver'd then the lip, +And he, reviving, with a sob looked up +And set on her the midnight of his eyes. + +Then she, in act to place the burial gift +Bending above him, and her flaxen hair +Fall'n to her hand, drew back and stood upright +Comely and tall, her innocent fair face +Cover'd with blushes more of joy than shame. +'Father,' she cried, 'O father, I am glad. +Look you! the enemy liveth.' ''T is enough, +My maiden,' quoth her mother, 'thou may'st forth, +But say an Avè first for him with me.' + +Then they with hands upright at foot o' his bed +Knelt, his dark dying eyes at gaze on them, +Till as I think for wonder at them, more +Than for his proper strength, he could not die. + +So in obedient wise my daughter risen, +And going, let a smile of comforting cheer +Lift her sweet lip, and that was all of her +For many a night and day that he beheld. + +And then withal my dame, a leech of skill, +Tended the Spaniard fain to heal his wound, +Her women aiding at their best. And he +'Twixt life and death awaken'd in the night +Full oft in his own tongue would make his moan, +And when he whisper'd any word I knew, +If I was present, for to pleasure him, +Then made I repetition of the same. +'Cordova,' quoth he faintly, 'Cordova,' +'T was the first word he mutter'd. 'Ay, we know,' +Quoth I, 'the stoutness of that fight ye made +Against the Moors and their Mahometry, +And dispossess'd the men of fame, the fierce +Khalifs of Cordova--thy home belike, +Thy city. A fair city Cordova.' + +Then after many days, while his wound healed, +He with abundant seemly sign set forth +His thanks, but as for language had we none, +And oft he strove and failed to let us know +Some wish he had, but could not, so a week, +Two weeks went by. Then Rosamund my girl, +Hearing her mother plain on this, she saith, +'So please you, madam, show the enemy +A Psalter in our English tongue, and fetch +And give him that same book my father found +Wrapped in the ensign. Are they not the same +Those holy words? The Spaniard being devout, +He needs must know them.' + 'Peace, thou pretty fool! +Is this a time to teach an alien tongue?' +Her mother made for answer. 'He is sick, +The Spaniard.' 'Cry you mercy,' quoth my girl, +'But I did think 't were easy to let show +How both the Psalters are of meaning like; +If he know Latin, and 't is like he doth, +So might he choose a verse to tell his thought.' + +Then said I (ay, I did!) 'The girl shall try,' +And straight I took her to the Spaniard's side, +And he, admiring at her, all his face +Changed to a joy that almost showed as fear, +So innocent holy she did look, so grave +Her pitiful eyes. + She sat beside his bed, +He covered with the ensign yet; and took +And showed the Psalters both, and she did speak +Her English words, but gazing was enough +For him at her sweet dimple, her blue eyes +That shone, her English blushes. Rosamund, +My beautiful dear child. He did but gaze, +And not perceive her meaning till she touched +His hand, and in her Psalter showed the word. + +Then was all light to him; he laughed for joy, +And took the Latin Missal. O full soon, +Alas, how soon, one read the other's thought! +Before she left him, she had learned his name +Alonzo, told him hers, and found the care +Made night and day uneasy--Cordova, +There dwelt his father, there his kin, nor knew +Whether he lived or died, whether in thrall +To the Islanders for lack of ransom pined +Or rued the galling yoke of slavery. + +So did he cast him on our kindness. I-- +And care not who may know it--I was kind, +And for that our stout Queen did think foul scorn +To kill the Spanish prisoners, and to guard +So many could not, liefer being to rid +Our country of them than to spite their own, +I made him as I might that matter learn, +Eking scant Latin with my daughter's wit, +And told him men let forth and driven forth +Did crowd our harbours for the ports of Spain, +By one of whom, he, with good aid of mine, +Should let his tidings go, and I plucked forth +His ducats that a meet reward might be. +Then he, the water standing in his eyes, +Made old King David's words due thanks convey. + +Then Rosamund, this all made plain, arose +And curtsey'd to the Spaniard. Ah, methinks +I yet behold her, gracious, innocent, +And flaxen-haired, and blushing maidenly, +When turning she retired, and his black eyes, +That hunger'd after her, did follow on; +And I bethought me, 'Thou shalt see no more, +Thou goodly enemy, my one ewe lamb.' + +O, I would make short work of this. The wound +Healed, and the Spaniard rose, then could he stand, +And then about his chamber walk at ease. + +Now we had counsell'd how to have him home, +And that same trading vessel beating up +The Irish Channel at my will, that same +I charter'd for to serve me in the war, +Next was I minded should mine enemy +Deliver to his father, and his land. +Daily we looked for her, till in our cove, +Upon that morn when first the Spaniard walked, +Behold her rocking; and I hasted down +And left him waiting in the house. + Woe 's me! +All being ready speed I home, and lo +My Rosamund, that by the Spaniard sat +Upon a cushion'd settle, book in hand. +I needs must think how in the deep alcove +Thick chequer'd shadows of the window-glass +Did fall across her kirtle and her locks, +For I did see her thus no more. + She held +Her Psalter, and he his, and slowly read +Till he would stop her at the needed word. +'O well is thee,' she read, my Rosamund, +'O well is thee, and happy shalt thou be. +Thy wife--' and there he stopped her, and he took +And kissed her hand, and show'd in 's own a ring, +Taking no heed of me, no heed at all. + +Then I burst forth, the choler red i' my face +When I did see her blush, and put it on. +'Give me,' quoth I, and Rosamund, afraid, +Gave me the ring. I set my heel on it, +Crushed it, and sent the rubies scattering forth, +And did in righteous anger storm at him. +'What! what!' quoth I, 'before her father's eyes, +Thou universal villain, thou ingrate, +Thou enemy whom I shelter'd, fed, restored, +Most basest of mankind!' And Rosamund, +Arisen, her forehead pressed against mine arm, +And 'Father,' cries she, 'father.' + And I stormed +At him, while in his Spanish he replied +As one would speak me fair. 'Thou Spanish hound!' +'Father,' she pleaded. 'Alien vile,' quoth I, +'Plucked from the death, wilt thou repay me thus? +It is but three times thou hast set thine eyes +On this my daughter.' 'Father,' moans my girl; +And I, not willing to be so withstood, +Spoke roughly to her. Then the Spaniard's eyes +Blazed--then he stormed at me in his own tongue, +And all his Spanish arrogance and pride +Broke witless on my wrathful English. Then +He let me know, for I perceived it well, +He reckon'd him mine equal, thought foul scorn +Of my displeasure, and was wroth with me +As I with him. 'Father,' sighed Rosamund. +'Go, get thee to thy mother, girl,' quoth I. +And slowly, slowly, she betook herself +Down the long hall; in lowly wise she went +And made her moans. + But when my girl was gone +I stood at fault, th' occasion master'd me; +Belike it master'd him, for both felt mute. +I calmed me, and he calmed him as he might. +For I bethought me I was yet an host, +And he bethought him on the worthiness +Of my first deeds. + So made I sign to him. +The tide was up, and soon I had him forth, +Delivered him his goods, commended him +To the captain o' the vessel, then plucked off +My hat, in seemly fashion taking leave, +And he was not outdone, but every way +Gave me respect, and on the deck we two +Parted, as I did hope, to meet no more. + +Alas! my Rosamund, my Rosamund! +She did not weep, no. Plain upon me, no. +Her eyes mote well have lost the trick of tears: +As new-washed flowers shake off the down-dropt rain, +And make denial of it, yet more blue +And fair of favour afterward, so they. +The wild woodrose was not more fresh of blee +Than her soft dimpled cheek: but I beheld, +Come home, a token hung about her neck, +Sparkling upon her bosom for his sake, +Her love, the Spaniard, she denied it not, +All unaware, good sooth, such love was bale. + +And all that day went like another day, +Ay, all the next; then was I glad at heart; +Methought, 'I am glad thou wilt not waste thy youth +Upon an alien man, mine enemy, +Thy nation's enemy. In truth, in truth, +This likes me very well. My most dear child, +Forget yon grave dark mariner. The Lord +Everlasting,' I besought, 'bring it to pass.' + +Stealeth a darker day within my hall, +A winter day of wind and driving foam. +They tell me that my girl is sick--and yet +Not very sick. I may not hour by hour, +More than one watching of a moon that wanes, +Make chronicle of change. A parlous change +When he looks back to that same moon at full. + +Ah! ah! methought, 't will pass. It did not pass, +Though never she made moan. I saw the rings +Drop from her small white wasted hand. And I, +Her father, tamed of grief, I would have given +My land, my name to have her as of old. +Ay, Rosamund I speak of with the small +White face. Ay, Rosamund. O near as white, +And mournfuller by much, her mother dear +Drooped by her couch; and while of hope and fear +Lifted or left, as by a changeful tide, +We thought 'The girl is better,' or we thought +'The girl will die,' that jewel from her neck +She drew, and prayed me send it to her love; +A token she was true e'en to the end. +What matter'd now? But whom to send, and how +To reach the man? I found an old poor priest, +Some peril 't was for him and me, she writ +My pretty Rosamund her heart's farewell, +She kissed the letter, and that old poor priest, +Who had eaten of my bread, and shelter'd him +Under my roof in troublous times, he took, +And to content her on this errand went, +While she as done with earth did wait the end. + +Mankind bemoan them on the bitterness +Of death. Nay, rather let them chide the grief +Of living, chide the waste of mother-love +For babes that joy to get away to God; +The waste of work and moil and thought and thrift +And father-love for sons that heed it not, +And daughters lost and gone. Ay, let them chide +These. Yet I chide not. That which I have done +Was rightly done; and what thereon befell +Could make no right a wrong, e'en were 't to do +Again. + I will be brief. The days drag on, +My soul forebodes her death, my lonely age. +Once I despondent in the moaning wood +Look out, and lo a caravel at sea, +A man that climbs the rock, and presently +The Spaniard! + I did greet him, proud no more. +He had braved durance, as I knew, ay death, +To land on th' Island soil. In broken words +Of English he did ask me how she fared. +Quoth I, 'She is dying, Spaniard; Rosamund +My girl will die;' but he is fain, saith he, +To talk with her, and all his mind to speak; +I answer, 'Ay, my whilome enemy, +But she is dying.' 'Nay, now nay,' quoth he, +'So be she liveth,' and he moved me yet +For answer; then quoth I, 'Come life, come death, +What thou wilt, say.' + Soon made we Rosamund +Aware, she lying on the settle, wan +As a lily in the shade, and while she not +Believed for marvelling, comes he roundly in, +The tall grave Spaniard, and with but one smile, +One look of ruth upon her small pale face, +All slowly as with unaccustom'd mouth, +Betakes him to that English he hath conned, +Setting the words out plain: + 'Child! Rosamund! +Love! An so please thee, I would be thy man. +By all the saints will I be good to thee. +Come.' + Come! what think you, would she come? Ay, ay. +They love us, but our love is not their life. +For the dark mariner's love lived Rosamund. +Soon for his kiss she bloomed, smiled for his smile. +(The Spaniard reaped e'en as th' Evangel saith, +And bore in 's bosom forth my golden sheaf.) +She loved her father and her mother well, +But loved the Spaniard better. It was sad +To part, but she did part; and it was far +To go, but she did go. The priest was brought, +The ring was bless'd that bound my Rosamund, +She sailed, and I shall never see her more. + +One soweth and another reapeth. Ay, +Too true! too true! + + + + +ECHO AND THE FERRY. + + +Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven; +He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood. +They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven! +A small guest at the farm); but he said, 'Oh, a girl was no good!' +So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood. +It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl--only seven! +At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out. +The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue birds flash'd about, +And they too were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven? +I thought so. Yes, everyone else was eleven--eleven! + +So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet, +And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was litter'd; +And under and over the branches those little birds twitter'd, +While hanging head downwards they scolded because I was seven. +A pity. A very great pity. One should be eleven. + +But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet, +And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old. +Then I knew! for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold! +Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter; +And then some one else--oh, how softly!--came after, came after +With laughter--with laughter came after. + +And no one was near us to utter that sweet mocking call, +That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall. +But this was the country--perhaps it was close under heaven; +Oh, nothing so likely; the voice might have come from it even. +I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of this +Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings not at all. +Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver: +She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small, +Then flashed down her hole like a dart--like a dart from the quiver. +And I waded atween the long grasses and felt it was bliss. + +--So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiver +And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall +White branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall-- +A little low wall--and looked over, and there was the river, +The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river +Clear shining and slow, she had far far to go from her snow; +But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow, +And she murmur'd, methought, with a speech very soft--very low. +'The ways will be long, but the days will be long,' quoth the river, +'To me a long liver, long, long!' quoth the river--the river. + +I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky, +The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under. +But at last--in a day or two namely--Eleven and I +Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder. +He said that was Echo. 'Was Echo a wise kind of bee +That had learned how to laugh: could it laugh in one's ear and then fly +And laugh again yonder?' 'No; Echo'--he whispered it low-- +'Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see +And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he, +But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder. +Yet I that had money--a shilling, a whole silver shilling-- +We might cross if I thought I would spend it.' 'Oh yes, I was willing'-- +And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry, +And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merry +When they called for the ferry; but oh! she was very--was very +Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when Oliver cried, +'Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry--the ferry!' +By the still water's side she was heard far and wide--she replied +And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, 'You man of the ferry, +You man of--you man of the ferry!' + +'Hie over!' he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling, +Across the clear reed-border'd river he ferried us fast;-- +Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpass'd +All measure her doubling--so close, then so far away falling, +Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware, +And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was there!), +Nor behold her wild eyes and her mystical countenance fair. + +We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead; +In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead; +By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow deep-nested, in brown-- +Not Echo, fair Echo! for Echo, sweet Echo! was flown. +So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call. +The church was among them, grey moss over roof, over wall. +Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green grassy mound +And looked in at a window, for Echo, perhaps, in her round +Might have come in to hide there. But no; every oak-carven seat +Was empty. We saw the great Bible--old, old, very old, +And the parson's great Prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beat +Of the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear gold +Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle and then waver and play +On the low chancel step and the railing, and Oliver said, +'Look, Katie! look, Katie! when Lettice came here to be wed +She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown; +And she stepped upon flowers they strew'd for her.' Then quoth small Seven: +'Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?' +All doubtful: 'It takes a long time to grow up,' quoth Eleven; +'You're so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never +Last on till you're tall.' And in whispers--because it was old +And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told, +Full of old parsons' prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk, +Neither heard nor beheld, but about us, in whispers we spoke. +Then we went from it softly and ran hand in hand to the strand, +While bleating of flocks and birds' piping made sweeter the land. +And Echo came back e'en as Oliver drew to the ferry, +'O Katie!' 'O Katie!' 'Come on, then!' 'Come on, then!' 'For, see, +The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree'--'by the tree.' +'By the tree.' Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and merry: +'Hie over!' 'Hie over!' 'You man of the ferry'--'the ferry.' + 'You man of the ferry-- + You man of--you man of--the ferry.' + +Ay, here--it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old; +All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told. +Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white +To that little low church? and will Oliver meet me anon? +Will it all seem an echo from childhood pass'd over--pass'd on? +Will the grave parson bless us? Hark, hark! in the dim failing light +I hear her! As then the child's voice clear and high, sweet and merry +Now she mocks the man's tone with 'Hie over! Hie over the ferry!' +'And, Katie.' 'And, Katie.' 'Art out with the glow-worms to-night, +My Katie?' 'My Katie?' For gladness I break into laughter +And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years; +Again, some one else--oh, how softly!--with laughter comes after, + Comes after--with laughter comes after. + + + + +PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. + + +_A Schoolroom._ + +_SCHOOLMASTER (_not certificated_), VICAR, _and_ CHILD. + + _VICAR_. Why did you send for me? I hope all's +right? + + _Schoolmaster_. Well, sir, we thought this end o' the room +was dark. + + _V_. Indeed! So 't is. There's my new study lamp-- + + _S_. 'T would stand, sir, well beside yon laurel wreath. +Shall I go fetch it? + + _V._ Do, we must not fail. +Bring candles also. + +[_Exit Schoolmaster. Vicar arranges chairs._ + + Now, small six years old, +And why may you be here? + + _Child._ I'm helping father; +But, father, why d'you take such pains? + + _V._ Sweet soul, +That's what I'm for! + + _C._ What, and for nothing else? + + _V._ Yes! I'm to bring thee up to be a man. + + _C._ And what am I for? + + _V._ There, I'm busy now. + + _C._ Am I to bring you up to be a child? + + _V._ Perhaps! Indeed, I have heard it said thou art. + + _C._ Then when may I begin? + + _V._ I'm busy, I say. +Begin to-morrow an thou canst, my son, +And mind to do it well. + +[_Exit Vicar and Child._ + +_Enter a group of women, and some children._ + + _Mrs. Thorpe._ Fine lot o' lights! + + _Mrs. Jillifer._ Should be! Would folk put on their Sunday best +I' the week unless they looked to have it seen? +What, you here, neighbour! + + _Mrs. Smith._ Ay, you may say that. +Old Madam called; said she, 'My son would feel +So sorry if you did not come,' and slipped +The penny in my hand, she did; said I, +'Ma'am, that's not it. In short, some say your last +Was worth the penny and more. I know a man, +A sober man, who said, and stuck to it, +_Worth a good twopence_. But I'm strange, I'm shy.' +'We hope you'll come for once,' said she. In short, +I said I would to oblige 'em. + + _Mrs. Green_. Ah, 't was well. + + _Mrs. S_. But I feel strange, and music gets i' my throat, +It always did. And singers be so smart, +Ladies and folk from other parishes, +Candles and cheering, greens and flowers and all +I was not used to such in my young day; +We kept ourselves at home. + + _Mrs. J_. Never say 'used,' +The most of us have many a thing to do +We were not used to. If you come to that, +Why none of us are used to growing old, +It takes us by surprise, as one may say, +That work, when we begin 't, and yet 't is work +That all of us must do. + + _Mrs. G_. Nay, nay, not all. + + _Mrs. J_. I ask your pardon, neighbour; you be right. Not all. + + _Mrs. G_. And my sweet maid scarce three months dead. + + _Mrs. J_. I ask your pardon truly. + + _Mrs. G_. No, my dear, +Thou'lt never see old days. I cannot stint +To fret, the maiden was but twelve years old, +So toward, such a scholar. + + _Mrs. S._ Ay, when God, +That knows, comes down to choose, He'll take the best. + + _Mrs. T._ But I'm right glad you came, it pleases _them_. +My son, that loves his book, 'Mother,' said he, +'Go to the Reading when you have a chance, +For there you get a change, and you see life.' +But Reading or no Reading, I am slow +To learn. When parson after comes his rounds, +'Did it,' to ask with a persuading smile, +'Open your mind?' the woman doth not live +Feels more a fool. + + _Mrs. J._ I always tell him 'Yes,' +For he means well. Ay, and I like the songs. +Have you heard say what they shall read to-night? + + _Mrs. S._. Neighbour, I hear 'tis something of the East. +But what, I ask you, is the East to us, +And where d'ye think it lies? + + _Mrs. J._ The children know, +At least they say they do; there's nothing deep +Nor nothing strange but they get hold on it. + +_Enter Schoolmaster and a dozen children._ + + _S._ Now ladies, ladies, you must please to sit +More close; the room fills fast, and all these lads +And maidens either have to sing before +The Reading, or else after. By your leave +I'll have them in the front, I want them here. + +[_The women make room._ + +_Enter ploughmen, villagers, servants, and children._ + +And mark me, boys, if I hear cracking o' nuts, +Or see you flicking acorns and what not +While folks from other parishes observe, +You'll hear on it when you don't look to. Tom +And Jemmy and Roger, sing as loud's ye can, +Sing as the maidens do, are they afraid? +And now I'm stationed handy facing you, +Friends all, I'll drop a word by your good leave. + + _Young ploughman._ Do, master, do, we like your words a vast. +Though there be nought to back 'em up, ye see, +As when we were smaller. + + _S._ Mark me, then, my lads. +When Lady Laura sang, 'I don't think much,' +Says her fine coachman, 'of your manners here. +We drove eleven miles in the dark, it rained, +And ruts in your cross roads are deep. We're here, +My lady sings, they sit all open-mouthed, +And when she's done they never give one cheer.' + + _Old man._ Be folks to clap if they don't like the song? + + _S._ Certain, for manners. + +_Enter_ VICAR, _wife, various friends with violins and a flute. +They come to a piano, and one begins softly to tune his +violin, while the Vicar speaks_. + +_V_. Friends, since there is a place where you must hear +When I stand up to speak, I would not now +If there were any other found to bid +You welcome. Welcome, then; these with me ask +No better than to please, and in good sooth +I ever find you willing to be pleased. +When I demand not more, but when we fain +Would lead you to some knowledge fresh, and ask +Your careful heed, I hear that some of you +Have said, 'What good to know, what good to us? +He puts us all to school, and our school days +Should be at end. Nay, if they needs must teach, +Then let them teach us what shall mend our lot; +The laws are strict on us, the world is hard.' +You friends and neighbours, may I dare to speak? +I know the laws are strict, and the world hard, +For ever will the world help that man up +That is already coming up, and still +And ever help him down that's going down. +Yet say, 'I will take the words out of thy mouth, +O world, being yet more strict with mine own life. +Thou law, to gaze shall not be worth thy while +On whom beyond thy power doth rule himself.' +Yet seek to know, for whoso seek to know +They seek to rise, and best they mend their lot. +Methinks, if Adam and Eve in their garden days +Had scorned the serpent, and obediently +Continued God's good children, He Himself +Had led them to the Tree of Knowledge soon +And bid them eat the fruit thereof, and yet +Not find it apples of death. + + _Vicar's wife (aside)._ Now, dearest John, +We're ready. Lucky too! you always go +Above the people's heads. + +_Young farmer stands forward. Vicar presenting him._ + + +SONG. + + I. + + Sparkle of snow and of frost, + Blythe air and the joy of cold, + Their grace and good they have lost, + As print o' her foot by the fold. + Let me back to yon desert sand, + Rose-lipped love--from the fold, + Flower-fair girl--from the fold, + Let me back to the sultry land. + The world is empty of cheer, + Forlorn, forlorn, and forlorn, + As the night-owl's sob of fear, + As Memnon moaning at morn. + For love of thee, my dear, + I have lived a better man, + O my Mary Anne, + My Mary Anne. + + II. + + Away, away, and away, + To an old palm-land of tombs, + Washed clear of our yesterday + And where never a snowdrop blooms, + Nor wild becks talk as they go + Of tender hope we had known, + Nor mosses of memory grow + All over the wayside stone. + + III. + + Farewell, farewell, and farewell, + As voice of a lover's sigh + In the wind let yon willow wave + 'Farewell, farewell, and farewell.' + The sparkling frost-stars brave + On thy shrouded bosom lie; + Thou art gone apart to dwell, + But I fain would have said good-bye. + For love of thee in thy grave + I have lived a better man, + O my Mary Anne, + My Mary Anne. + + + _Mrs. Thorpe (aside)._ O hearts! why, what a song! +To think on it, and he a married man! + + _Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ Bless you, that makes for nothing, nothing at + all, +They take no heed upon the words. His wife, +Look you, as pleased as may be, smiles on him. + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ Neighbours, there's one thing beats me. We've enough +O' trouble in the world; I've cried my fill +Many and many a time by my own fire: +Now why, I'll ask you, should it comfort me +And ease my heart when, pitiful and sweet, +One sings of other souls and how they mourned? +A body would have thought that did not know +Songs must be merry, full of feast and mirth. +Or else would all folk flee away from them. + + _Mrs. S. (aside)._ 'Tis strange, and I too love the sad ones best. + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ Ay, how they clap him! +'Tis as who should say, +Sing! we were pleased; sing us another song; +As if they did not know he loves to sing. +Well may he, not an organ pipe they blow +On Sunday in the church is half so sweet; +But he's a hard man. + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Mark me, neighbours all, +Hard though he be--ay, and the mistress hard-- +If he do sing 'twill be a sorrowful +Sad tale of sweethearts, that shall make you wish +Your own time would come over again, although +Were partings in 't and tears. Hist! now he sings. + +_Young farmer sings again._ + + +'Come hither, come hither.' The broom was in blossom all over yon rise; + There went a wide murmur of brown bees about it with songs from the wood. +'We shall never be younger! O love, let us forth, for the world 'neath our + eyes, + Ay, the world is made young e'en as we, and right fair is her youth and + right good.' + +Then there fell the great yearning upon me, that never yet went into words; + While lovesome and moansome thereon spake and falter'd the dove to the + dove. +And I came at her calling, 'Inherit, inherit, and sing with the birds;' + I went up to the wood with the child of my heart and the wife of my love. + +O pure! O pathetic! Wild hyacinths drank it, the dream light, apace + Not a leaf moved at all 'neath the blue, they hung waiting for messages + kind; +Tall cherry-trees dropped their white blossom that drifted no whit from + its place, + For the south very far out to sea had the lulling low voice of the + wind. + +And the child's dancing foot gave us part in the ravishment almost a pain, + An infinite tremor of life, a fond murmur that cried out on time, +Ah short! must all end in the doing and spend itself sweetly in vain, + And the promise be only fulfilment to lean from the height of its prime? + +'We shall never be younger;' nay, mock me not, fancy, none call from yon + tree; + They have thrown me the world they went over, went up, and, alas! For + my part +I am left to grow old, and to grieve, and to change; but they change not + with me; + They will never be older, the child of my love, and the wife of my + heart. + + + _Mrs. J. I_ told you so! + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ That did you, neighbour. Ay, +Partings, said you, and tears: I liked the song. + + _Mrs. G_. Who be these coming to the front to sing? + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Why, neighbour, these be sweethearts, so 'tis said, +And there was much ado to make her sing; +She would, and would not; and he wanted her, +And, mayhap, wanted to be seen with her. +'Tis Tomlin's pretty maid, his only one. + + _Mrs. G. (aside)._ I did not know the maid, so fair she looks. + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ He's a right proper man she has at last; +Walks over many a mile (and counts them nought) +To court her after work hours, that he doth, +Not like her other--why, he'd let his work +Go all to wrack, and lay it to his love, +While he would sit and look, and look and sigh. +Her father sent him to the right-about. +'If love,' said he, 'won't make a man of you, +Why, nothing will! 'Tis mainly that love's for. +The right sort makes,' said he, 'a lad a man; +The wrong sort makes,' said he, 'a man a fool.' + + _Vicar presents a young man and a girl._ + + +DUET. + + _She_. While he dreams, mine old grand sire, + And yon red logs glow, + Honey, whisper by the fire, + Whisper, honey low. + + _He_. Honey, high's yon weary hill, + Stiff's yon weary loam; + Lacks the work o' my goodwill, + Fain I'd take thee home. + O how much longer, and longer, and longer, + An' how much longer shall the waiting last? + Berries red are grown, April birds are flown, + Martinmas gone over, ay, and harvest past. + + _She_. Honey, bide, the time's awry, + Bide awhile, let be. + _He_. Take my wage then, lay it by, + Till 't come back with thee. + The red money, the white money, + Both to thee I bring-- + _She_. Bring ye ought beside, honey? + _He_. Honey, ay, the ring. + + _Duet_. But how much longer, and longer, and longer, + O how much longer shall the waiting last? + Berries red are grown, April birds are flown, + Martinmas gone over, and the harvest past. + + + [_Applause._ + + _Mrs. S. (aside)._ O she's a pretty maid, and sings so small + And high, 'tis like a flute. And she must blush + Till all her face is roses newly blown. + How folks do clap. She knows not where to look. +There now she's off; he standing like a man +To face them. + + _Mrs. G. (aside)._ Makes his bow, and after her; +But what's the good of clapping when they're gone? + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ Why 'tis a London fashion as I'm told, +And means they'd have 'em back to sing again. + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Neighbours, look where her father, red as fire, +Sits pleased and 'shamed, smoothing his Sunday hat; +And Parson bustles out. Clap on, clap on. +Coming? Not she! There comes her sweetheart though. + +_Vicar presents the young man again_. + + +SONG. + +I. + +Rain clouds flew beyond the fell, + No more did thunders lower, +Patter, patter, on the beck + Dropt a clearing shower. +Eddying floats of creamy foam + Flecked the waters brown, +As we rode up to cross the ford, + Rode up from yonder town. + Waiting on the weather, + She and I together, + Waiting on the weather, + Till the flood went down. + +II. + +The sun came out, the wet leaf shone, + Dripped the wild wood vine. +Betide me well, betide me woe, + That hour's for ever mine. +With thee Mary, with thee Mary, + Full oft I pace again, +Asleep, awake, up yonder glen, + And hold thy bridle rein. + Waiting on the weather, + Thou and I together, + Waiting on the weather, + Till the flood shall wane. + +III. + +And who, though hope did come to nought, + Would memory give away? +I lighted down, she leaned full low, + Nor chid that hour's delay. +With thee Mary, with thee Mary, + Methought my life to crown, +But we ride up, but we ride up, + No more from yonder town. + Waiting on the weather, + Thou and I together, + Waiting on the weather, + Till the flood go down. + + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Well, very well; but what of fiddler Sam? +I ask you, neighbours, if't be not his turn. +An honest man, and ever pays his score; +Born in the parish, old, blind as a bat, +And strangers sing before him; 't is a shame! + + _Mrs. S. (aside)._ Ay, but his daughter-- + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Why, the maid's a maid +One would not set to guide the chant in church, +But when she sings to earn her father's bread, +The mildest mother's son may cry 'Amen.' + + _Mrs. S. (aside)._ They say he plays not always true. + + _Mrs. J. (aside)_ What then? + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ Here comes my lady. She's too fat by half +For love songs. O! the lace upon her gown, +I wish I had the getting of it up, +'T would be a pretty penny in my pouch. + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Be quiet now for manners. + +_Vicar presents a lady, who sings_. + + +I + +Dark flocks of wildfowl riding out the storm + Upon a pitching sea, +Beyond grey rollers vex'd that rear and form, +When piping winds urge on their destiny, +To fall back ruined in white continually. +And I at our trysting stone, +Whereto I came down alone, +Was fain o' the wind's wild moan. +O, welcome were wrack and were rain +And beat of the battling main, +For the sake of love's sweet pain, +For the smile in two brown eyes, +For the love in any wise, +To bide though the last day dies; +For a hand on my wet hair, +For a kiss e'en yet I wear, +For--bonny Jock was there. + +II. + +Pale precipices while the sun lay low + Tinct faintly of the rose, +And mountain islands mirror'd in a flow, +Forgotten of all winds (their manifold +Peaks, reared into the glory and the glow), + Floated in purple and gold. + And I, o'er the rocks alone, + Of a shore all silent grown, + Came down to our trysting stone, + And sighed when the solemn ray + Paled in the wake o' the day. + 'Wellaway, wellaway,-- + Comfort is not by the shore, + Going the gold that it wore, + Purple and rose are no more, + World and waters are wan, + And night will be here anon, + And--bonny Jock's gone.' + + + _[Moderate applause, and calls for fiddler Sam_. + + _Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ Now, neighbours, call again and be not shamed; +Stand by the parish, and the parish folk, +Them that are poor. I told you! here he comes. +Parson looks glum, but brings him and his girl. + +_The fiddler Sam plays, and his daughter sings_. + + + Touch the sweet string. Fly forth, my heart, + Upon the music like a bird; + The silvery notes shall add their part, + And haply yet thou shalt be heard. + Touch the sweet string. + + The youngest wren of nine + Dimpled, dark, and merry, + Brown her locks, and her two eyne + Browner than a berry. + + When I was not in love + Maidens met I many; + Under sun now walks but one, + Nor others mark I any. + +Twin lambs, a mild-eyed ewe, + That would her follow bleating, +A heifer white as snow + I'll give to my sweet sweeting. + +Touch the sweet string. If yet too young, + O love of loves, for this my song, +I'll pray thee count it all unsung, + And wait thy leisure, wait it long. + Touch the sweet string. + + + [_Much applause_. + + _Vicar_. You hear them, Sam. You needs must play + again, +Your neighbours ask it. + + _Fiddler_. Thank ye, neighbours all, +I have my feelings though I be but poor; +I've tanged the fiddle here this forty year, +And I should know the trick on 't. + +_The fiddler plays, and his daughter sings_. + + +For Exmoor-- +For Exmoor, where the red deer run, my weary heart + doth cry. +She that will a rover wed, far her foot shall his. +Narrow, narrow, shows the street, dull the narrow sky. +_(Buy my cherries, whiteheart cherries, good my masters_, + _buy_.) + +For Exmoor-- +O he left me, left alone, aye to think and sigh, +'Lambs feed down yon sunny coombe, hind and yearling + shy, +Mid the shrouding vapours walk now like ghosts on high.' +(_Buy my cherries, blackheart cherries, lads and lassies, buy_.) + +For Exmoor-- +Dear my dear, why did ye so? Evil days have I, +Mark no more the antler'd stag, hear the curlew cry. +Milking at my father's gate while he leans anigh. +(_Buy my cherries, whiteheart, blackheart, golden girls, O buy._) + + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ I've known him play that Exmoor + song afore. +'Ah me! and I'm from Exmoor. I could wish +To hear 't no more. + + _Mrs. S. (aside)._ Neighbours, 't is mighty hot. +Ay, now they throw the window up, that's well, +A body could not breathe. + + [_The fiddler and his daughter go away._ + + _Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ They'll hear no parson's preaching, + no not they! +But innocenter songs, I do allow, +They could not well have sung than these to-night. +That man knows just so well as if he saw +They were not welcome. + +_The Vicar stands up, on the point of beginning to read, when the tuning +and twang of the fiddle is heard close outside the open window, and the +daughter sings in a clear cheerful voice. A little tittering is heard +in the room, and the Vicar pauses discomfited_. + + +I. + +O my heart! what a coil is here! +Laurie, why will ye hold me dear? +Laurie, Laurie, lad, make not wail, +With a wiser lass ye'll sure prevail, +For ye sing like a woodland nightingale. +And there's no sense in it under the sun; +For of three that woo I can take but one, +So what's to be done--what's to be done? + And +There's no sense in it under the sun. + +II. + +Hal, brave Hal, from your foreign parts +Come home you'll choose among kinder hearts. +Forget, forget, you're too good to hold +A fancy 't were best should faint, grow cold, +And fade like an August marigold; +For of three that woo I can take but one, +And what's to be done--what's to be done? +There's no sense in it under the sun, + And +Of three that woo I can take but one. + +III. + +Geordie, Geordie, I count you true, +Though language sweet I have none for you. +Nay, but take me home to the churning mill +When cherry boughs white on yon mounting hill +Hang over the tufts o' the daffodil. +For what's to be done--what's to be done? +Of three that woo I must e'en take one, +Or there's no sense in it under the sun, + And +What's to be done--what's to be done? + + _V_. (_aside_). What's to be done, indeed! + + _Wife_ (_aside_). Done! nothing, love. +Either the thing has done itself, or _they_ +Must undo. Did they call for fiddler Sam? +Well, now they have him. + + + [_More tuning heard outside_. + + _Mrs. J_. (_aside_). Live and let live's my motto. + + _Mrs. T_. So 't is mine. +Who's Sam, that he must fly in Parson's face? +He's had his turn. He never gave these lights, +Cut his best flowers-- + + _Mrs. S_. (_aside_). He takes no pride in us. +Speak up, good neighbour, get the window shut. + + _Mrs. J_. (_rising_). I ask your pardon truly, that I do-- +La! but the window--there's a parlous draught; +The window punishes rheumatic folk-- +We'd have it shut, sir. + + _Others_. Truly, that we would. + + _V_. Certainly, certainly, my friends, you shall. + + [_The window is shut, and the Reading begins amid marked + attention_. + + + + +KISMET. + + +Into the rock the road is cut full deep, + At its low ledges village children play, +From its high rifts fountains of leafage weep, + And silvery birches sway. + +The boldest climbers have its face forsworn, + Sheer as a wall it doth all daring flout; +But benchlike at its base, and weather-worn, + A narrow ledge leans out. + +There do they set forth feasts in dishes rude + Wrought of the rush--wild strawberries on the bed +Left into August, apples brown and crude, + Cress from the cold well-head. + +Shy gamesome girls, small daring imps of boys, + But gentle, almost silent at their play-- +Their fledgling daws, for food, make far more noise + Ranged on the ledge than they. + +The children and the purple martins share + (Loveliest of birds) possession of the place; +They veer and dart cream-breasted round the fair + Faces with wild sweet grace. + +Fresh haply from Palmyra desolate, + Palmyra pale in light and storyless-- +From perching in old Tadmor mate by mate + In the waste wilderness. + +These know the world; what do the children know? + They know the woods, their groaning noises weird, +They climb in trees that overhang the slow + Deep mill-stream, loved and feared. + +Where shaken water-wheels go creak and clack, + List while a lorn thrush calls and almost speaks; +See willow-wrens with elderberries black + Staining their slender beaks. + +They know full well how squirrels spend the day; + They peeped when field-mice stole and stored the seed, +And voles along their under-water way + Donned collars of bright beads. + +Still from the deep-cut road they love to mark + Where set, as in a frame, the nearer shapes +Rise out of hill and wood; then long downs dark + As purple bloom on grapes. + +But farms whereon the tall wheat musters gold, + High barley whitening, creases in bare hills, +Reed-feathered, castle-like brown churches old, + Nor churning water-mills, + +Shall make ought seem so fair as that beyond-- + Beyond the down, which draws their fealty; +Blow high, blow low, some hearts do aye respond + The wind is from the sea. + +Above the steep-cut steps as they did grow, + The children's cottage homes embowered are seen; +Were this a world unfallen, they scarce could show + More beauteous red and green. + +Milk-white and vestal-chaste the hollyhock + Grows tall, clove, sweetgale nightly shed forth spice, +Long woodbines leaning over scent the rock + With airs of Paradise. + +Here comforted of pilot stars they lie + In charmèd dreams, but not of wold nor lea. +Behold a ship! her wide yards score the sky; + She sails a steel-blue sea. + +As turns the great amassment of the tide, + Drawn of the silver despot to her throne, +So turn the destined souls, so far and wide + The strong deep claims its own. + +Still the old tale; these dreaming islanders, + Each with hot Sunderbunds a somewhat owns +That calls, the grandsire's blood within them stirs + Dutch Java guards his bones. + +And these were orphan'd when a leak was sprung + Far out from land when all the air was balm; +The shipmen saw their faces as they hung, + And sank in the glassy calm. + +These, in an orange-sloop their father plied, + Deck-laden deep she sailed from Cadiz town, +A black squall rose, she turned upon her side, + Drank water and went down. + +They too shall sail. High names of alien lands + Are in the dream, great names their fathers knew; +Madras, the white surf rearing on her sands, + E'en they shall breast it too. + +See threads of scarlet down fell Roa creep, + When moaning winds rend back her vapourous veil; +Wild Orinoco wedge-like split the deep, + Raging forth passion-pale; + +Or a blue berg at sunrise glittering tall, + Great as a town adrift come shining on +With sharp spires, gemlike as the mystical + Clear city of Saint John. + +Still the old tale; but they are children yet; + O let their mothers have them while they may! +Soon it shall work, the strange mysterious fret + That mars both toil and play. + +The sea will claim its own; and some shall mourn; + They also, they, but yet will surely go; +So surely as the planet to its bourne, + The chamois to his snow. + +'Father, dear father, bid us now God-speed; + We cannot choose but sail, it thus befell.' +'Mother, dear mother--' 'Nay, 't is all decreed. +Dear hearts, farewell, farewell!' + + + + +DORA. + + +A waxing moon that, crescent yet, +In all its silver beauty set, +And rose no more in the lonesome night +To shed full-orbed its longed-for light. +Then was it dark; on wold and lea, + In home, in heart, the hours were drear. +Father and mother could no light see, + And the hearts trembled and there was fear. +--So on the mount, Christ's chosen three, +Unware that glory it did shroud, +Feared when they entered into the cloud. + +She was the best part of love's fair +Adornment, life's God-given care, +As if He bade them guard His own, +Who should be soon anear His throne. +Dutiful, happy, and who say +When childhood smiles itself away, +'More fair than morn shall prove the day.' +Sweet souls so nigh to God that rest, +How shall be bettering of your best! +That promise heaven alone shall view, +That hope can ne'er with us come true, +That prophecy life hath not skill, +No, nor time leave that it fulfil. + +There is but heaven, for childhood never +Can yield the all it meant, for ever. +Or is there earth, must wane to less +What dawned so close by perfectness. + +How guileless, sweet, by gift divine, +How beautiful, dear child, was thine-- +Spared all their grief of thee bereaven. +Winner, who had not greatly striven, +Hurts of sin shall not thee soil, +Carking care thy beauty spoil. +So early blest, so young forgiven. + +Among the meadows fresh to view, +And in the woodland ways she grew, +On either side a hand to hold, +Nor the world's worst of evil knew, +Nor rued its miseries manifold, +Nor made discovery of its cold. +What more, like one with morn content. +Or of the morrow diffident, +Unconscious, beautiful she stood, +Calm, in young stainless maidenhood. +Then, with the last steps childhood trod, +Took up her fifteen years to God. + +Farewell, sweet hope, not long to last, +All life is better for thy past. +Farewell till love with sorrow meet, +To learn that tears are obsolete. + + + + +SPERANZA. + + +_Her younger sister, that Speranza hight_. + +England puts on her purple, and pale, pale + With too much light, the primrose doth but wait +To meet the hyacinth; then bower and dale + Shall lose her and each fairy woodland mate. +April forgets them, for their utmost sum +Of gift was silent, and the birds are come. + +The world is stirring, many voices blend, + The English are at work in field and way; +All the good finches on their wives attend, + And emmets their new towns lay out in clay; +Only the cuckoo-bird only doth say +Her beautiful name, and float at large all day. + +Everywhere ring sweet clamours, chirrupping, + Chirping, that comes before the grasshopper; +The wide woods, flurried with the pulse of spring, + Shake out their wrinkled buds with tremor and stir; +Small noises, little cries, the ear receives +Light as a rustling foot on last year's leaves. + +All in deep dew the satisfied deep grass + Looking straight upward stars itself with white, +Like ships in heaven full-sailed do long clouds pass + Slowly o'er this great peace, and wide sweet light. +While through moist meads draws down yon rushy mere + Influent waters, sobbing, shining, clear. + +Almost is rapture poignant; somewhat ails + The heart and mocks the morning; somewhat sighs, +And those sweet foreigners, the nightingales, + Made restless with their love, pay down its price, +Even the pain; then all the story unfold +Over and over again--yet 't is not told. + +The mystery of the world whose name is life + (One of the names of God) all-conquering wends +And works for aye with rest and cold at strife. + Its pedigree goes up to Him and ends. +For it the lucent heavens are clear o'erhead, +And all the meads are made its natal bed. + +Dear is the light, and eye-sight ever sweet, + What see they all fair lower things that nurse, +No wonder, and no doubt? Truly their meat, +Their kind, their field, their foes; man's eyes are more; + Sight is man's having of the universe, +His pass to the majestical far shore. + +But it is not enough, ah! not enough + To look upon it and be held away, +And to be sure that, while we tread the rough, + Remote, dull paths of this dull world, no ray +Shall pierce to us from the inner soul of things, +Nor voice thrill out from its deep master-strings. + +'To show the skies, and tether to the sod! + A daunting gift!' we mourn in our long strife. +And God is more than all our thought of God; + E'en life itself more than our thought of life, +And that is all we know--and it is noon, +Our little day will soon be done--how soon! + +O let us to ourselves be dutiful: + We are not satisfied, we have wanted all, +Not alone beauty, but that Beautiful; + A lifted veil, an answering mystical. +Ever men plead, and plain, admire, implore, +'Why gavest Thou so much--and yet--not more? + +We are but let to look, and Hope is weighed.' + Yet, say the Indian words of sweet renown, +'The doomèd tree withholdeth not her shade + From him that bears the axe to cut her down;' +Is hope cut down, dead, doomed, all is vain: +The third day dawns, she too has risen again + +(For Faith is ours by gift, but Hope by right), + And walks among us whispering as of yore: +'Glory and grace are thrown thee with the light; + Search, if not yet thou touch the mystic shore; +Immanent beauty and good are nigh at hand, +For infants laugh and snowdrops bloom in the land. + +Thou shalt have more anon.' What more? in sooth, + The mother of to-morrow is to-day, +And brings forth after her kind. There is no ruth +On the heart's sigh, that 'more' is hidden away, +And man's to-morrow yet shall pine and yearn; +He shall surmise, and he shall not discern, + +But list the lark, and want the rapturous cries + And passioning of morning stars that sing +Together; mark the meadow-orchis rise + And think it freckled after an angel's wing; +Absent desire his land, and feel this, one +With the great drawing of the central sun. + +But not to all such dower, for there be eyes + Are colour-blind, and souls are spirit-blind. +Those never saw the blush in sunset skies, +Nor the others caught a sense not made of words + As if were spirits about, that sailed the wind +And sank and settled on the boughs like birds. + +Yet such for aye divided from us are + As other galaxies that seem no more +Than a little golden millet-seed afar. + Divided; swarming down some flat lee shore, +Then risen, while all the air that takes no word +Tingles, and trembles as with cries not heard. + +For they can come no nearer. There is found + No meeting point. We have pierced the lodging-place +Of stars that cluster'd with their peers lie bound, + Embedded thick, sunk in the seas of space, +Fortunate orbs that know not night, for all +Are suns;--but we have never heard that call, + +Nor learned it in our world, our citadel + With outworks of a Power about it traced; +Nor why we needs must sin who would do well, + Nor why the want of love, nor why its waste, +Nor how by dying of One should all be sped, +Nor where, O Lord, thou hast laid up our dead. + +But Hope is ours by right, and Faith by gift. + Though Time be as a moon upon the wane, +Who walk with Faith far up the azure lift + Oft hear her talk of lights to wax again. +'If man be lost,' she cries, 'in this vast sea +Of being,--lost--he would be lost with Thee + +Who for his sake once, as he hears, lost all. + For Thou wilt find him at the end of the days: +Then shall the flocking souls that thicker fall + Than snowflakes on the everlasting ways +Be counted, gathered, claimed.--Will it be long? +Earth has begun already her swan-song. + +Who, even that might, would dwell for ever pent + In this fair frame that doth the spirit inhearse, +Nor at the last grow weary and content, + Die, and break forth into the universe, +And yet man would not all things--all--were new.' +Then saith the other, that one robed in blue: + +'What if with subtle change God touch their eyes + When he awakes them,--not far off, but here +In a new earth, this: not in any wise + Strange, but more homely sweet, more heavenly dear, +Or if He roll away, as clouds disperse +Somewhat, and lo, that other universe. + +O how 't were sweet new waked in some good hour, + Long time to sit on a hillside green and high +There like a honeybee domed in a flower + To feed unneath the azure bell o' the sky, +Feed in the midmost home and fount of light +Sown thick with stars at noonday as by night + +To watch the flying faultless ones wheel down, + Alight, and run along some ridged peak, +Their feet adust from orbs of old renown, + Procyon or Mazzaroth, haply;--when they speak +Other-world errands wondrous, all discern +That would be strange, there would be much to learn. + +Ay, and it would be sweet to share unblamed + Love's shining truths that tell themselves in tears, +Or to confess and be no more ashamed + The wrongs that none can right through earthly years; +And seldom laugh, because the tenderness +Calm, perfect, would be more than joy--would bless. + +I tell you it were sweet to have enough, + And be enough. Among the souls forgiven +In presence of all worlds, without rebuff + To move, and feel the excellent safety leaven +With peace that awe must loss and the grave survive-- +But palpitating moons that are alive + +Nor shining fogs swept up together afar, + Vast as a thought of God, in the firmament; +No, and to dart as light from star to star + Would not long time man's yearning soul content: +Albeit were no more ships and no more sea, +He would desire his new earth presently. + +Leisure to learn it. Peoples would be here; + They would come on in troops, and take at will +The forms, the faces they did use to wear + With life's first splendours--raiment rich with skill +Of broidery, carved adornments, crowns of gold; +Still would be sweet to them the life of old. + +Then might be gatherings under golden shade, + Where dust of water drifts from some sheer fall, +Cooling day's ardour. There be utterance made + Of comforted love, dear freedom after thrall, +Large longings of the Seer, through earthly years +An everlasting burden, but no tears. + +Egypt's adopted child might tell of lore + They taught him underground in shrines all dim, +And of the live tame reptile gods that wore + Gold anklets on their feet. And after him, +With fairest eyes ere met of mortal ken, +Glorious, forgiven, might speak the mother of men. + +Talk of her apples gather'd by the marge + Of lapsing Gihon. 'Thus one spoke, I stood, +I ate.' Or next the mariner-saint enlarge + Right quaintly on his ark of gopher wood +To wandering men through high grass meads that ran +Or sailed the sea Mediterranean. + +It might be common--earth afforested + Newly, to follow her great ones to the sun, +When from transcendent aisles of gloom they sped + Some work august (there would be work) now done. +And list, and their high matters strive to scan + The seekers after God, and lovers of man, + +Sitting together in amity on a hill, + The Saint of Visions from Greek Patmos come-- +Aurelius, lordly, calm-eyed, as of will + Austere, yet having rue on lost, lost Rome, +And with them One who drank a fateful bowl, +And to the unknown God trusted his soul. + +The mitred Cranmer pitied even there + (But could it be?) for that false hand which signed +O, all pathetic--no. But it might bear + To soothe him marks of fire--and gladsome kind +The man, as all of joy him well beseemed +Who 'lighted on a certain place and dreamed.' + +And fair with the meaning of life their divine brows, + The daughters of well-doing famed in song; +But what! could old-world love for child, for spouse, + For land, content through lapsing eons long? +Oh for a watchword strong to bridge the deep +And satisfy of fulness after sleep. + +What know we? Whispers fall, '_And the last first, + And the first last._' The child before the king? +The slave before that man a master erst? + The woman before her lord? Shall glory fling +The rolls aside--time raze out triumphs past? +They sigh, '_And the last first, and the first last._' + +Answers that other, 'Lady, sister, friend, + It is enough, for I have worshipped Life; +With Him that is the Life man's life shall blend, + E'en now the sacred heavens do help his strife. +There do they knead his bread and mix his cup, +And all the stars have leave to bear him up. + +Yet must he sink and fall away to a sleep, + As did his Lord. This Life his worshipped +Religion, Life. The silence may be deep, + Life listening, watching, waiting by His dead, +Till at the end of days they wake full fain +Because their King, the Life, doth love and reign. + +I know the King shall come to that new earth, + And His feet stand again as once they stood, +In His man's eyes will shine Time's end and worth + The chiefest beauty and the chiefest good, +And all shall have the all and in it bide, +And every soul of man be satisfied. + + + + +THE BEGINNING. + + +They tell strange things of the primeval earth, +But things that be are never strange to those +Among them. And we know what it was like, +Many are sure they walked in it; the proof +This, the all gracious, all admired whole +Called life, called world, called thought, was all as one. +Nor yet divided more than that old earth +Among the tribes. Self was not fully come-- +Self was asleep, embedded in the whole. + +I too dwelt once in a primeval world, +Such as they tell of, all things wonderful; +Voices, ay visions, people grand and tall +Thronged in it, but their talk was overhead +And bore scant meaning, that one wanted not +Whose thought was sight as yet unbound of words, +This kingdom of heaven having entered through +Being a little child. + + Such as can see, +Why should they doubt? The childhood of a race. +The childhood of a soul, hath neither doubt +Nor fear. Where all is super-natural +The guileless heart doth feed on it, no more +Afraid than angels are of heaven. + + Who saith +Another life, the next one shall not have +Another childhood growing gently thus, +Able to bear the poignant sweetness, take +The rich long awful measure of its peace, +Endure the presence sublime. + + I saw +Once in that earth primeval, once--a face, +A little face that yet I dream upon.' + +'Of this world was it?' + 'Not of this world--no, +In the beginning--for methinks it was +In the beginning but an if you ask +How long ago, time was not then, nor date +For marking. It was always long ago, +E'en from the first recalling of it, long +And long ago. + + And I could walk, and went, +Led by the hand through a long mead at morn, +Bathed in a ravishing excess of light. +It throbbed, and as it were fresh fallen from heaven, +Sank deep into the meadow grass. The sun +Gave every blade a bright and a dark side, +Glitter'd on buttercups that topped them, slipped +To soft red puffs, by some called holy-hay. +The wide oaks in their early green stood still +And took delight in it. Brown specks that made +Very sweet noises quivered in the blue; +Then they came down and ran along the brink +Of a long pool, and they were birds. + + The pool +Pranked at the edges with pale peppermint, +A rare amassment of veined cuckoo flowers +And flags blue-green was lying below. This all +Was sight it condescended not to words +Till memory kissed the charmed dream. + + The mead +Hollowing and heaving, in the hollows fair +With dropping roses fell away to it, +A strange sweet place; upon its further side +Some people gently walking took their way +Up to a wood beyond; and also bells +Sang, floated in the air, hummed--what you will.' + +'Then it was Sunday?' + 'Sunday was not yet; +It was a holiday, for all the days +Were holy. It was not our day of rest +(The earth for all her rolling asks not rest, +For she was never weary). + + It was sweet, +Full of dear leisure and perennial peace, +As very old days when life went easily, +Before mankind had lost the wise, the good +Habit of being happy. + + For the pool +A beauteous place it was as might be seen, +That led one down to other meads, and had +Clouds and another sky. I thought to go +Deep down in it, and walk that steep clear slope. + +Then she who led me reached the brink, her foot +Staying to talk with one who met her there. +Here were fresh marvels, sailing things whose vans +Floated them on above the flowering flags. +We moved a little onward, paused again, +And here there was a break in these, and here +There came the vision; for I stooped to gaze +So far as my small height would let me--gaze +Into that pool to see the fishes dart, +And in a moment from her under hills +Came forth a little child who lived down there, +Looked up at me and smiled. We could not talk, +But looked and loved each other. I a hand +Held out to her, so she to me, but ah, +She would not come. Her home, her little bed, +Was doubtless under that soft shining thing +The water, and she wanted not to run +Among red sorrel spires, and fill her hand +In the dry warmed grass with cowslip buds. +Awhile our feeding hearts all satisfied, +Took in the blue of one another's eyes, +Two dimpled creatures, rose-lipped innocent. +But when we fain had kissed--O! the end came, +For snatched aloft, held in the nurse's arms, +She parting with her lover I was borne +Far from that little child. + + And no one knew +She lived down there, but only I; and none +Sought for her, but I yearned for her and left +Part of myself behind, as the lambs leave +Their wool upon a thorn.' + + 'And was she seen +Never again, nor known for what she was?' + +'Never again, for we did leave anon +The pasture and the pool. I know not where +They lie, and sleep a heaven on earth, but know +From thenceforth yearnings for a lost delight; +On certain days I dream about her still.' + + + + +IN THE NURSERY. + + +Where do you go, Bob, when you 're fast asleep?' +'Where? O well, once I went into a deep +Mine, father told of, and a cross man said +He'd make me help to dig, and eat black bread. +I saw the Queen once, in her room, quite near. +She said, "You rude boy, Bob, how came you here?"' + +'Was it like mother's boudoir?' + + 'Grander far, +Gold chairs and things--all over diamonds--Ah!' + +'You're sure it was the Queen?' + 'Of course, a crown +Was on her, and a spangly purple gown.' + +'I went to heaven last night.' + + 'O Lily, no, +How could you?' + + 'Yes I did, they told me so, +And my best doll, my favourite, with the blue +Frock, Jasmine, I took her to heaven too.' +'What was it like?' + + 'A kind of--I can't tell-- +A sort of orchard place in a long dell, +With trees all over flowers. And there were birds +Who could do talking, say soft pretty words; +They let me stroke them, and I showed it all +To Jasmine. And I heard a blue dove call, +"Child, this is heaven." I was not frightened when +It spoke, I said "Where are the angels then?"' + +'Well.' + + 'So it said, "Look up and you shall see." +There were two angels sitting in the tree, +As tall as mother; they had long gold hair. +They let drop down the fruit they gather'd there +And little angels came for it--so sweet. +Here they were beggar children in the street, +And the dove said they had the prettiest things, +And wore their best frocks every day.' + + 'And wings, +Had they no wings?' + + 'O yes, and lined with white +Like swallow wings, so soft--so very light +Fluttering about.' + + 'Well.' + + 'Well, I did not stay, +So that was all.' + + 'They made you go away?' + + +'I did not go--but--I was gone.' + + 'I know.' + +'But it's a pity, Bob, we never go +Together.' + + 'Yes, and have no dreams to tell, +But the next day both know it all quite well.' + +'And, Bob, if I could dream you came with me +You would be there perhaps.' + + 'Perhaps--we'll see.' + + + + +THE AUSTRALIAN BELL-BIRD. + + +Toll-- + Toll.' 'The bell-bird sounding far away, + Hid in a myall grove.' He raised his head, +The bush glowed scarlet in descending day, + A masterless wild country--and he said, +My father ('Toll.') 'Full oft by her to stray, + As if a spirit called, have I been led; +Oft seems she as an echo in my soul +('Toll.') from my native towers by Avon ('Toll'). + +('Toll.') Oft as in a dream I see full fain + The bell-tower beautiful that I love well, +A seemly cluster with her churches twain. + I hear adown the river faint and swell +And lift upon the air that sound again, + It is, it is--how sweet no tongue can tell, +For all the world-wide breadth of shining foam, +The bells of Evesham chiming "Home, sweet home." + +The mind hath mastery thus--it can defy + The sense, and make all one as it DID HEAR-- +Nay, I mean more; the wraiths of sound gone by + Rise; they are present 'neath this dome all clear. +ONE, sounds the bird--a pause--then doth supply + Some ghost of chimes the void expectant ear; +Do they ring bells in heaven? The learnedest soul +Shall not resolve me such a question. ('Toll.') + +('Toll.') Say I am a boy, and fishing stand + By Avon ('Toll.') on line and rod intent, +How glitters deep in dew the meadow land-- + What, dost thou flit, thy ministry all spent, +Not many days we hail such visits bland, + Why steal so soon the rare enravishment? +Ay gone! the soft deceptive echoes roll +Away, and faint into remoteness.' ('Toll.') + +While thus he spoke the doom'd sun touched his bed + In scarlet, all the palpitating air +Still loyal waited on. He dipped his head, + Then all was over, and the dark was there; +And northward, lo! a star, one likewise red + But lurid, starts from out her day-long lair, +Her fellows trail behind; she bears her part, +The balefullest star that shines, the Scorpion's heart + +Or thus of old men feigned, and then did fear, + Then straight crowd forth the great ones of the sky +In flashing flame at strife to reach more near. + The little children of Infinity, +They next look down as to report them 'Here,' + From deeps all thoughts despair and heights past high, +Speeding, not sped, no rest, no goal, no shore, +Still to rush on till time shall be no more. + +'Loved vale of Evesham, 'tis a long farewell, + Not laden orchards nor their April snow +These eyes shall light upon again; the swell + And whisper of thy storied river know, +Nor climb the hill where great old Montfort fell + In a good cause hundreds of years ago; +So fall'n, elect to live till life's ally, +The river of recorded deeds, runs dry. + +This land is very well, this air,' saith he, + 'Is very well, but we want echoes here. +Man's past to feed the air and move the sea; + Ages of toil make English furrows dear, +Enriched by blood shed for his liberty, + Sacred by love's first sigh and life's last fear, +We come of a good nest, for it shall yearn +Poor birds of passage, but may not return, + +Spread younger wings, and beat the winds afar. + There sing more poets in that one small isle +Than all isles else can show--of such you are; + Remote things come to you unsought erewhile, +Near things a long way round as by a star. + Wild dreams!' He laughed, 'A sage right infantile; +With sacred fear behold life's waste deplored, +Undaunted by the leisure of the Lord. + +Ay go, the island dream with eyes make good, + Where Freedom rose, a lodestar to your race; +And Hope that leaning on her anchor stood + Did smile it to her feet: a right small place. +Call her a mother, high such motherhood, + Home in her name and duty in her face; +Call her a ship, her wide arms rake the clouds, +And every wind of God pipes in her shrouds. + +Ay, all the more go you. But some have cried + "The ship is breaking up;" they watch amazed +While urged toward the rocks by some that guide; + Bad steering, reckless steering, she all dazed +Tempteth her doom; yet this have none denied + Ships men have wrecked and palaces have razed, +But never was it known beneath the sun, +They of such wreckage built a goodlier one. + +God help old England an't be thus, nor less + God help the world.' Therewith my mother spake, +'Perhaps He will! by time, by faithlessness, + By the world's want long in the dark awake, +I think He must be almost due: the stress + Of the great tide of life, sharp misery's ache, +In a recluseness of the soul we rue +Far off, but yet--He must be almost due. + +God manifest again, the coming King.' + Then said my father, 'I beheld erewhile, +Sitting up dog-like to the sunrising, + The giant doll in ruins by the Nile, +With hints of red that yet to it doth cling, + Fell, battered, and bewigged its cheeks were vile, +A body of evil with its angel fled, +Whom and his fellow fiends men worshipped. + +The gods die not, long shrouded on their biers, + Somewhere they live, and live in memory yet; +Were not the Israelites for forty years + Hid from them in the desert to forget-- +Did they forget? no more than their lost feres + Sons of to-day with faces southward set, +Who dig for buried lore long ages fled, +And sift for it the sand and search the dead. + +Brown Egypt gave not one great poet birth, + But man was better than his gods, with lay +He soothed them restless, and they zoned the earth, + And crossed the sea; there drank immortal praise; +Then from his own best self with glory and worth + And beauty dowered he them for dateless days. +Ever "their sound goes forth" from shore to shore, +When was there known an hour that they lived more. + +Because they are beloved and not believed, + Admired not feared, they draw men to their feet; +All once, rejected, nothing now, received + Where once found wanting, now the most complete; +Man knows to-day, though manhood stand achieved, + His cradle-rockers made a rustling sweet; +That king reigns longest which did lose his crown, +Stars that by poets shine are stars gone down. + +Still drawn obedient to an unseen hand, + From purer heights comes down the yearning west, +Like to that eagle in the morning land, + That swooping on her predatory quest, +Did from the altar steal a smouldering brand, + The which she bearing home it burned her nest, +And her wide pinions of their plumes bereaven. +Spoiled for glad spiring up the steeps of heaven. + +I say the gods live, and that reign abhor, + And will the nations it should dawn? Will they +Who ride upon the perilous edge of war? + Will such as delve for gold in this our day? +Neither the world will, nor the age will, nor + The soul--and what, it cometh now? Nay, nay, +The weighty sphere, unready for release, +Rolls far in front of that o'ermastering peace. + +Wait and desire it; life waits not, free there + To good, to evil, thy right perilous-- +All shall be fair, and yet it is not fair. + I thank my God He takes th'advantage thus; +He doth not greatly hide, but still declare + Which side He is on and which He loves, to us, +While life impartial aid to both doth lend, +And heed not which the choice nor what the end. + +Among the few upright, O to be found, + And ever search the nobler path, my son, +Nor say 'tis sweet to find me common ground + Too high, too good, shall leave the hours alone-- +Nay, though but one stood on the height renowned, + Deny not hope or will, to be that one. +Is it the many fall'n shall lift the land, +The race, the age!--Nay, 't is the few that stand.' + +While in the lamplight hearkening I sat mute, + Methought 'How soon this fire must needs burn out' +Among the passion flowers and passion fruit + That from the wide verandah hung, misdoubt +Was mine. 'And wherefore made I thus long suit + To leave this old white head? His words devout, +His blessing not to hear who loves me so-- +He that is old, right old--I will not go.' + +But ere the dawn their counsels wrought with me, + And I went forth; alas that I so went +Under the great gum-forest canopy, + The light on every silken filament +Of every flower, a quivering ecstasy + Of perfect paleness made it; sunbeams sent +Up to the leaves with sword-like flash endued +Each turn of that grey drooping multitude. + +I sought to look as in the light of one + Returned. 'Will this be strange to me that day? +Flocks of green parrots clamorous in the sun + Tearing out milky maize--stiff cacti grey +As old men's beards--here stony ranges lone, + Their dust of mighty flocks upon their way +To water, cloudlike on the bush afar, +Like smoke that hangs where old-world cities are. + +Is it not made man's last endowment here + To find a beauty in the wilderness; +Feel the lorn moor above his pastures dear, + Mountains that may not house and will not bless +To draw him even to death? He must insphere + His spirit in the open, so doth less +Desire his feres, and more that unvex'd wold +And fine afforested hills, his dower of old. + +But shall we lose again that new-found sense + Which sees the earth less for our tillage fair? +Oh, let her speak with her best eloquence + To me, but not her first and her right rare +Can equal what I may not take from hence. + The gems are left: it is not otherwhere +The wild Nepèan cleaves her matchless way, +Nor Sydney harbour shall outdo the day. + +Adding to day this--that she lighteth it.' + But I beheld again, and as must be +With a world-record by a spirit writ, + It was more beautiful than memory, +Than hope was more complete. + Tall brigs did sit + Each in her berth the pure flood placidly, +Their topsails drooping 'neath the vast blue dome +Listless, as waiting to be sheeted home. + +And the great ships with pulse-like throbbing clear, + Majestical of mien did take their way +Like living creatures from some grander sphere, + That having boarded ours thought good to stay, +Albeit enslaved. They most divided here + From God's great art and all his works in clay, +In that their beauty lacks, though fair it shows +That divine waste of beauty only He bestows. + +The day was young, scarce out the harbour lights + That morn I sailed: low sun-rays tremulous +On golden loops sped outward. Yachts in flights + Flutter'd the water air-like clear, while thus +It crept for shade among brown rocky bights + With cassia crowned and palms diaphanous, +And boughs ripe fruitage dropping fitfully, +That on the shining ebb went out to sea. + +'Home,' saith the man self-banished, 'my son + Shall now go home.' Therewith he sendeth him +Abroad, and knows it not, but thence is won, + Rescued, the son's true home. His mind doth limn +Beautiful pictures of it, there is none + So dear, a new thought shines erewhile but dim, +'That was my home, a land past all compare, +Life, and the poetry of life, are there.' + +But no such thought drew near to me that day; + All the new worlds flock forth to greet the old, +All the young souls bow down to own its sway, + Enamoured of strange richness manifold; +Not to be stored, albeit they seek for aye, + Besieging it for its own life to hold, +E'en as Al Mamoun fain for treasures hid, +Stormed with an host th' inviolate pyramid. + +And went back foiled but wise to walled Bagdad. + So I, so all. The treasure sought not found, +But some divine tears found to superadd + Themselves to a long story. The great round +Of yesterdays, their pathos sweet as sad, + Found to be only as to-day, close bound +With us, we hope some good thing yet to know, +But God is not in haste, while the lambs grow + +The Shepherd leadeth softly. It is great + The journey, and the flock forgets at last +(Earth ever working to obliterate + The landmarks) when it halted, where it passed; +And words confuse, and time doth ruinate, + And memory fail to hold a theme so vast; +There is request for light, but the flock feeds, +And slowly ever on the Shepherd leads. + +'Home,' quoth my father, and a glassy sea + Made for the stars a mirror of its breast, +While southing, pennon-like, in bravery + Of long drawn gold they trembled to their rest. +Strange the first night and morn, when Destiny + Spread out to float on, all the mind oppressed; +Strange on their outer roof to speed forth thus, +And know th' uncouth sea-beasts stared up at us. + +But yet more strange the nights of falling rain, + That splashed without--a sea-coal fire within; +Life's old things gone astern, the mind's disdain, + For murmurous London makes soft rhythmic din. +All courtier thoughts that wait on words would fain + Express that sound. The words are not to win +Till poet made, but mighty, yet so mild +Shall be as cooing of a cradle-child. + +Sensation like a piercing arrow flies, + Daily out-going thought. This Adamhood, +This weltering river of mankind that hies + Adown the street; it cannot be withstood. +The richest mundane miles not otherwise + Than by a symbol keep possession good, +Mere symbol of division, and they hold +The clear pane sacred, the unminted gold + +And wild outpouring of all wealth not less. + Why this? A million strong the multitude, +And safe, far safer than our wilderness + The walls; for them it daunts with right at feud, +Itself declares for law; yet sore the stress + On steeps of life: what power to ban and bless, +Saintly denial, waste inglorious, +Desperate want, and riches fabulous. + +Of souls what beautiful embodiment + For some; for some what homely housing writ; +What keen-eyed men who beggared of content + Eat bread well earned as they had stolen it; +What flutterers after joy that forward went, + And left them in the rear unqueened, unfit +For joy, with light that faints in strugglings drear +Of all things good the most awanting here. + +Some in the welter of this surging tide + Move like the mystic lamps, the Spirits Seven, +Their burning love runs kindling far and wide, + That fire they needed not to steal from heaven, +'Twas a free gift flung down with them to bide, + And be a comfort for the hearts bereaven, +A warmth, a glow, to make the failing store +And parsimony of emotion more. + +What glorious dreams in that find harbourage, + The phantom of a crime stalks this beside, +And those might well have writ on some past page, + In such an hour, of such a year, we--died, +Put out our souls, took the mean way, false wage, + Course cowardly; and if we be denied +The life once loved, we cannot alway rue +The loss; let be: what vails so sore ado. + +And faces pass of such as give consent + To live because 'tis not worth while to die; +This never knew the awful tremblement + When some great fear sprang forward suddenly, +Its other name being hope--and there forthwent + As both confronted him a rueful cry +From the heart's core, one urging him to dare, +'Now! now! Leap now.' The other, 'Stand, forbear.' + +A nation reared in brick. How shall this be? + Nor by excess of life death overtake. +To die in brick of brick her destiny, + And as the hamadryad eats the snake +His wife, and then the snake his son, so she + Air not enough, 'though everyone doth take +A little,' water scant, a plague of gold, +Light out of date--a multitude born old. + +And then a three-day siege might be the end; + E'en now the rays get muddied struggling down +Through heaven's vasty lofts, and still extend + The miles of brick and none forbid, and none +Forbode; a great world-wonder that doth send + High fame abroad, and fear no setting sun, +But helpless she through wealth that flouts the day +And through her little children, even as they. + +But forth of London, and all visions dear + To eastern poets of a watered land +Are made the commonplace of nature here, + Sweet rivers always full, and always bland. +Beautiful, beautiful! What runlets clear + Twinkle among the grass. On every hand +Fall in the common talk from lips around +The old names of old towns and famous ground. + +It is not likeness only charms the sense, + Not difference only sets the mind aglow, +It is the likeness in the difference, + Familiar language spoken on the snow, +To have the Perfect in the Present tense, + To hear the ploughboy whistling, and to know, +It smacks of the wild bush, that tune--'Tis ours, +And look! the bank is pale with primrose flowers, + +What veils of tender mist make soft the lea, + What bloom of air the height; no veils confer +On warring thought or softness or degree + Or rest. Still falling, conquering, strife and stir. +For this religion pays indemnity. + She pays her enemies for conquering her. +And then her friends; while ever, and in vain +Lots for a seamless coat are cast again. + +Whose it shall be; unless it shall endow + Thousands of thousands it can fall to none, +But faith and hope are not so simple now, + As in the year of our redemption--One. +The pencil of pure light must disallow + Its name and scattering, many hues put on, +And faith and hope low in the valley feel, +There it is well with them, 'tis very well. + +The land is full of vision, voices call. + Can spirits cast a shadow? Ay, I trow +Past is not done, and over is not all, + Opinion dies to live and wanes to grow, +The gossamer of thought doth filmlike fall, + On fallows after dawn make shimmering show, +And with old arrow-heads, her earliest prize, +Mix learning's latest guess and last surmise. + +There heard I pipes of fame, saw wrens 'about + That time when kings go forth to battle' dart, +Full valorous atoms pierced with song, and stout + To dare, and down yclad; I shared the smart +Of grievèd cushats, bloom of love, devout + Beyond man's thought of it. Old song my heart +Rejoiced, but O mine own forelders' ways +To look on, and their fashions of past days. + +The ponderous craft of arms I craved to see, + Knights, burghers, filtering through those gates ajar, +Their age of serfdom with my spirit free; + We cannot all have wisdom; some there are +Believe a star doth rule their destiny, + And yet they think to overreach the star, +For thought can weld together things apart, +And contraries find meeting in the heart. + +In the deep dust at Suez without sound + I saw the Arab children walk at eve, +Their dark untroubled eyes upon the ground, + A part of Time's grave quiet. I receive +Since then a sense, as nature might have found + Love kin to man's that with the past doth grieve; +And lets on waste and dust of ages fall +Her tender silences that mean it all. + +We have it of her, with her; it were ill + For men, if thought were widowed of the world, +Or the world beggared of her sons, for still + A crownèd sphere with many gems impearled +She rolls because of them. We lend her will + And she yields love. The past shall not be hurled +In the abhorred limbo while the twain, +Mother and son, hold partnership and reign. + +She hangs out omens, and doth burdens dree. + Is she in league with heaven? That knows but One. +For man is not, and yet his work we see + Full of unconscious omen darkly done. +I saw the ring-stone wrought at Avebury + To frame the face of the midwinter sun, +Good luck that hour they thought from him forth smiled +At midwinter the Sun did rise--the Child. + +Still would the world divine though man forbore, + And what is beauty but an omen?--what +But life's deep divination cast before, + Omen of coming love? Hard were man's lot, +With love and toil together at his door, + But all-convincing eyes hath beauty got; +His love is beautiful, and he shall sue. +Toil for her sake is sweet, the omen true. + +Love, love, and come it must, then life is found + Beforehand that was whole and fronting care, +A torn and broken half in durance bound + That mourns and makes request for its right fair +Remainder, with forlorn eyes cast around + To search for what is lost, that unaware +With not an hour's forebodement makes the day +From henceforth less or more for ever and aye. + +Her name--my love's--I knew it not; who says + Of vagrant doubt for such a cause that stirs +His fancy shall not pay arrearages + To all sweet names that might perhaps be hers? +The doubts of love are powers. His heart obeys, + The world is in them, still to love defers, +Will play with him for love, but when 't begins +The play is high, and the world always wins. + +For 'tis the maiden's world, and his no more. + Now thus it was: with new found kin flew by +The temperate summer; every wheatfield wore + Its gold, from house to house in ardency +Of heart for what they showed I westward bore-- + My mother's land, her native hills drew nigh; +I was--how green, how good old earth can be-- +Beholden to that land for teaching me. + +And parted from my fellows, and went on + To feel the spiritual sadness spread +Adown long pastoral hollows. And anon + Did words recur in far remoteness said: +'See the deep vale ere dews are dried and gone, + Where my so happy life in peace I led, +And the great shadow of the Beacon lies-- +See little Ledbury trending up the rise. + +With peakèd houses and high market hall-- + An oak each pillar--reared in the old days. +And here was little Ledbury, quaint withal, + The forest felled, her lair and sheltering place +She long time left in age pathetical. + 'Great oaks' methought, as I drew near to gaze, +'Were but of small account when these came down, +Drawn rough-hewn in to serve the tree-girt town. + +And thus and thus of it will question be + The other side the world.' I paused awhile +To mark. 'The old hall standeth utterly + Without or floor or side, a comely pile, +A house on pillars, and by destiny + Drawn under its deep roof I saw a file +Of children slowly through their way make good, +And lifted up mine eyes--and there--SHE STOOD. + +She was so stately that her youthful grace + Drew out, it seemed, my soul unto the air, +Astonished out of breathing by her face + So fain to nest itself in nut-brown hair +Lying loose about her throat. But that old place + Proved sacred, she just fully grown too fair +For such a thought. The dimples that she had! +She was so truly sweet that it was sad. + +I was all hers. That moment gave her power-- + And whom, nay what she was, I scarce might know, +But felt I had been born for that good hour. + The perfect creature did not move, but so +As if ordained to claim all grace for dower. + She leaned against the pillar, and below +Three almost babes, her care, she watched the while +With downcast lashes and a musing smile. + +I had been 'ware without a rustic treat, + Waggons bedecked with greenery stood anigh, +A swarm of children in the cheerful street + With girls to marshal them; but all went by +And none I noted save this only sweet: + Too young her charge more venturous sport to try, +With whirling baubles still they play content, +And softly rose their lisping babblement. + +'O what a pause! to be so near, to mark + The locket rise and sink upon her breast; +The shadow of the lashes lieth dark + Upon her cheek. O fleeting time, O rest! +A slant ray finds the gold, and with a spark + And flash it answers, now shall be the best. +Her eyes she raises, sets their light on mine, +They do not flash nor sparkle--no--but shine.' + +As I for very hopelessness made bold + Did off my hat ere time there was for thought, +She with a gracious sweetness, calm, not cold, + Acknowledged me, but brought my chance to nought +'This vale of imperfection doth not hold + A lovelier bud among its loveliest wrought! +She turns,' methought 'O do not quite forget +To me remains for ever--that we met.' + +And straightway I went forth, I could no less, + Another light unwot of fall'n on me, +And rare elation and high happiness + Some mighty power set hands of mastery +Among my heartstrings, and they did confess + With wild throbs inly sweet, that minstrelsy +A nightingale might dream so rich a strain, +And pine to change her song for sleep again. + +The harp thrilled ever: O with what a round + And series of rich pangs fled forth each note +Oracular, that I had found, had found + (Head waters of old Nile held less remote) +Golden Dorado, dearest, most renowned; + But when as 't were a sigh did overfloat, +Shaping 'how long, not long shall this endure, +_Au jour le jour'_ methought, _'Aujour le jour'_. + +The minutes of that hour my heart knew well + Were like the fabled pint of golden grain, +Each to be counted, paid for, till one fell, + Grew, shot up to another world amain, +And he who dropped might climb it, there to dwell. + I too, I clomb another world full fain, +But was she there? O what would be the end, + Might she nor there appear, nor I descend? + +All graceful as a palm the maiden stood; + Men say the palm of palms in tropic Isles +Doth languish in her deep primeval wood, + And want the voice of man, his home, his smiles, +Nor flourish but in his dear neighborhood; + She too shall want a voice that reconciles, +A smile that charms--how sweet would heaven so please-- +To plant her at my door over far seas. + +I paced without, nor ever liege in truth + His sovran lady watched with more grave eyes +Of reverence, and she nothing ware forsooth, + Did standing charm the soul with new surprise. +Moving flow on a dimpled dream of youth. + Look! look! a sunbeam on her. Ay, but lies +The shade more sweetly now she passeth through +To join her fellow maids returned anew. + +I saw (myself to bide unmarked intent) + Their youthful ease and pretty airs sedate, +They are so good, they are so innocent, + Those Islanders, they learn their part so late, +Of life's demand right careless, dwell content + Till the first love's first kiss shall consecrate +Their future to a world that can but be +By their sweet martyrdom and ministry. + +Most happy of God's creatures. Afterward + More than all women married thou wilt be, +E'en to the soul. One glance desired afford, + More than knight's service might'st thou ask of me. +Not any chance is mine, not the best word, + No, nor the salt of life withouten thee. +Must this all end, is my day so soon o'er? + Untroubled violet eyes, look once,--once more. + +No, not a glance: the low sun lay and burned, + Now din of drum and cry of fife withal, +Blithe teachers mustering frolic swarms returned, + And new-world ways in that old market hall, +Sweet girls, fair women, how my whole heart yearned + Her to draw near who made my festival. +With others closing round, time speeding on, +How soon she would be gone, she would be gone! + +Ay, but I thought to track the rustic wains, + Their goal desired to note, but not anigh, +They creaking down long hop ycrested lanes + 'Neath the abiding flush of that north sky. +I ran, my horse I fetched, but fate ordains + Love shall breed laughter when th' unloving spy. +As I drew rein to watch the gathered crowd, +With sudden mirth an old wife laughed aloud. + +Her cheeks like winter apples red of hue, + Her glance aside. To whom her speech--to me? +'I know the thing you go about to do-- + The lady--' 'What! the lady--' 'Sir,' saith she, +('I thank you kindly, sir), I tell you true + She's gone,' and 'here's a coil' methought 'will be.' +'Gone--where?' ''Tis past my wit forsooth to say +If they went Malvern way or Hereford way. + +A carriage took her up--where three roads meet + They needs must pass; you may o'ertake it yet.' +And 'Oyez, Oyez' peals adown the street, + 'Lost, lost, a golden heart with pearls beset.' +'I know her, sir?--not I. To help this treat, + Many strange ladies from the country met.' +'O heart beset with pearls! my hope was crost. +Farewell, good dame. Lost! oh my lady lost.' + +And 'Oyez, Oyez' following after me + On my great errand to the sundown went. +Lost, lost, and lost, whenas the cross road flee + Up tumbled hills, on each for eyes attent +A carriage creepeth. + + 'Though in neither she, + I ne'er shall know life's worst impoverishment, +An empty heart. No time, I stake my all, +To right! and chase the rose-red evenfall. + +Fly up, good steed, fly on. Take the sharp rise + As't were a plain. A lady sits; but one. +So fast the pace she turns in startled wise, + She sets her gaze on mine and all is done. +"Persian Roxana" might have raised such eyes + When Alexander sought her. Now the sun +Dips, and my day is over; turn and fleet +The world fast flies, again do three roads meet.' + +I took the left, and for some cause unknown + Full fraught of hope and joy the way pursued, +Yet chose strong reasons speeding up alone + To fortify me 'gainst a shock more rude. +E'en so the diver carrieth down a stone + In hand, lest he float up before he would, +And end his walk upon the rich sea-floor, +Those pearls he failed to grasp never to look on more. + +Then as the low moon heaveth, waxen white, + The carriage, and it turns into a gate. +Within sit three in pale pathetic light. + O surely one of these my love, my fate. +But ere I pass they wind away from sight. + Then cottage casements glimmer. All elate +I cross a green, there yawns with opened latch +A village hostel capped in comely thatch. + +'The same world made for all is made for each. + To match a heart's magnificence of hope. +How shall good reason best high action teach + To win of custom, and with home to cope +How warrantably may he hope to win + A star, that wants it? Shall he lie and grope, +No, truly.--I will see her; tell my tale, +See her this once,--and if I fail--I fail.' + +Thus with myself I spoke. A rough brick floor + Made the place homely; I would rest me there. +But how to sleep? Forth of the unlocked door + I passed at midnight, lustreless white air +Made strange the hour, that ecstasy not o'er + I moved among the shadows, all my care-- +Counted a shadow--her drawn near to bless, +Impassioned out of fear, rapt, motionless. + +Now a long pool and water-hens at rest + (As doughty seafolk dusk, at Malabar) +A few pale stars lie trembling on its breast. + Hath the Most High of all His host afar +One most supremely beautiful, one best, + Dearest of all the flock, one favourite star? +His Image given, in part the children know +They love one first and best. It may be so. + +Now a long hedge; here dream the woolly folk; + A majesty of silence is about. +Transparent mist rolls off the pool like smoke, + And Time is in his trance and night devout. +Now the still house. O an I knew she woke + I could not look, the sacred moon sheds out +So many blessings on her rooftree low, +Each more pathetic that she nought doth know. + +I would not love a little, nor my start + Make with the multitude that love and cease. +He gives too much that giveth half a heart, + Too much for liberty, too much for peace. +Let me the first and best and highest impart, + The whole of it, and heaven the whole increase! +For _that_ were not too much. + + (In the moon's wake +How the grass glitters, for her sweetest sake.) + +I would toward her walk the silver floors. + Love loathes an average--all extreme things deal +To love--sea-deep and dazzling height for stores. + There are on Fortune's errant foot can steal, +Can guide her blindfold in at their own doors, + Or dance elate upon her slippery wheel. +Courage! there are 'gainst hope can still advance, +Dowered with a sane, a wise extravagance. + +A song + To one a dreaming: when the dew +Falls, 'tis a time for rest; and when the bird + Calls, 'tis a time to wake, to wake for you. +A long-waking, aye, waking till a word + Come from her coral mouth to be the true +Sum of all good heart wanted, ear hath heard. + + Yet if alas! might love thy dolour be, +Dream, dear heart dear, and do not dream of me. + +I sing + To one awakened, when the heart + Cries 'tis a day for thought, and when the soul +Sighs choose thy part, O choose thy part, thy part. + I bring to one belovèd, bring my whole +Store, make in loving, make O make mine art + More. Yet I ask no, ask no wished goal + +But this--if loving might thy dolour be, +Wake, O my lady loved, and love not me. + +'That which the many win, love's niggard sum, + I will not, if love's all be left behind. +That which I am I cannot unbecome, + My past not unpossess, nor future blind. +Let me all risk, and leave the deep heart dumb + For ever, if that maiden sits enshrined +The saint of one more happy. She is she. +There is none other. Give her then to me. + +Or else to be the better for her face + Beholding it no more.' Then all night through +The shadow moves with infinite dark grace. + The light is on her windows, and the dew +Comforts the world and me, till in my place + At moonsetting, when stars flash out to view, +Comes 'neath the cedar boughs a great repose, +The peace of one renouncing, and then a doze. + +There was no dream, yet waxed a sense in me + Asleep that patience was the better way, +Appeasement for a want that needs must be, + Grew as the dominant mind forbore its sway, +Till whistling sweet stirred in the cedar tree-- + I started--woke--it was the dawn of day. +That was the end. 'Slow solemn growth of light, +Come what come will, remains to me this night.' + +It was the end, with dew ordained to melt, + How easily was learned, how all too soon +Not there, not thereabout such maiden dwelt. + What was it promised me so fair a boon? +Heart-hope is not less vain because heart-felt, + Gone forth once more in search of her at noon +Through the sweet country side on hill, on plain, +I sought and sought many long days in vain. + +To Malvern next, with feathery woodland hung, + Whereto old Piers the Plowman came to teach, +On her green vasty hills the lay was sung, + He too, it may be, lisping in his speech, +'To make the English sweet upon his tongue.' + How many maidens beautiful, and each +Might him delight, that loved no other fair; +But Malvern blessed not me,--she was not there. + +Then to that town, but still my fate the same. + Crowned with old works that her right well beseem, +To gaze upon her field of ancient fame + And muse on the sad thrall's most piteous dream, +By whom a 'shadow like an angel came,' + Crying out on Clarence, its wild eyes agleam, +Accusing echoes here still falter and flee, +'That stabbed me on the field by Tewkesbury.' + +It nothing 'vailed that yet I sought and sought, + Part of my very self was left behind, +Till risen in wrath against th' o'ermastering thought, + 'Let me be thankful,' quoth the better mind, +Thankful for her, though utterly to nought + She brings my heart's cry, and I live to find +A new self of the old self exigent +In the light of my divining discontent. + +The picture of a maiden bidding 'Arise, + I am the Art of God. He shows by me +His great idea, so well as sin-stained eyes + Love aidant can behold it.' + Is this she? +Or is it mine own love for her supplies + The meaning and the power? Howe'er this be, +She is the interpreter by whom most near +Man's soul is drawn to beauty and pureness here. + +The sweet idea, invisible hitherto, + Is in her face, unconscious delegate; +That thing she wots not of ordained to do: + But also it shall be her votary's fate, +Through her his early days of ease to eschew, + Struggle with life and prove its weary weight. +All the great storms that rising rend the soul, +Are life in little, imaging the whole. + +Ay, so as life is, love is, in their ken + Stars, infant yet, both thought to grasp, to keep, +Then came the morn of passionate splendour, when + So sweet the light, none but for bliss could weep, +And then the strife, the toil; but we are men, + Strong, brave to battle with the stormy deep; +Then fear--and then renunciation--then +Appeals unto the Infinite Pity--and sleep. + +But after life the sleep is long. Not so + With love. Love buried lieth not straight, not still, +Love starts, and after lull awakes to know + All the deep things again. And next his will, +That dearest pang is, never to forego. + He would all service, hardship, fret fulfill. +Unhappy love! and I of that great host +Unhappy love who cry, unhappy most. + +Because renunciation was so short, + The starved heart so easily awaked; +A dream could do it, a bud, a bird, a thought, + But I betook me with that want which ached +To neighbour lands where strangeness with me wrought. + The old work was so hale, its fitness slaked +Soul-thirst for truth. 'I knew not doubt nor fear,' +Its language, 'war or worship, sure sincere.' + +Then where by Art the high did best translate + Life's infinite pathos to the soul, set down +Beauty and mystery, that imperious hate + On its best braveness doth and sainthood frown, +Nay more the MASTER'S manifest pity--'wait, + Behold the palmgrove and the promised crown. +He suffers with thee, for thee.--Lo the Child! +Comfort thy heart; he certainly so smiled.' + +Thus love and I wore through the winter time. + Then saw her demon blush Vesuvius try, +Then evil ghosts white from the awful prime, + Thrust up sharp peaks to tear the tender sky. +'No more to do but hear that English chime' + I to a kinsman wrote. He made reply, +'As home I bring my girl and boy full soon, +I pass through Evesham,--meet me there at noon. + +'The bells your father loved you needs must hear, + Seek Oxford next with me,' and told the day. +'Upon the bridge I'll meet you. What! how dear + Soever was a dream, shall it bear sway +To mar the waking?' + I set forth, drew near, + Beheld a goodly tower, twin churches grey, +Evesham. The bridge, and noon. I nothing knew +What to my heart that fateful chime would do. + +For suddenly the sweet bells overcame + A world unsouled; did all with man endow; +His yearning almost tell that passeth name + And said they were full old, and they were now +And should be; and their sighing upon the same + For our poor sake that pass they did avow, +While on clear Avon flowed like man's short day +The shining river of life lapsing away. + +The stroke of noon. The bell-bird! yes and no. + Winds of remembrance swept as over the foam +Of anti-natal shores. At home is it so, + My country folk? Ay, 'neath this pale blue dome, +Many of you in the moss lie low--lie low. + Ah! since I have not HER, give me too, home. +A footstep near! I turned; past likelihood, +Past hope, before me on the bridge--SHE STOOD. + +A rosy urchin had her hand; this cried, + 'We think you are our cousin--yes, you are; +I said so to Estelle.' The violet-eyed, + 'If this be Geoffrey?' asked; and as from far +A doubt came floating up; but she denied + Her thought, yet blushed. O beautiful! my Star! +Then, with the lifting of my hat, each wore +That look which owned to each, 'We have met before.' + +Then was the strangest bliss in life made mine; + I saw the almost worshipped--all remote; +The Star so high above that used to shine, + Translated from the void where it did float, +And brought into relation with the fine + Charities earth hath grown. A great joy smote +Me silent, and the child atween us tway, +We watched the lucent river stealing away. + +While her deep eyes down on the ripple fell, + Quoth the small imp, '"How fast you go and go, +You Avon. Does it wish to stop, Estelle, + And hear the clock, and see the orchards blow? +_It does not care!_ Not when the old big bell + Makes a great buzzing noise?--Who told you so?" +And then to me, "I like to hear it hum. +Why do you think that father could not come?" + +Estelle forgot her violin. And he, + O then he said: "How careless, child, of you; +I must send on for it. 'T would pity be + If that were lost. + I want to learn it too; +And when I'm nine I shall." + Then turning, she + Let her sweet eyes unveil them to my view; +Her stately grace outmatched my dream of old, +But ah! the smile dull memory had not told. + +My kinsman next, with care-worn kindly brow. + 'Well, father,' quoth the imp, 'we've done our part. +We found him.' + And she, wholly girlish now, + Laid her young hand on his with lovely art +And sweet excuses. O! I made my vow + I would all dare, such life did warm my heart; +We journeyed, all the air with scents of price +Was laden, and the goal was Paradise. + +When that the Moors betook them to their sand, + Their domination over in fair Spain, +Each locked, men say, his door in that loved land, + And took the key in hope to come again. +On Moorish walls yet hung, long dust each hand, + The keys, but not the might to use, remain; +Is there such house in some blest land for me? +I can, I will, I do reach down the key. + +A country conquered oft, and long before, + Of generations aye ordained to win; +If mine the power, I will unlock the door. + Enter, O light, I bear a sunbeam in. +What, did the crescent wane! Yet man is more, + And love achieves because to heaven akin. +O life! to hear again that wandering bell, +And hear it at thy feet, Estelle, Estelle. + +Full oft I want the sacred throated bird, + Over our limitless waste of light which spoke +The spirit of the call my fathers heard, + Saying 'Let us pray,' and old world echoes woke +Ethereal minster bells that still averr'd, + And with their phantom notes th' all silence broke. +'The fanes are far, but whom they shrined is near. +Thy God, the Island God, is here, is here.' + +To serve; to serve a thought, and serve apart + To meet; a few short days, a maiden won. +'Ah, sweet, sweet home, I must divide my heart, + Betaking me to countries of the sun.' +'What straight-hung leaves, what rays that twinkle and dart, + Make me to like them.' + 'Love, it shall be done,' +'What weird dawn-fire across the wide hill flies.' +'It is the flame-tree's challenge to yon scarlet skies.' + +'Hark, hark, O hark! the spirit of a bell! + What would it? ('Toll.') An air-hung sacred call, +Athwart the forest shade it strangely fell'-- + 'Toll'--'Toll.' + The longed-for voice, but ah, withal +I felt, I knew, it was my father's knell + That touched and could the over-sense enthrall. +Perfect his peace, a whispering pure and deep +As theirs who 'neath his native towers by Avon sleep. + +If love and death are ever reconciled, + 'T is when the old lie down for the great rest. +We rode across the bush, a sylvan wild + That was an almost world, whose calm oppressed +With audible silence; and great hills inisled + Rose out as from a sea. Consoling, blest +And blessing spoke she, and the reedflower spread, +And tall rock lilies towered above her head. + + * * * * * + +Sweet is the light aneath our matchless blue, + The shade below yon passion plant that lies, +And very sweet is love, and sweet are you, + My little children dear, with violet eyes, +And sweet about the dawn to hear anew + The sacred monotone of peace arise. +Love, 't is thy welcome from the air-hung bell, +Congratulant and clear, Estelle, Estelle. + + + + +LOSS AND WASTE. + + +Up to far Osteroe and Suderoe + The deep sea-floor lies strewn with Spanish wrecks, +O'er minted gold the fair-haired fishers go, + O'er sunken bravery of high carvèd decks. + +In earlier days great Carthage suffered bale + (All her waste works choke under sandy shoals); +And reckless hands tore down the temple veil; + And Omar burned the Alexandrian rolls. +The Old World arts men suffered not to last, + Flung down they trampled lie and sunk from view, +He lets wild forest for these ages past + Grow over the lost cities of the New. + +O for a life that shall not be refused +To see the lost things found, and waste things used. + + + + +ON A PICTURE. + + +As a forlorn soul waiting by the Styx + Dimly expectant of lands yet more dim, +Might peer afraid where shadows change and mix + Till the dark ferryman shall come for him. + +And past all hope a long ray in his sight, + Fall'n trickling down the steep crag Hades-black +Reveals an upward path to life and light, + Nor any let but he should mount that track. + +As with the sudden shock of joy amazed, + He might a motionless sweet moment stand, +So doth that mortal lover, silent, dazed, + For hope had died and loss was near at hand. + +'Wilt thou?' his quest. Unready but for 'Nay,' +He stands at fault for joy, she whispering 'Ay.' + + + + +THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. + + +The doom'd king pacing all night through the windy fallow. +'Let me alone, mine enemy, let me alone,' +Never a Christian bell that dire thick gloom to hallow, +Or guide him, shelterless, succourless, thrust from his own. + +Foul spirits riding the wind do flout at him friendless, +The rain and the storm on his head beat ever at will; +His weird is on him to grope in the dark with endless +Weariful feet for a goal that shifteth still. + +A sleuth-hound baying! The sleuth-hound bayeth behind him, +His head, he flying and stumbling turns back to the sound, +Whom doth the sleuth-hound follow? What if it find him; +Up! for the scent lieth thick, up from the level ground. + +Up, on, he must on, to follow his weird essaying, +Lo you, a flood from the crag cometh raging past, +He falls, he fights in the water, no stop, no staying, +Soon the king's head goes under, the weird is dreed at last. + + +I. + +'Wake, O king, the best star worn +In the crown of night, forlorn +Blinks a fine white point--'t is morn.' +Soft! The queen's voice, fair is she, +'Wake!' He waketh, living, free, +In the chamber of arras lieth he. +Delicate dim shadows yield +Silken curtains over head +All abloom with work of neeld, +Martagon and milleflower spread. +On the wall his golden shield, +Dinted deep in battle field, +When the host o' the Khalif fled. +Gold to gold. Long sunbeams flit +Upward, tremble and break on it. +'Ay, 't is over, all things writ +Of my sleep shall end awake, +Now is joy, and all its bane +The dark shadow of after pain.' +Then the queen saith, 'Nay, but break +Unto me for dear love's sake +This thy matter. Thou hast been +In great bitterness I ween +All the night-time.' But 'My queen, +Life, love, lady, rest content, +Ill dreams fly, the night is spent, +Good day draweth on. Lament +'Vaileth not,--yea peace,' quoth he; +'Sith this thing no better may be, +Best were held 'twixt thee and me.' +Then the fair queen, 'Even so +As thou wilt, O king, but know +Mickle nights have wrought thee woe, +Yet the last was troubled sore +Above all that went before.' +Quoth the king, 'No more, no more.' +Then he riseth, pale of blee, +As one spent, and utterly +Master'd of dark destiny. + + +II. + +Comes a day for glory famed +Tidings brought the enemy shamed, +Fallen; now is peace proclaimed. +And a swarm of bells on high +Make their sweet din scale the sky, +'Hail! hail! hail!' the people cry +To the king his queen beside, +And the knights in armour ride +After until eventide. + + +III. + +All things great may life afford, +Praise, power, love, high pomp, fair gaud, +Till the banquet be toward +Hath this king. Then day takes flight, +Sinketh sun and fadeth light, +Late he coucheth--Night; 't is night. + +_The proud king heading the host on his red roan charger._ + Dust. On a thicket of spears glares the Syrian sun, +The Saracens swarm to the onset, larger aye larger + Loom their fierce cohorts, they shout as the day were won. + +Brown faces fronting the steel-bright armour, and ever + The crash o' the combat runs on with a mighty cry, +Fell tumult; trampling and carnage--then fails endeavour, + O shame upon shame--the Christians falter and fly. + +The foe upon them, the foe afore and behind them, + The king borne back in the mêlée; all, all is vain; +They fly with death at their heels, fierce sun-rays blind them, + Riderless steeds affrighted, tread down their ranks amain. + +Disgrace, dishonour, no rally, ah no retrieving, + The scorn of scorns shall his name and his nation brand, +'T is a sword that smites from the rear, his helmet cleaving, + That hurls him to earth, to his death on the desert sand. + +Ever they fly, the cravens, and ever reviling + Flies after. Athirst, ashamèd, he yieldeth his breath, +While one looks down from his charger; and calm slow smiling, + Curleth his lip. 'T is the Khalif. And this is death. + + +IV. + +'Wake, yon purple peaks arise, +Jagged, bare, through saffron skies; +Now is heard a twittering sweet, +For the mother-martins meet, +Where wet ivies, dew-besprent, +Glisten on the battlement. +Now the lark at heaven's gold gate +Aiming, sweetly chides on fate +That his brown wings wearied were +When he, sure, was almost there. +Now the valley mist doth break, +Shifting sparkles edge the lake, +Love, Lord, Master, wake, O wake!' + + +V. + +Ay, he wakes,--and dull of cheer, +Though this queen be very dear, +Though a respite come with day +From th' abhorrèd flight and fray, +E'en though life be not the cost, +Nay, nor crown nor honour lost; +For in his soul abideth fear +Worse than of the Khalif's spear, +Smiting when perforce in flight +He was borne,--for that was night, +That his weird. But now 't is day, +'And good sooth I know not--nay, +Know not how this thing could be. +Never, more it seemeth me +Than when left the weird to dree, +I am I. And it was I +Felt or ever they turned to fly, +How, like wind, a tremor ran, +The right hand of every man +Shaking. Ay, all banners shook, +And the red all cheeks forsook, +Mine as theirs. Since this was I, +Who my soul shall certify +When again I face the foe +Manful courage shall not go. +Ay, it is not thrust o' a spear, +Scorn of infidel eyes austere, +But mine own fear--is to fear.' + + +VI. + +After sleep thus sore bestead, +Beaten about and buffeted, +Featly fares the morning spent +In high sport and tournament. + + +VII. + +Served within his sumptuous tent, +Looks the king in quiet wise, +Till this fair queen yield the prize +To the bravest; but when day +Falleth to the west away, +Unto her i' the silent hour, +While she sits in her rose-bower. +Come, 'O love, full oft,' quoth she, +'I at dawn have prayèd thee +Thou would'st tell o' the weird to me, +Sith I might some counsel find +Of my wit or in my mind +Thee to better.' 'Ay, e'en so, +But the telling shall let thee know,' +Quoth the king, 'is neither scope +For sweet counsel nor fair hope, +Nor is found for respite room, +Till the uttermost crack of doom. + + +VIII. + +Then the queen saith, 'Woman's wit +No man asketh aid of it, +Not wild hyssop on a wall +Is of less account; or small +Glossy gnats that flit i' the sun +Less worth weighing--light so light! +Yet when all's said--ay, all done, +Love, I love thee! By love's might +I will counsel thee aright, +Or would share the weird to-night.' +Then he answer'd 'Have thy way. +Know 't is two years gone and a day +Since I, walking lone and late, +Pondered sore mine ill estate; +Open murmurers, foes concealed, +Famines dire i' the marches round, +Neighbour kings unfriendly found, +Ay, and treacherous plots revealed +Where I trusted. I bid stay +All my knights at the high crossway, +And did down the forest fare +To bethink me, and despair. +'Ah! thou gilded toy a throne, +If one mounts to thee alone, +Quoth I, mourning while I went, +Haply he may drop content +As a lark wing-weary down +To the level, and his crown +Leave for another man to don; +Throne, thy gold steps raised upon. +But for me--O as for me +What is named I would not dree, +Earn, or conquer, or forego +For the barring of overthrow.' + + +IX. + +'Aloud I spake, but verily +Never an answer looked should be. +But it came to pass from shade +Pacing to an open glade, +Which the oaks a mighty wall +Fence about, methought a call +Sounded, then a pale thin mist +Rose, a pillar, and fronted me, +Rose and took a form I wist, +And it wore a hood on 'ts head, +And a long white garment spread, +And I saw the eyes thereof. + + +X. + +Then my plumèd cap I doff, +Stooping. 'T is the white-witch. 'Hail,' +Quoth the witch, 'thou shalt prevail +An thou wilt; I swear to thee +All thy days shall glorious shine, +Great and rich, ay, fair and fine, +So what followeth rest my fee, +So thou'lt give thy sleep to me.' + + +XI. + +While she spake my heart did leap. +Waking is man's life, and sleep-- +What is sleep?--a little death +Coming after, and methought +Life is mine and death is nought +Till it come,--so day is mine +I will risk the sleep to shine +In the waking. + And she saith, +In a soft voice clear and low, +'Give thy plumèd cap also +For a token.' + 'Didst thou give?' +Quoth the queen; and 'As I live +He makes answer 'none can tell. +I did will my sleep to sell, +And in token held to her +That she askèd. And it fell +To the grass. I saw no stir +In her hand or in her face, +And no going; but the place +Only for an evening mist +Was made empty. There it lay, +That same plumèd cap, alway +On the grasses--but I wist +Well, it must be let to lie, +And I left it. Now the tale +Ends, th' events do testify +Of her truth. The days go by +Better and better; nought doth ail +In the land, right happy and hale +Dwell the seely folk; but sleep +Brings a reckoning; then forth creep +Dreaded creatures, worms of might. +Crested with my plumèd cap +Loll about my neck all night, +Bite me in the side, and lap +My heart's blood. Then oft the weird +Drives me, where amazed, afeard, +I do safe on a river strand +Mark one sinking hard at hand +While fierce sleuth-hounds that me track +Fly upon me, bear me back, +Fling me away, and he for lack +Of man's aid in piteous wise +Goeth under, drowns and dies. + + +XII. + +'O sweet wife, I suffer sore-- +O methinks aye more and more +Dull my day, my courage numb, +Shadows from the night to come. +But no counsel, hope, nor aid +Is to give; a crown being made +Power and rule, yea all good things +Yet to hang on this same weird +I must dree it, ever that brings +Chastening from the white-witch feared. +O that dreams mote me forsake, +Would that man could alway wake.' + + +XIII. + +Now good sooth doth counsel fail, +Ah this queen is pale, so pale. +'Love,' she sigheth, 'thou didst not well +Listening to the white-witch fell, +Leaving her doth thee advance +Thy plumèd cap of maintenance.' + + +XIV. + +'She is white, as white snow flake,' +Quoth the king; 'a man shall make +Bargains with her and not sin.' +'Ay,' she saith, 'but an he win, +Let him look the right be done +Else the rue shall be his own. + + +XV. + +No more words. The stars are bright, +For the feast high halls be dight +Late he coucheth. Night--'t is night. + +_The dead king lying in state in the Minster holy._ + Fifty candles burn at his head and burn at his feet, +A crown and royal apparel upon him lorn and lowly, + And the cold hands stiff as horn by their cold palms meet. + +Two days dead. Is he dead? Nay, nay--but is he living? + The weary monks have ended their chantings manifold, +The great door swings behind them, night winds entrance giving, + The candles flare and drip on him, warm and he so cold. + +Neither to move nor to moan, though sunk and though swallow'd + In earth he shall soon be trodden hard and no more seen. +Soft you the door again! Was it a footstep followed, + Falter'd, and yet drew near him?--Malva, Malva the queen! + +One hand o' the dead king liveth (e'en so him seemeth) + On the purple robe, on the ermine that folds his breast +Cold, very cold. Yet e'en at that pass esteemeth + The king, it were sweet if she kissed the place of its rest. + +Laid her warm face on his bosom, a fair wife grievèd + For the lord and love of her youth, and bewailed him sore; +Laid her warm face on the bosom of her bereavèd + Soon to go under, never to look on her more. + +His candles guide her with pomp funereal flaring, + Out of the gulfy dark to the bier whereon he lies. +Cometh this queen i' the night for grief or for daring, + Out o' the dark to the light with large affrighted eyes? + +The pale queen speaks in the Presence with fear upon her, + 'Where is the ring I gave to thee, where is my ring? +I vowed--'t was an evil vow--by love, and by honour, + Come life or come death to be thine, thou poor dead king.' + +The pale queen's honour! A low laugh scathing and sereing-- + A mumbling as made by the dead in the tombs ye wot. +Braveth the dead this queen? 'Hear it, whoso hath hearing, + I vowed by my love, cold king, but I loved thee not.' + +Honour! An echo in aisles and the solemn portals, + Low sinketh this queen by the bier with its freight forlorn; +Yet kneeling, 'Hear me!' she crieth, 'you just immortals, + You saints bear witness I vowed and am not forsworn. + +I vowed in my youth, fool-king, when the golden fetter + Thy love that bound me and bann'd me full weary I wore, +But all poor men of thy menai I held them better, + All stalwart knights of thy train unto me were more. + +Twenty years I have lived on earth and two beside thee, + Thirty years thou didst live on earth, and two on the throne: +Let it suffice there be none of thy rights denied thee, + Though I dare thy presence--I--come for my ring alone.' + +She risen shuddereth, peering, afraid to linger + Behold her ring, it shineth! 'Now yield to me, thou dead, +For this do I dare the touch of thy stark stiff finger.' + The queen hath drawn her ring from his hand, the queen hath fled. + +'O woman fearing sore, to whom my man's heart cleavèd, + The faith enwrought with love and life hath mocks for its meed'-- +The dead king lying in state, of his past bereavèd, + Twice dead. Ay, this is death. Now dieth the king indeed. + + +XVI. + +'Wake, the seely gnomes do fly, +Drenched across yon rainy sky, +With the vex'd moon-mother'd elves, +And the clouds do weep themselves +Into morning. + + All night long +Hath thy weird thee sore opprest; +Wake, I have found within my breast +Counsel.' Ah, the weird was strong, +But the time is told. Release +Openeth on him when his eyes +Lift them in dull desolate wise, +And behold he is at peace. + +Ay, but silent. Of all done +And all suffer'd in the night, +Of all ills that do him spite +She shall never know that one. +Then he heareth accents bland, +Seeth the queen's ring on his hand, +And he riseth calmed withal. + + +XVII. + +Rain and wind on the palace wall +Beat and bluster, sob and moan, +When at noon he musing lone, +Comes the queen anigh his seat, +And she kneeleth at his feet. + + +XVIII. + +Quoth the queen, 'My love, my lord, +Take thy wife and take thy sword, +We must forth in the stormy weather, +Thou and I to the witch together. +Thus I rede thee counsel deep, +Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep, +Turning so man's wholesome life +From its meaning. Thine intent +None shall hold for innocent. +Thou dost take thy good things first, +Then thou art cast into the worst; +First the glory, then the strife. +Nay, but first thy trouble dree, +So thy peace shall sweeter be. +First to work and then to rest, +Is the way for our humanity, +Ay, she sayeth that loves thee best, +We must forth and from this strife +Buy the best part of man's life; +Best and worst thou holdest still +Subject to a witch's will. +Thus I rede thee counsel deep, +Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep; +Take the crown from off thy head, +Give it the white-witch instead, +If in that she say thee nay, +Get the night,--and give the day.' + + +XIX. + +Then the king (amazèd, mild, +As one reasoning with a child +All his speech): 'My wife! my fair! +And his hand on her brown hair +Trembles; 'Lady, dost indeed +Weigh the meaning of thy rede? +Would'st thou dare the dropping away +Of allegiance, should our sway +And sweet splendour and renown +All be risked? (methinks a crown +Doth become thee marvellous well). +We ourself are, truth to tell, +Kingly both of wont and kind, +Suits not such the craven mind.' +'Yet this weird thou can'st not dree.' +Quoth the queen, 'And live;' then he, +'I must die and leave the fair +Unborn, long-desired heir +To his rightful heritage.' + + +XX. + +But this queen arisen doth high +Her two hands uplifting, sigh +'God forbid.' And he to assuage +Her keen sorrow, for his part +Searcheth, nor can find in his heart +Words. And weeping she will rest +Her sweet cheek upon his breast, +Whispering, 'Dost thou verily +Know thou art to blame? Ah me, +Come,' and yet beseecheth she, +'Ah me, come.' + + For good for ill, +Whom man loveth hath her will. +Court and castle left behind, +Stolen forth in the rain and wind, +Soon they are deep in the forest, fain +The white-witch to raise again; +Down and deep where flat o'erhead +Layer on layer do cedars spread, +Down where lordly maples strain, +Wrestling with the storm amain. + + +XXI. + +Wide-wing'd eagles struck on high +Headlong fall'n break through, and lie +With their prey in piteous wise, +And no film on their dead eyes. +Matted branches grind and crash, +Into darkness dives the flash, +Stabs, a dread gold dirk of fire, +Loads the lift with splinters dire. +Then a pause i' the deadly feud-- +And a sick cowed quietude. + + +XXII. + +Soh! A pillar misty and grey, +'T is the white-witch in the way. +Shall man deal with her and gain? +I trow not. Albeit the twain +Costly gear and gems and gold +Freely offer, she will hold +Sleep and token for the pay +She did get for greatening day. + + +XXIII. + +'Or the night shall rest my fee +Or the day shall nought of me,' +Quoth the witch. 'An't thee beseem, +Sell thy kingdom for a dream.' + + +XXIV. + +'Now what will be let it be!' +Quoth the queen; 'but choose the right.' +And the white-witch scorns at her, +Stately standing in their sight. +Then without or sound or stir +She is not. For offering meet +Lieth the token at their feet, +Which they, weary and sore bestead +In the storm, lift up, full fain +Ere the waning light hath fled +Those high towers they left to gain. + + +XXV. + +Deep among tree roots astray +Here a torrent tears its way, +There a cedar split aloft +Lies head downward. Now the oft +Muttering thunder, now the wind +Wakens. How the path to find? +How the turning? Deep ay deep, +Far ay far. She needs must weep, +This fair woman, lost, astray +In the forest; nought to say. +Yet the sick thoughts come and go, +'I, 't was I would have it so.' + + +XXVI. + +Shelter at the last, a roof +Wrought of ling (in their behoof, +Foresters, that drive the deer). +What, and must they couch them here? +Ay, and ere the twilight fall +Gather forest berries small +And nuts down beaten for a meal. + + +XXVII. + +Now the shy wood-wonners steal +Nearer, bright-eyed furry things, +Winking owls on silent wings +Glance, and float away. The light +In the wake o' the storm takes flight, +Day departeth: night--'t is night. + +The crown'd king musing at morn by a clear sweet river. + Palms on the slope o' the valley, and no winds blow; +Birds blameless, dove-eyed, mystical talk deliver, + Oracles haply. The language he doth not know. + +Bare, blue, are yon peakèd hills for a rampart lying, + As dusty gold is the light in the palms o'erhead, +'What is the name o' the land? and this calm sweet sighing, + If it be echo, where first was it caught and spread? + +I might--I might be at rest in some field Elysian, + If this be asphodel set in the herbage fair, +I know not how I should wonder, so sweet the vision, + So clear and silent the water, the field, the air. + +Love, are you by me! Malva, what think you this meaneth? + Love, do you see the fine folk as they move over there? +Are they immortals? Look you a wingèd one leaneth + Down from yon pine to the river of us unaware. + +All unaware; and the country is full of voices, + Mild strangers passing: they reck not of me nor of thee. +List! about and around us wondrous sweet noises, + Laughter of little children and maids that dreaming be. + +Love, I can see their dreams.' A dim smile flitteth + Over her lips, and they move as in peace supreme, +And a small thing, silky haired, beside her sitteth, + 'O this is thy dream atween us--this is thy dream.' + +Was it then truly his dream with her dream that blended? + 'Speak, dear child dear,' quoth the queen, 'and mine own little son.' +'Father,' the small thing murmurs; then all is ended, + He starts from that passion of peace--ay, the dream is done. + + +XXVIII. + +'I have been in a good land,' +Quoth the king: 'O sweet sleep bland, +Blessed! I am grown to more, +Now the doing of right hath moved +Me to love of right, and proved +If one doth it, he shall be +Twice the man he was before. +Verily and verily, +Thou fair woman, thou didst well; +I look back and scarce may tell +Those false days of tinsel sheen, +Flattery, feasting, that have been. +Shows of life that were but shows, +How they held me; being I ween +Like sand-pictures thin, that rose +Quivering, when our thirsty bands +Marched i' the hot Egyptian lands; +Shade of palms on a thick green plot, +Pools of water that was not, +Mocking us and melting away. + + +XXIX. + +I have been a witch's prey, +Art mine enemy now by day, +Thou fell Fear? There comes an end +To the day; thou canst not wend +After me where I shall fare, +My foredoomèd peace to share. +And awake with a better heart, +I shall meet thee and take my part +O' the dull world's dull spite; with thine +Hard will I strive for me and mine.' + + +XXX. + +A page and a palfrey pacing nigh, +Malva the queen awakes. A sigh-- +One amazèd moment--'Ay, +We remember yesterday, +Let us to the palace straight: +What! do all my ladies wait-- +Is no zeal to find me? What! +No knights forth to meet the king; +Due observance, is it forgot?' + + +XXXI. + +'Lady,' quoth the page, 'I bring +Evil news. Sir king, I say, +My good lord of yesterday, +Evil news,' This king saith low, +'Yesterday, and yesterday, +The queen's yesterday we know, +Tell us thine.' 'Sir king,' saith he, +Hear. Thy castle in the night +Was surprised, and men thy flight +Learned but then; thine enemy +Of old days, our new king, reigns; +And sith thou wert not at pains +To forbid it, hear also, +Marvelling whereto this should grow +How thy knights at break of morn +Have a new allegiance sworn, +And the men-at-arms rejoice, +And the people give their voice +For the conqueror. I, Sir king, +Rest thine only friend. I bring +Means of flight; now therefore fly, +A great price is on thy head. +Cast her jewel'd mantle by, +Mount thy queen i' the selle and hie +(Sith disguise ye need, and bread) +Down yon pleachèd track, down, down, +Till a tower shall on thee frown; +Him that holds it show this ring: +So farewell, my lord the king.' + + +XXXII. + +Had one marked that palfrey led +To the tower, he sooth had said, +These are royal folk and rare-- +Jewels in her plaited hair +Shine not clearer than her eyes, +And her lord in goodly wise +With his plumèd cap in 's hand +Moves in the measure of command. + + +XXXIII. + +Had one marked where stole forth two +From the friendly tower anew, +'Common folk' he sooth had said, +Making for the mountain track. +Common, common, man and maid, +Clad in russet, and of kind +Meet for russet. On his back +A wallet bears the stalwart hind; +She, all shy, in rustic grace +Steps beside her man apace, +And wild roses match her face. + + +XXXIV. + +Whither speed they? Where are toss'd +Like sea foam the dwarfed pines +At the jagged sharp inclines; +To the country of the frost +Up the mountains to be lost, +Lost. No better now may be, +Lost where mighty hollows thrust +'Twixt the fierce teeth of the world, +Fill themselves with crimson dust +When the tumbling sun down hurl'd +Stares among them drearily, +As a' wondering at the lone +Gulfs that weird gaunt company +Fenceth in. Lost there unknown, +Lineage, nation, name, and throne. + + +XXXV. + +Lo, in a crevice choked with ling +And fir, this man, not now the king, +This Sigismund, hath made a fire, +And by his wife in the dark night +He leans at watch, her guard and squire. +His wide eyes stare out for the light +Weary. He needs must chide on fate, +And she is asleep. 'Poor brooding mate, +What! wilt thou on the mountain crest +Slippery and cold scoop thy first nest? +Or must I clear some uncouth cave +That laired the mother wolf, and save-- +Spearing her cubs--the grey pelt fine +To be a bed for thee and thine? +It is my doing. Ay,' quoth he, +'Mine; but who dares to pity thee +Shall pity, not for loss of all, +But that thou wert my wife perdie, +E'en wife unto a witch's thrall,-- +A man beholden to the cold +Cloud for a covering, he being sold +And hunted for reward of gold. + + +XXXVI. + +But who shall chronicle the ways +Of common folk--the nights and days +Spent with rough goatherds on their snows, +Of travellers come whence no man knows, +Then gone aloft on some sharp height +In the dumb peace and the great light +Amid brown eagles and wild roes? + + +XXXVII. + +'Tis the whole world whereon they lie, +The rocky pastures hung on high +Shelve off upon an empty sky. +But they creep near the edge, look down-- +Great heaven! another world afloat, +Moored as in seas of air; remote +As their own childhood; swooning away +Into a tenderer sweeter day, +Innocent, sunny. 'O for wings! +There lie the lands of other kings-- +I Sigismund, my sometime crown +Forfeit; forgotten of renown +My wars, my rule; I fain would go +Down to yon peace obscure.' + + Even so; +Down to the country of the thyme, +Where young kids dance, and a soft chime +Of sheepbells tinkles; then at last +Down to a country of hollows, cast +Up at the mountains full of trees, +Down to fruit orchards and wide leas. + + +XXXVIII. + +With name unsaid and fame unsunned +He walks that was King Sigismund. +With palmers holy and pilgrims brown, +New from the East, with friar and clown, +He mingles in a wallèd town, +And in the mart where men him scan +He passes for a merchant man. +For from his vest, where by good hap +He thrust it, he his plumèd cap +Hath drawn and plucked the gems away, +And up and down he makes essay +To sell them; they are all his wares +And wealth. He is a man of cares, +A man of toil; no roof hath he +To shelter her full soon to be +The mother of his dispossessed +Desirèd heir. + + +XXXIX. + + Few words are best. +He, once King Sigismund, saith few, +But makes good diligence and true. +Soon with the gold he gather'd so, +A little homestead lone and low +He buyeth: a field, a copse, with these +A melon patch and mulberry trees. +And is the man content? Nay, morn +Is toilsome, oft is noon forlorn, +Though right be done and life be won, +Yet hot is weeding in the sun, +Yea scythe to wield and axe to swing, +Are hard on sinews of a king. + + +XL. + +And Malva, must she toil? E'en so. +Full patiently she takes her part, +All, all so new. But her deep heart +Forebodes more change than shall be shown +Betwixt a settle and a throne. +And lost in musing she will go +About the winding of her silk, +About the skimming her goat's milk, +About the kneading of her bread, +And water drawn from her well-head. + + +XLI. + +Then come the long nights dark and still, +Then come the leaves and cover the sill, +Then come the swift flocks of the stare, +Then comes the snow--then comes the heir. + + +XLII. + +If he be glad, if he be sad, +How should one question when the hand +Is full, the heart. That life he had, +While leisure was aside may stand, +Till he shall overtake the task +Of every day, then let him ask +(If he remember--if he will), +'When I could sit me down and muse, +And match my good against mine ill, +And weigh advantage dulled by use +At nothing, was it better with me?' +But Sigismund! It cannot be +But that he toil, nor pause, nor sigh, +A dreamer on a day gone by +The king is come. + + +XLIII. + + His vassals two +Serve with all homage deep and due. +He is contented, he doth find +Belike the kingdom much to his mind. +And when the long months of his long +Reign are two years, and like a song +From some far sweeter world, a call +From the king's mouth for fealty, +Buds soon to blossom in language fall, +They listen and find not any plea +Left, for fine chiding at destiny. + + +XLIV. + +Sigismund hath ricked the hay, +He sitteth at close o' a sultry day +Under his mulberry boughs at ease. +'Hey for the world, and the world is wide, +The world is mine, and the world is--these +Beautiful Malva leans at his side, +And the small babbler talks at his knees. + + +XLV. + +Riseth a waft as of summer air, +Floating upon it what moveth there? +Faint as the light of stars and wan +As snow at night when the moon is gone, +It is the white-witch risen once more. + + +XLVI. + +The white-witch that tempted of yore +So utterly doth substance lack, +You may breathe her nearer and breathe her back. +Soft her eyes, her speech full clear: +'Hail, thou Sigismund my fere, +Bargain with me yea or nay. +NAY, I go to my true place, +And no more thou seest my face. +YEA, the good be all thine own, +For now will I advance thy day, +And yet will leave the night alone. + + +XLVII. + +Sigismund makes answer 'NAY. +Though the Highest heaped on me +Trouble, yet the same should be +Welcomer than weal from thee. +Nay;--for ever and ever Nay.' +O, the white-witch floats away. +Look you, look! A still pure smile +Blossoms on her mouth the while, +White wings peakèd high behind, +Bear her;--no, the wafting wind, +For they move not,--floats her back, +Floats her up. They scarce may track +Her swift rising, shot on high +Like a ray from the western sky, +Or a lark from some grey wold +Utterly whelm'd in sunset gold. + + +XLVIII. + +Then these two long silence hold, +And the lisping babe doth say +'White white bird, it flew away.' +And they marvel at these things, +For her ghostly visitings +Turn to them another face. +Haply she was sent, a friend +Trying them, and to good end +For their better weal and grace; +One more wonder let to be +In the might and mystery +Of the world, where verily +And good sooth a man may wend +All his life, and no more view +Than the one right next to do. + + +XLIX. + +So, the welcome dusk is here, +Sweet is even, rest is dear; +Mountain heads have lost the light, +Soon they couch them. Night--'t is night. + +Sigismund dreaming delightsomely after his haying. + ('Sleep of the labouring man,' quoth King David, 'is sweet.') +'Sigismund, Sigismund'--'Who is this calling and saying + "Sigismund, Sigismund," O blessed night do not fleet. + +Is it not dark--ay, methinks it is dark, I would slumber, + O I would rest till the swallow shall chirp 'neath mine eaves.' +'Sigismund, Sigismund,' multitudes now without number + Calling, the noise is as dropping of rain upon leaves. + +'Ay,' quoth he dreaming, 'say on, for I, Sigismund, hear ye.' + 'Sigismund, Sigismund, all the knights weary full sore. +Come back, King Sigismund, come, they shall love thee and fear thee, + The people cry out O come back to us, reign evermore. + +The new king is dead, and we will not his son, no nor brother, + Come with thy queen, is she busy yet, kneading of cakes? +Sigismund, show us the boy, is he safe, and his mother, + Sigismund?'--dreaming he falls into laughter and wakes. + + +L. + +And men say this dream came true, +For he walking in the dew +Turned aside while yet was red +On the highest mountain head, +Looking how the wheat he set +Flourished. And the knights him met +And him prayed 'Come again, +Sigismund our king, and reign.' +But at first--at first they tell +How it liked not Malva well; +She must leave her belted bees +And the kids that she did rear. +When she thought on it full dear +Seemed her home. It did not please +Sigismund that he must go +From the wheat that he did sow; +When he thought on it his mind +Was not that should any bind +Into sheaves that wheat but he, +Only he; and yet they went, +And it may be were content. +And they won a nation's heart; +Very well they played their part. +They ruled with sceptre and diadem, +And their children after them. + + + + +THE MAID-MARTYR. + + +Only you'd have me speak. + Whether to speak +Or whether to be silent is all one; +Whether to sleep and in my dreaming front +Her small scared face forlorn; whether to wake +And muse upon her small soft feet that paced +The hated, hard, inhospitable stone-- +I say all's one. But you would have me speak, +And change one sorrow for the other. Ay, +Right reverend father, comfortable father, +Old, long in thrall, and wearied of the cell, +So will I here--here staring through the grate, +Whence, sheer beneath us lying the little town, +Her street appears a riband up the rise; +Where 't is right steep for carts, behold two ruts +Worn in the flat, smooth, stone. + That side I stood; +My head was down. At first I did but see +Her coming feet; they gleamed through my hot tears +As she walked barefoot up yon short steep hill. +Then I dared all, gazed on her face, the maid +Martyr and utterly, utterly broke my heart. + +Her face, O! it was wonderful to me, +There was not in it what I look'd for--no, +I never saw a maid go to her death, +How should I dream that face and the dumb soul? + +Her arms and head were bare, seemly she walked +All in her smock so modest as she might; +Upon her shoulders hung a painted cape +For horrible adornment, flames of fire +Portrayed upon it, and mocking demon heads. + +Her eyes--she did not see me--opened wide, +Blue-black, gazed right before her, yet they marked +Nothing; and her two hands uplift as praying, +She yet prayed not, wept not, sighed not. O father, +She was past that, soft, tender, hunted thing; +But, as it seemed, confused from time to time, +She would half-turn her or to left or right +To follow other streets, doubting her way. + +Then their base pikes they basely thrust at her, +And, like one dazed, obedient to her guides +She came; I knew not if 't was present to her +That death was her near goal; she was so lost, +And set apart from any power to think. +But her mouth pouted as one brooding, father, +Over a lifetime of forlorn fear. No, +Scarce was it fear; so looks a timid child +(Not more affrighted; ah! but not so pale) +That has been scolded or has lost its way. + +Mother and father--father and mother kind, +She was alone, where were you hidden? Alone, +And I that loved her more, or feared death less, +Rushed to her side, but quickly was flung back, +And cast behind o' the pikemen following her +Into a yelling and a cursing crowd. +That bristled thick with monks and hooded friars; +Moreover, women with their cheeks ablaze, +Who swarmèd after up the narrowing street. + +Pitiful heaven! I knew she did not hear +In that last hour the cursing, nor the foul +Words; she had never heard like words, sweet soul, +In her life blameless; even at that pass, +That dreadful pass, I felt it had been worse, +Though nought I longed for as for death, to know +She did. She saw not 'neath their hoods those eyes +Soft, glittering, with a lust for cruelty; +Secret delight, that so great cruelty, +All in the sacred name of Holy Church, +Their meed to look on it should be anon. +Speak! O, I tell you this thing passeth word! +From roofs and oriels high, women looked down; +Men, maidens, children, and a fierce white sun +Smote blinding splinters from all spears aslant. + +Lo! next a stand, so please you, certain priests +(May God forgive men sinning at their ease), +Whose duty 't was to look upon this thing, +Being mindful of thick pungent smoke to come, +Had caused a stand to rise hard by the stake, +Upon its windward side. + + My life! my love! +She utter'd one sharp cry of mortal dread +While they did chain her. This thing passeth words, +Albeit told out for ever in my soul. +As the torch touched, thick volumes of black reek +Rolled out and raised the wind, and instantly +Long films of flaxen hair floated aloft, +Settled alow, in drifts upon the crowd. +The vile were merciful; heaped high, my dear, +Thou didst not suffer long. O! it was soon, +Soon over, and I knew not any more, +Till grovelling on the ground, beating my head, +I heard myself, and scarcely knew 't was I, +At Holy Church railing with fierce mad words, +Crying and craving for a stake, for me. +While fast the folk, as ever, such a work +Being over, fled, and shrieked 'A heretic! +More heretics; yon ashes smoking still.' + +And up and almost over me came on +A robed--ecclesiastic--with his train +(I choose the words lest that they do some wrong) +Call him a robed ecclesiastic proud. +And I lying helpless, with my bruised face +Beat on his garnished shoon. But he stepped back, +Spurned me full roughly with them, called the pikes, +Delivering orders, 'Take the bruised wretch. +He raves. Fool! thou'lt hear more of this anon. +Bestow him there.' He pointed to a door. +With that some threw a cloth upon my face +Because it bled. I knew they carried me +Within his home, and I was satisfied; +Willing my death. Was it an abbey door? +Was 't entrance to a palace? or a house +Of priests? I say not, nor if abbot he, +Bishop or other dignity; enough +That he so spake. 'Take in the bruised wretch.' +And I was borne far up a turret stair +Into a peakèd chamber taking form +O' the roof, and on a pallet bed they left +Me miserable. Yet I knew forsooth, +Left in my pain, that evil things were said +Of that same tower; men thence had disappeared, +Suspect of heresy had disappeared, +Deliver'd up, 't was whisper'd, tried and burned. +So be it methought, I would not live, not I. +But none did question me. A beldame old, +Kind, heedless of my sayings, tended me. +I raved at Holy Church and she was deaf, +And at whose tower detained me, she was dumb. +So had I food and water, rest and calm. +Then on the third day I rose up and sat +On the side of my low bed right melancholy, +All that high force of passion overpast, +I sick with dolourous thought and weak through tears +Spite of myself came to myself again +(For I had slept), and since I could not die +Looked through the window three parts overgrown +With leafage on the loftiest ivy ropes, +And saw at foot o' the rise another tower +In roof whereof a grating, dreary bare. +Lifetimes gone by, long, slow, dim, desolate, +I knew even there had been my lost love's cell. + +So musing on the man that with his foot +Spurned me, the robed ecclesiastic stern, +'Would he had haled me straight to prison' methought, +'So made an end at once.' + + My sufferings rose +Like billows closing over, beating down; +Made heavier far because of a stray, strange, +Sweet hope that mocked me at the last. + 'T was thus, +I came from Oxford secretly, the news +Terrible of her danger smiting me,-- +She was so young, and ever had been bred +With whom 't was made a peril now to name. +There had been worship in the night; some stole +To a mean chapel deep in woods, and heard +Preaching, and prayed. She, my betrothed, was there. +Father and mother, mother and father kind, +So young, so innocent, had ye no ruth, +No fear, that ye did bring her to her doom? +I know the chiefest Evil One himself +Sanded that floor. Their footsteps marking it +Betrayed them. How all came to pass let be. +Parted, in hiding some, other in thrall, +Father and mother, mother and father kind, +It may be yet ye know not this--not all. + +I in the daytime lying perdue looked up +At the castle keep impregnable,--no foot +How rash so e'er might hope to scale it. Night +Descending, come I near, perplexedness, +Contempt of danger, to the door o' the keep +Drawing me. There a short stone bench I found, +And bitterly weeping sat and leaned my head +Against the hopeless hated massiveness +Of that detested hold. A lifting moon +Had made encroachment on the dark, but deep +Was shadow where I leaned. Within a while +I was aware, but saw no shape, of one +Who stood beside me, a dark shadow tall. +I cared not, disavowal mattered nought +Of grief to one so out of love with life. +But after pause I felt a hand let down +That rested kindly, firmly, a man's hand, +Upon my shoulder; there was cheer in it. +And presently a voice clear, whispering, low, +With pitifulness that faltered, spoke to me. +Was I, it asked, true son of Mother Church? +Coldly I answer'd 'Ay;' then blessed words +That danced into mine ears more excellent +Music than wedding bells had been were said, +With certitude that I might see my maid, +My dear one. He would give a paper, he +The man beside me. 'Do thy best endeavour, +Dear youth. Thy maiden being a right sweet child +Surely will hearken to thee; an she do, +And will recant, fair faultless heretic, +Whose knowledge is but scant of matters high +Which hard men spake on with her, hard men forced +From her mouth innocent, then shall she come +Before me; have good cheer, all may be well. +But an she will not she must burn, no power-- +Not Solomon the Great on 's ivory throne +With all his wisdom could find out a way, +Nor I nor any to save her, she must burn. +Now hast thou till day dawn. The Mother of God +Speed thee.' A twisted scroll he gave; himself +Knocked at the door behind, and he was gone, +A darker pillar of darkness in the dark. +Straightway one opened and I gave the scroll. +He read, then thrust it in his lanthorn flame +Till it was ashes; 'Follow' and no more +Whisper'd, went up the giddy spiring way, +I after, till we reached the topmost door. +Then took a key, opened, and crying 'Delia, +Delia my sweetheart, I am come, I am come,' +I darted forward and he locked us in. +Two figures; one rose up and ran to me +Along the ladder of moonlight on the floor, +Fell on my neck. Long time we kissed and wept. + +But for that other, while she stood appeased +For cruel parting past, locked in mine arms, +I had been glad, expecting a good end. +The cramped pale fellow prisoner; 'Courage' cried. +Then Delia lifting her fair face, the moon +Did show me its incomparable calms. +Her effluent thought needed no word of mine, +It whelmed my soul as in a sea of tears. +The warm enchantment leaning on my breast +Breathed as in air remote, and I was left +To infinite detachment, even with hers +To take cold kisses from the lips of doom, +Look in those eyes and disinherit hope +From that high place late won. + Then murmuring low +That other spake of Him on the cross, and soft +As broken-hearted mourning of the dove, +She 'One deep calleth to another' sighed. +'The heart of Christ mourns to my heart, "Endure. +There was a day when to the wilderness +My great forerunner from his thrall sent forth +Sad messengers, demanding _Art thou He_? +Think'st thou I knew no pang in that strange hour? +How could I hold the power, and want the will +Or want the love? That pang was his--and mine. +He said not, Save me an thou be the Son, +But only _Art thou He_? In my great way +It was not writ,--legions of Angels mine, +There was one Angel, one ordain'd to unlock +At my behest the doomed deadly door. +I could not tell him, tell not thee, why." Lord, +We know not why, but would not have Thee grieve, +Think not so deeply on 't; make us endure +For thy blest sake, hearing thy sweet voice mourn +"I will go forth, thy desolations meet, +And with my desolations solace them. +I will not break thy bonds but I am bound, +With thee."' + + I feared. That speech deep furrows cut +In my afflicted soul. I whisper'd low, +'Thou wilt not heed her words, my golden girl.' +But Delia said not ought; only her hand +Laid on my cheek and on the other leaned +Her own. O there was comfort, father, +In love and nearness, e'en at the crack of doom. + +Then spake I, and that other said no more, +For I appealed to God and to his Christ. +Unto the strait-barred window led my dear; +No table, bed, nor plenishing; no place +They had for rest: maugre two narrow chairs +By day, by night they sat thereon upright. +One drew I to the opening; on it set +My Delia, kneeled; upon its arm laid mine, +And prayed to God and prayed of her. + Father, +If you should ask e'en now, 'And art thou glad +Of what befell?' I could not say it, father, +I should be glad; therefore God make me glad, +Since we shall die to-morrow! + Think not sin, +O holy, harmless reverend man, to fear. +'T will be soon over. Now I know thou fear'st +Also for me, lest I be lost; but aye +Strong comfortable hope doth wrap me round, +A token of acceptance. I am cast +From Holy Church, and not received of thine; +But the great Advocate who knoweth all, +He whispers with me. + O my Delia wept +When I did plead; 'I have much feared to die,' +Answering. (The moonlight on her blue-black eyes +Fell; shining tears upon their lashes hung; +Fair showed the dimple that I loved; so young, +So very young.) 'But they did question me +Straitly, and make me many times to swear, +To swear of all alas, that I believed. +Truly, unless my soul I would have bound +With false oaths--difficult, innumerous, strong, +Way was not left me to get free. + + But now,' +Said she, I am happy; I have seen the place +Where I am going. + + I will tell it you, +Love, Hubert. Do not weep; they said to me +That you would come, and it would not be long. +Thus was it, being sad and full of fear, +I was crying in the night; and prayed to God +And said, "I have not learned high things;" and said +To the Saviour, "Do not be displeased with me, +I am not crying to get back and dwell +With my good mother and my father fond, +Nor even with my love, Hubert--my love, +Hubert; but I am crying because I fear +Mine answers were not rightly given--so hard +Those questions. If I did not understand, +Wilt thou forgive me?" And the moon went down +While I did pray, and looking on the floor, +Behold a little diamond lying there, +So small it might have dropped from out a ring. +I could but look! The diamond waxed--it grew-- +It was a diamond yet, and shot out rays, +And in the midst of it a rose-red point; +It waxed till I might see the rose-red point +Was a little Angel 'mid those oval rays, +With a face sweet as the first kiss, O love, +You gave me, and it meant that self-same thing. + +Now was it tall as I, among the rays +Standing; I touched not. Through the window drawn, +This barred and narrow window,--but I know +Nothing of how, we passed, and seemed to walk +Upon the air, till on the roof we sat. + +It spoke. The sweet mouth did not move, but all +The Angel spoke in strange words full and old, +It was my Angel sent to comfort me +With a message, and the message, "I might come, +And myself see if He forgave me." Then +Deliver'd he admonition, "Afterwards +I must return and die." But I being dazed, +Confused with love and joy that He so far +Did condescend, "Ay, Eminence," replied, +"Is the way great?" I knew not what I said. +The Angel then, "I know not far nor near, +But all the stars of God this side it shine." +And I forgetful wholly for this thing +My soul did pant in--a rapture and a pain, +So great as they would melt it quite away +To a vanishing like mist when sultry rays +Shot from the daystar reckon with it--I +Said in my simpleness, "But is there time? +For in three days I am to burn, and O +I would fain see that he forgiveth first. +Pray you make haste." "I know not haste," he said; +"I was not fashioned to be thrall of time. +What is it?" And I marvelled, saw outlying, +Shaped like a shield and of dimensions like +An oval in the sky beyond all stars, +And trembled with foreknowledge. We were bound +To that same golden holy hollow. I +Misdoubted how to go, but we were gone. +I set off wingless, walking empty air +Beside him. In a moment we were caught +Among thick swarms of lost ones, evil, fell +Of might, only a little less than gods, +And strong enough to tear the earth to shreds, +Set shoulders to the sun and rend it out +O' its place. Their wings did brush across my face, +Yet felt I nought; the place was vaster far +Than all this wholesome pastoral windy world. +Through it we spinning, pierced to its far brink, +Saw menacing frowns and we were forth again. +Time has no instant for the reckoning ought +So sudden; 't was as if a lightning flash +Threw us within it, and a swifter flash, +We riding harmless down its swordlike edge, +Shot us fast forth to empty nothingness. + +All my soul trembled, and my body it seemed +Pleaded than such a sight rather to faint +To the last silence, and the eery grave +Inhabit, and the slow solemnities +Of dying faced, content me with my shroud. + +And yet was lying athwart the morning star +That shone in front, that holy hollow; yet +It loomed, as hung atilt towards the world, +That in her time of sleep appeared to look +Up to it, into it. + We, though I wept, +Fearing and longing, knowing not how to go, +My heart gone first, both mine eyes dedicate +To its all-hallowed sweet desirèd gold, +We on the empty limitless abyss +Walked slowly. It was far; + And I feared much, +For lo! when I looked down deep under me +The little earth was such a little thing, +How in the vasty dark find her again? +The crescent moon a moorèd boat hard by, +Did wait on her and touch her ragged rims +With a small gift of silver. + Love! my life! +Hubert, while I yet wept, O we were there. +A menai of Angels first, a swarm of stars +Took us among them (all alive with stars +Shining and shouting each to each that place), +The feathered multitude did lie so thick +We walked upon them, walked on outspread wings, +And the great gates were standing open. + Love! +The country is not what you think; but oh! +When you have seen it nothing else contents. +The voice, the vision was not what you think-- +But oh! it was all. It was the meaning of life, +Excellent consummation of desires +For ever, let into the heart with pain +Most sweet. That smile did take the feeding soul +Deeper and deeper into heaven. The sward +(For I had bowed my face on it) I found +Grew in my spirit's longed for native land-- +At last I was at home.' + And here she paused: +I must needs weep. I have not been in heaven, +Therefore she could not tell me what she heard, +Therefore she might not tell me what she saw, +Only I understood that One drew near +Who said to her she should e'en come, 'Because,' +Said He, 'My Father loves Me. I will ask +He send, a guiding Angel for My sake, +Since the dark way is long, and rough, and hard, +So that I shall not lose whom I love--thee.' + +Other words wonderful of things not known, +When she had uttered, I gave hope away, +Cried out, and took her in despairing arms, +Asking no more. Then while the comfortless +Dawn till night fainted grew, alas! a key +That with abhorrèd jarring probed the door. +We kissed, we looked, unlocked our arms. She sighed +'Remember,' 'Ay, I will remember. What?' +'To come to me.' Then I, thrust roughly forth-- +I, bereft, dumb, forlorn, unremedied +My hurt for ever, stumbled blindly down, +And the great door was shut behind and chained. + +The weird pathetic scarlet of day dawning, +More kin to death of night than birth of morn, +Peered o'er yon hill bristling with spires of pine. +I heard the crying of the men condemned, +Men racked, that should be martyr'd presently, +And my great grief met theirs with might; I held +All our poor earth's despairs in my poor breast, +The choking reek, the faggots were all mine. +Ay, and the partings they were all mine--mine. +Father, it will be very good methinks +To die so, to die soon. It doth appease +The soul in misery for its fellows, when +There is no help, to suffer even as they. + +Father, when I had lost her, when I sat +After my sickness on the pallet bed, +My forehead dropp'd into my hand, behold +Some one beside me. A man's hand let down +With that same action kind, compassionate, +Upon my shoulder. And I took the hand +Between mine own, laying my face thereon. +I knew this man for him who spoke with me, +Letting me see my Delia. I looked up. +Lo! lo! the robed ecclesiastic proud, +He and this other one. Tell you his name? +Am I a fiend? No, he was good to me, +Almost he placed his life in my hand. + Father, +He with good pitying words long talked to me, +'Did I not strive to save her?' 'Ay,' quoth I. +'But sith it would not be, I also claim +Death, burning; let me therefore die--let me. +I am wicked, would be heretic, but, faith, +I know not how, and Holy Church I hate. +She is no mother of mine, she slew my love.' +What answer? 'Peace, peace, thou art hard on me. +Favour I forfeit with the Mother of God, +Lose rank among the saints, foresee my soul +Drenched in the unmitigated flame, and take +My payment in the lives snatched at all risk +From battling in it here. O, an thou turn +And tear from me, lost to that other world +My heart's reward in this, I am twice lost; +Now have I doubly failed.' + Father, I know +The Church would rail, hound forth, disgrace, try, burn, +Make his proud name, discover'd, infamy, +Tread underfoot his ashes, curse his soul. +But God is greater than the Church. I hope +He shall not, for that he loved men, lose God. +I hope to hear it said 'Thy sins are all +Forgiven; come in, thou hast done well.' + For me +My chronicle comes down to its last page. +'Is not life sweet?' quoth he, and comforted +My sick heart with good words, 'duty' and 'home.' +Then took me at moonsetting down the stair +To the dark deserted midway of the street, +Gave me a purse of money, and his hand +Laid on my shoulder, holding me with words +A father might have said, bad me God speed, +So pushed me from him, turned, and he was gone. + +There was a Pleiad lost; where is she now? +None knoweth,--O she reigns, it is my creed, +Otherwhere dedicate to making day. +The God of Gods, He doubtless looked to that +Who wasteth never ought He fashionèd. +I have no vision, but where vision fails +Faith cheers, and truly, truly there is need, +The god of this world being so unkind. +O love! My girl for ever to the world +Wanting. Lost, not that any one should find, +But wasted for the sake of waste, and lost +For love of man's undoing, of man's tears, +By envy of the evil one; I mourn +For thee, my golden girl, I mourn, I mourn. + +He set me free. And it befell anon +That I must imitate him. Then 't befell +That on the holy Book I read, and all, +The mediating Mother and her Babe, +God and the Church, and man and life and death, +And the dark gulfs of bitter purging flame, +Did take on alteration. Like a ship +Cast from her moorings, drifting from her port, +Not bound to any land, not sure of land, +My dull'd soul lost her reckoning on that sea +She sailed, and yet the voyage was nigh done. + +This God was not the God I had known; this Christ +Was other. O, a gentler God, a Christ-- +By a mother and a Father infinite-- +In distance each from each made kin to me. +Blest Sufferer on the rood; but yet, I say +Other. Far gentler, and I cannot tell, +Father, if you, or she, my golden girl, +Or I, or any aright those mysteries read. + +I cannot fathom them. There is not time, +So quickly men condemned me to this cell. +I quarrell'd not so much with Holy Church +For that she taught, as that my love she burned. +I die because I hid her enemies, +And read the Book. + But O, forgiving God, +I do elect to trust thee. I have thought, +What! are there set between us and the sun +Millions of miles, and did He like a tent +Rear up yon vasty sky? Is heaven less wide? +And dwells He there, but for His wingèd host, +Almost alone? Truly I think not so; +He has had trouble enough with this poor world +To make Him as an earthly father would, +Love it and value it more. + He did not give +So much to have us with Him, and yet fail. +And now He knows I would believe e'en so +As pleaseth Him, an there was time to learn +Or certitude of heart; but time fails, time. +He knoweth also 't were a piteous thing +Not to be sure of my love's welfare--not +To see her happy and good in that new home. +Most piteous. I could all forego but this. +O let me see her, Lord. + What, also I! +White ashes and a waft of vapour--I +To flutter on before the winds. No, no. +And yet for ever ay--my flesh shall hiss +And I shall hear 't. Dreadful, unbearable! +Is it to-morrow? + Ay, indeed, indeed, +To-morrow. But my moods are as great waves +That rise and break and thunder down on me, +And then fall'n back sink low. + I have waked long +And cannot hold my thoughts upon th' event; +They slip, they wander forth. + How the dusk grows. +This is the last moonrising we shall see. +Methought till morn to pray, and cannot pray. +Where is mine Advocate? let Him say all +And more was in my mind to say this night, +Because to-morrow--Ah! no more of that, +The tale is told. Father, I fain would sleep. + +Truly my soul is silent unto God. + + + + +A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST. + + +I. + +Laura, my Laura! 'Yes, mother!' 'I want you, Laura; come down.' +'What is it, mother--what, dearest? O your loved face how it pales! +You tremble, alas and alas--you heard bad news from the town?' +'Only one short half hour to tell it. My poor courage fails-- + + +II. + +Laura.' 'Where's Ronald?--O anything else but Ronald!' 'No, no, +Not Ronald, if all beside, my Laura, disaster and tears; +But you, it is yours to send them away, for you they will go, +One short half hour, and must it decide, it must for the years. + + +III. + +Laura, you think of your father sometimes?' 'Sometimes!' 'Ah, but how?' +'I think--that we need not think, sweet mother--the time is not yet, +He is as the wraith of a wraith, and a far off shadow now-- +--But if you have heard he is dead?' 'Not that?' 'Then let me forget.' + + +IV. + +'The sun is off the south window, draw back the curtain, my child.' +'But tell it, mother.' 'Answer you first what it is that you see.' +'The lambs on the mountain slope, and the crevice with blue ice piled.' +'Nearer.'--'But, mother!' 'Nearer!' 'My heifer she's lowing to me.' + + +V. + +'Nearer.' 'Nothing, sweet mother, O yes, for one sits in the bower. +Black the clusters hang out from the vine about his snow-white head, +And the scarlet leaves, where my Ronald leaned.' 'Only one half hour-- +Laura'--'O mother, my mother dear, all known though nothing said. + + +VI. + +O it breaks my heart, the face dejected that looks not on us, +A beautiful face--I remember now, though long I forgot.' +'Ay and I loved it. I love him to-day, and to see him thus! +Saying "I go if she bids it, for work her woe--I will not." + + +VII. + +There! weep not, wring not your hands, but think, think with your heart + and soul.' +'Was he innocent, mother? If he was, I, sure had been told, +'He said so.' 'Ah, but they do.' 'And I hope--and long was his dole, +And all for the signing a name (if indeed he signed) for gold.' + + +VIII. + +'To find us again, in the far far West, where hid, we were free-- +But if he was innocent--O my heart, it is riven in two, +If he goes how hard upon him--or stays--how harder on me, +For O my Ronald, my Ronald, my dear,--my best what of you!' + + +IX. + +'Peace; think, my Laura--I say he will go there, weep not so sore. +And the time is come, Ronald knows nothing, your father will go, +As the shadow fades from its place will he, and be seen no more.' +'There 'll be time to think to-morrow, and after, but to-day, no. + + +X. + +I'm going down the garden, mother.' 'Laura!' 'I've dried my tears.' +'O how will this end!' 'I know not the end, I can but begin.' +'But what will you say?' 'Not "welcome, father," though long were those + years, +But I'll say to him, "O my poor father, we wait you, come in." + + + + +LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE. + + +I. + +'And you brought him home.' 'I did, ay Ronald, it rested with me.' +'Love!' 'Yes.' 'I would fain you were not so calm.' 'I cannot weep. No.' +'What is he like, your poor father?' 'He is--like--this fallen tree +Prone at our feet, by the still lake taking on rose from the glow, + + +II. + +Now scarlet, O look! overcoming the blue both lake and sky, +While the waterfalls waver like smoke, then leap in and are not. +And shining snow-points of high sierras cast down, there they lie.' +'O Laura--I cannot bear it. Laura! as if I forgot.' + + +III. + +'No, you remember, and I remember that evening--like this +When we come forth from the gloomy Canyon, lo, a sinking sun. +And, Ronald, you gave to me your troth ring, I gave my troth kiss.' +'Give me another, I say that this makes no difference, none. + + +IV. + +It hurts me keenly. It hurts to the soul that you thought it could.' +'I never thought so, my Ronald, my love, never thought you base.' +No, but I look for a nobler nobleness, loss understood, +Accepted, and not that common truth which can hold through disgrace. + + +V. + +O! we remember, and how ere that noon through deeps of the lake +We floating looked down and the boat's shadow followed on rocks below, +So clear the water. O all pathetic as if for love's sake +Our life that is but a fleeting shadow 't would under us show. + + +VI. + +O we remember forget-me-not pale, and white columbine +You wreathed for my hair; because we remember this cannot be. +Ah! here is your ring--see, I draw it off--it must not be mine, +Put it on, love, if but for the moment and listen to me. + + +VII. + +I look for the best, I look for the most, I look for the all +From you, it consoles this misery of mine, there is you to trust. +O if you can weep, let us weep together, tears may well fall +For that lost sunsetting and what it promised,--they may, they must. + + +VIII. + +Do you say nothing, mine own belovèd, you know what I mean, +And whom.--To her pride and her love from YOU shall such blow be dealt... +...Silence uprisen, is like a presence, it comes us between... +As once there was darkness, now is there silence that may be felt. + + +IX. + +Ronald, your mother, so gentle, so pure, and you are her best, +'T is she whom I think of, her quiet sweetness, her gracious way. +'How could she bear it?'--'Laura!' 'Yes, Ronald.' 'Let that matter rest. +You might give your name to my father's child?' 'My father's name. Ay, + + +X. + +Who died before it was soiled.' 'You mutter.' 'Why, love, are you here?' +'Because my mother fled forth to the West, her trouble to hide, +And I was so small, the lone pine forest, and tier upon tier, +Far off Mexican snowy sierras pushed England aside.' + + +XI. + +'And why am I here?' 'But what did you mutter?' 'O pardon, sweet. +Why came I here and--my mother?' In truth then I cannot tell.' +'Yet you drew my ring from your finger--see--I kneel at your feet.' +'Put it on. 'T was for no fault of mine.' 'Love! I knew that full well.' + + +XII. + +'And yet there be faults that long repented, are aye to deplore, +Wear my ring, Laura, at least till I choose some words I can say, +If indeed any word need be said.' 'No! wait, Ronald, no more; +What! is there respite? Give me a moment to think "nay" or "ay." + + +XIII. + +I know not, but feel there is. O pardon me, pardon me,--peace. +For nought is to say, and the dawn of hope is a solemn thing, +Let us have silence. Take me back, Ronald, full sweet is release.' +'Laura! but give me my troth kiss again.' 'And give me my ring.' + + + + +THE WHITE MOON WASTETH. + + +The white moon wasteth, +And cold morn hasteth + Athwart the snow, +The red east burneth +And the tide turneth, + And thou must go. + +Think not, sad rover, +Their story all over + Who come from far-- +Once, in the ages +Won goodly wages + Led by a star. + +Once, for all duly +Guidance doth truly + Shine as of old, +Opens for me and thee +Once, opportunity + Her gates of gold. + +Enter, thy star is out, +Traverse nor faint nor doubt + Earth's antres wild, +Thou shalt find good and rest +As found the Magi blest + That divine Child. + + + + +AN ARROW-SLIT. + + +I clomb full high the belfry tower + Up to yon arrow-slit, up and away, +I said 'let me look on my heart's fair flower + In the wallèd garden where she doth play.' + +My care she knoweth not, no nor the cause, + White rose, red rose about her hung, +And I aloft with the doves and the daws. + They coo and call to their callow young. + +Sing, 'O an she were a white rosebud fair + Dropt, and in danger from passing feet, +'T is I would render her service tender, + Upraised on my bosom with reverence meet.' + +Playing at the ball, my dearest of all, + When she grows older how will it be, +I dwell far away from her thoughts to-day + That heed not, need not, or mine or me. + +Sing, 'O an my love were a fledgeling dove + That flutters forlorn o' her shallow nest, +'T is I would render her service tender, + And carry her, carry her on my breast.' + + + + +WENDOVER. + + +Uplifted and lone, set apart with our love + On the crest of a soft swelling down +Cloud shadows that meet on the grass at our feet + Sail on above Wendover town. + +Wendover town takes the smile of the sun + As if yearning and strife were no more, +From her red roofs float high neither plaint neither sigh, + All the weight of the world is our own. + +Would that life were more kind and that souls might have peace + As the wide mead from storm and from bale, +We bring up our own care, but how sweet over there + And how strange is their calm in the vale. + +As if trouble at noon had achieved a deep sleep, + Lapped and lulled from the weariful fret, +Or shot down out of day, had a hint dropt away + As if grief might attain to forget. + +Not if we two indeed had gone over the bourne + And were safe on the hills of the blest, +Not more strange they might show to us drawn from below, + Come up from long dolour to rest. + +But the peace of that vale would be thine love and mine, + And sweeter the air than of yore, +And this life we have led as a dream that is fled + Might appear to our thought evermore. + +'Was it life, was it life?' we might say ''twas scarce life,' + 'Was it love? 'twas scarce love,' looking down, +'Yet we mind a sweet ray of the red sun one day + Low lying on Wendover town. + + + + +THE LOVER PLEADS. + + +I. + +When I had guineas many a one +Nought else I lackèd 'neath the sun, +I had two eyes the bluest seen, +A perfect shape, a gracious mien, +I had a voice might charm the bale +From a two days widowed nightingale, +And if you ask how this I know +I had a love who told me so. +The lover pleads, the maid hearkeneth, +Her foot turns, his day darkeneth. +Love unkind, O can it be +'T was your foot false did turn from me. + + +II. + +The gear is gone, the red gold spent, +Favour and beauty with them went, +Eyes take the veil, their shining done, +Not fair to him is fair to none, +Sweet as a bee's bag 'twas to taste +His praise. O honey run to waste, +He loved not! spoiled is all my way +In the spoiling of that yesterday. + +The shadows wax, the low light alters, +Gold west fades, and false heart falters. +The pity of it!--Love's a rover, +The last word said, and all over. + + + + +SONG IN THREE PARTS. + + +I. + +The white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June weather, + 'O most sweet wear; +Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me, + Four am I fair,' + + Quoth the brown bee + 'In thy white wear + Four thou art fair. + A mystery + Of honeyed snow + In scented air + The bee lines flow + Straight unto thee. + Great boon and bliss + All pure I wis, + And sweet to grow + Ay, so to give + That many live. + Now as for me, + I,' quoth the bee, + 'Have not to give, + Through long hours sunny + Gathering I live: + Aye debonair + Sailing sweet air + After my fare, + Bee-bread and honey. + In thy deep coombe, + O thou white broom, + Where no leaves shake, + Brake, + Bent nor clover, + I a glad rover, + Thy calms partake, + While winds of might + From height to height + Go bodily over. + Till slanteth light, + And up the rise + Thy shadow lies, + A shadow of white, + A beauty-lender + Pathetic, tender. + + Short is thy day? + Answer with 'Nay,' + Longer the hours + That wear thy flowers + Than all dull, cold + Years manifold + That gift withhold. + A long liver, + O honey-giver, + Thou by all showing + Art made, bestowing, + I envy not + Thy greater lot, + Nor thy white wear. + But, as for me, + I,' quoth the bee, + 'Never am fair.' + +II. + +The nightingale lorn of his note in darkness brooding + Deeply and long, +'Two sweet months spake the heart to the heart. Alas! all's over, + O lost my song.' + + One in the tree, + 'Hush now! Let be: + The song at ending + Left my long tending + Over alsò. + Let be, let us go + Across the wan sea. + + The little ones care not, + And I fare not + Amiss with thee. + + Thou hast sung all, + This hast thou had. + Love, be not sad; + It shall befall + Assuredly, + When the bush buddeth + And the bank studdeth-- + Where grass is sweet + And damps do fleet, + Her delicate beds + With daisy heads + That the Stars Seven + Leaned down from heaven + Shall sparkling mark + In the warm dark + Thy most dear strain + Which ringeth aye true-- + Piercing vale, croft + Lifted aloft + Dropt even as dew + With a sweet quest + To her on the nest + When damps we love + Fall from above. + + "Art thou asleep? + Answer me, answer me, + Night is so deep + Thy right fair form + I cannot see; + Answer me, answer me, + Are the eggs warm? + Is't well with thee?" + + Ay, this shall be + Assuredly. + Ay, thou full fain + In the soft rain + Shalt sing again.' + + +III. + +A fair wife making her moan, despised, forsaken, + Her good days o'er; +'Seven sweet years of my life did I live belovèd, + Seven--no more.' + + Then Echo woke--and spoke + 'No more--no more,' + And a wave broke + On the sad shore + When Echo said + 'No more,' + + Nought else made reply, + Nor land, nor loch, nor sky + Did any comfort try, + But the wave spread + Echo's faint tone + Alone, + All down the desolate shore, + 'No more--no more.' + + + + +'IF I FORGET THEE, O JERUSALEM.' + + +Out of the melancholy that is made +Of ebbing sorrow that too slowly ebbs, +Comes back a sighing whisper of the reed, +A note in new love-pipings on the bough, +Grieving with grief till all the full-fed air +And shaken milky corn doth wot of it, +The pity of it trembling in the talk +Of the beforetime merrymaking brook-- +Out of that melancholy will the soul, +In proof that life is not forsaken quite +Of the old trick and glamour which made glad; +Be cheated some good day and not perceive +How sorrow ebbing out is gone from view, +How tired trouble fall'n for once on sleep, +How keen self-mockery that youth's eager dream +Interpreted to mean so much is found +To mean and give so little--frets no more, +Floating apart as on a cloud--O then +Not e'en so much as murmuring 'Let this end,' +She will, no longer weighted, find escape, +Lift up herself as if on wings and flit +Back to the morning time. + 'O once with me +It was all one, such joy I had at heart, +As I heard sing the morning star, or God +Did hold me with an Everlasting Hand, +And dip me in the day. + O once with me,' +Reflecting ''twas enough to live, to look +Wonder and love. Now let that come again. +Rise!' And ariseth first a tanglement +Of flowering bushes, peonies pale that drop +Upon a mossy lawn, rich iris spikes, +Bee-borage, mealy-stemmed auricula, +Brown wallflower, and the sweetbriar ever sweet, +Her pink buds pouting from their green. + To these +Add thick espaliers where the bullfinch came +To strew much budding wealth, and was not chid. +Then add wide pear trees on the warmèd wall, +The old red wall one cannot see beyond. +That is the garden. + In the wall a door +Green, blistered with the sun. You open it, +And lo! a sunny waste of tumbled hills +And a glad silence, and an open calm. +Infinite leisure, and a slope where rills +Dance down delightedly, in every crease, +And lambs stoop drinking and the finches dip, +Then shining waves upon a lonely beach. +That is the world. + + An all-sufficient world, +And as it seems an undiscovered world, +So very few the folk that come to look. +Yet one has heard of towns; but they are far +The world is undiscovered, and the child +Is undiscovered that with stealthy joy +Goes gathering like a bee who in dark cells +Hideth sweet food to live on in the cold. +What matters to the child, it matters not +More than it mattered to the moons of Mars, +That they for ages undiscovered went +Marked not of man, attendant on their king. + +A shallow line of sand curved to the cliff, +There dwelt the fisherfolk, and there inland +Some scattered cottagers in thrift and calm, +Their talk full oft was of old days,--for here +Was once a fosse, and by this rock-hewn path +Our wild fore-elders as 't is said would come +To gather jetsam from some Viking wreck, +Like a sea-beast wide breasted (her snake head +Reared up as staring while she rocked ashore) +That split, and all her ribs were on their fires +The red whereof at their wives' throats made bright +Gold gauds which from the weed they picked ere yet +The tide had turned. + + 'Many,' methought, 'and rich +They must have been, so long their chronicle. +Perhaps the world was fuller then of folk, +For ships at sea are few that near us now.' + +Yet sometimes when the clouds were torn to rags, +Flying black before a gale, we saw one rock +In the offing, and the mariner folk would cry, +'Look how she labours; those aboard may hear +Her timbers creak e'en as she'd break her heart.' + +'Twas then the grey gulls blown ashore would light +In flocks, and pace the lawn with flat cold feet. + +And so the world was sweet, and it was strange, +Sweet as a bee-kiss to the crocus flower, +Surprising, fresh, direct, but ever one. +The laughter of glad music did not yet +In its echo yearn, as hinting ought beyond, +Nor pathos tremble at the edge of bliss +Like a moon halo in a watery sky, +Nor the sweet pain alike of love and fear +In a world not comprehended touch the heart-- +The poetry of life was not yet born. +'T was a thing hidden yet that there be days +When some are known to feel 'God is about,' +As if that morn more than another morn +Virtue flowed forth from Him, the rolling world +Swam in a soothèd calm made resonant +And vital, swam as in the lap of God +Come down; until she slept and had a dream +(Because it was too much to bear awake), +That all the air shook with the might of Him +And whispered how she was the favourite world +That day, and bade her drink His essence in. + +'Tis on such days that seers prophesy +And poets sing, and many who are wise +Find out for man's wellbeing hidden things +Whereof the hint came in that Presence known +Yet unknown. But a seer--what is he? +A poet is a name of long ago. + +Men love the largeness of the field--the wild +Quiet that soothes the moor. In other days +They loved the shadow of the city wall, +In its stone ramparts read their poetry, +Safety and state, gold, and the arts of peace, +Law-giving, leisure, knowledge, all were there +This to excuse a child's allegiance and +A spirit's recurrence to the older way. +Orphan'd, with aged guardians kind and true, +Things came to pass not told before to me. + +Thus, we did journey once when eve was near. +Through carriage windows I beheld the moors, +Then, churches, hamlets cresting of low hills. +The way was long, at last I, fall'n asleep, +Awoke to hear a rattling 'neath the wheels +And see the lamps alight. This was the town. + +Then a wide inn received us, and full soon +Came supper, kisses, bed. + The lamp without +Shone in; the door was shut, and I alone. +An ecstasy of exultation took +My soul, for there were voices heard and steps, +I was among so many,--none of them +Knew I was come! + I rose, with small bare feet, +Across the carpet stole, a white-robed child, +And through the window peered. Behold the town. + +There had been rain, the pavement glistened yet +In a soft lamplight down the narrow street; +The church was nigh at hand, a clear-toned clock +Chimed slowly, open shops across the way +Showed store of fruit, and store of bread,--and one +Many caged birds. About were customers, +I saw them bargain, and a rich high voice +Was heard,--a woman sang, her little babe +Slept 'neath her shawl, and by her side a boy +Added wild notes and sweet to hers. + Some passed +Who gave her money. It was far from me +To pity her, she was a part of that +Admirèd town. E'en so within the shop +A rosy girl, it may be ten years old, +Quaint, grave. She helped her mother, deftly weighed +The purple plums, black mulberries rich and ripe +For boyish customers, and counted pence +And dropped them in an apron that she wore. +Methought a queen had ne'er so grand a lot, +She knew it, she looked up at me, and smiled. + +But yet the song went on, and in a while +The meaning came; the town was not enough +To satisfy that singer, for a sigh +With her wild music came. What wanted she? +Whate'er she wanted wanted all. O how +'T was poignant, her rich voice; not like a bird's. +Could she not dwell content and let them be, +That they might take their pleasure in the town, +For--no, she was not poor, witness the pence. +I saw her boy and that small saleswoman; +He wary, she with grave persuasive air, +Till he came forth with filberts in his cap, +And joined his mother, happy, triumphing. + +This was the town; and if you ask what else, +I say good sooth that it was poetry +Because it was the all, and something more,-- +It was the life of man, it was the world +That made addition to the watching heart, +First conscious its own beating, first aware +How, beating it kept time with all the race; +Nay, 't was a consciousness far down and dim +Of a Great Father watching too. + +But lo! the rich lamenting voice again; +She sang not for herself; it was a song +For me, for I had seen the town and knew, +Yearning I knew the town was not enough. + +What more? To-day looks back on yesterday, +Life's yesterday, the waiting time, the dawn, +And reads a meaning into it, unknown +When it was with us. + It is always so. +But when as ofttimes I remember me +Of the warm wind that moved the beggar's hair, +Of the wet pavement, and the lamps alit, +I know it was not pity that made yearn +My heart for her, and that same dimpled boy +How grand methought to be abroad so late. +And barefoot dabble in the shining wet; +How fine to peer as other urchins did +At those pent huddled doves they let not rest; +No, it was almost envy. Ay, how sweet +The clash of bells; they rang to boast that far +That cheerful street was from the cold sea-fog, +From dark ploughed field and narrow lonesome lane. +How sweet to hear the hum of voices kind, +To see the coach come up with din of horn. +Quick tramp of horses, mark the passers-by +Greet one another, and go on. + But now +They closed the shops, the wild clear voice was still, +The beggars moved away--where was their home. +The coach which came from out dull darksome fells +Into the light; passed to the dark again +Like some old comet which knows well her way, +Whirled to the sun that as her fateful loop +She turns, forebodes the destined silences. +Yes, it was gone; the clattering coach was gone, +And those it bore I pitied even to tears, +Because they must go forth, nor see the lights, +Nor hear the chiming bells. + In after days, +Remembering of the childish envy and +The childish pity, it has cheered my heart +To think e'en now pity and envy both +It may be are misplaced, or needed not. +Heaven may look down in pity on some soul +Half envied, or some wholly pitied smile, +For that it hath to wait as it were an hour +To see the lights that go not out by night, +To walk the golden street and hear a song; +Other-world poetry that is the all +And something more. + + + + +NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. + + +White as white butterflies that each one dons + Her face their wide white wings to shade withal, +Many moon-daisies throng the water-spring. + While couched in rising barley titlarks call, +And bees alit upon their martagons + Do hang a-murmuring, a-murmuring. + +They chide, it may be, alien tribes that flew + And rifled their best blossom, counted on +And dreamed on in the hive ere dangerous dew + That clogs bee-wings had dried; but when outshone +Long shafts of gold (made all for them) of power +To charm it away, those thieves had sucked the flower. + +Now must they go; a-murmuring they go, + And little thrushes twitter in the nest; +The world is made for them, and even so + The clouds are; they have seen no stars, the breast +Of their soft mother hid them all the night, +Till her mate came to her in red dawn-light. + +Eggs scribbled over with strange writing, signs, + Prophecies, and their meaning (for you see +The yolk within) is life, 'neath yonder bines + Lie among sedges; on a hawthorn tree +The slender-lord and master perched hard by, +Scolds at all comers if they step too nigh. + +And our small river makes encompassment + Of half the mead and holm: yon lime-trees grow +All heeling over to it, diligent + To cast green doubles of themselves below, +But shafts of sunshine reach its shallow floor +And warm the yellow sand it ripples o'er. + +Ripples and ripples to a pool it made +Turning. The cows are there, one creamy white-- +She should be painted with no touch of shade +If any list to limn her--she the light +Above, about her, treads out circles wide, +And sparkling water flashes from her side. + +The clouds have all retired to so great height + As earth could have no dealing with them more, +As they were lost, for all her drawing and might, + And must be left behind; but down the shore +Lie lovelier clouds in ranks of lace-work frail, +Wild parsley with a myriad florets pale, + +Another milky-way, more intricate + And multitudinous, with every star +Perfect. Long changeful sunbeams undulate + Amid the stems where sparklike creatures are +That hover and hum for gladness, then the last +Tree rears her graceful head, the shade is passed. + +And idle fish in warm wellbeing lie + Each with his shadow under, while at ease +As clouds that keep their shape the darting fry + Turn and are gone in company; o'er these +Strangers to them, strangers to us, from holes +Scooped in the bank peer out shy water-voles. + +Here, take for life and fly with innocent feet + The brown-eyed fawns, from moving shadows clear; +There, down the lane with multitudinous bleat + Plaining on shepherd lads a flock draws near; +A mild lamenting fills the morning air, +'Why to yon upland fold must we needs fare?' + +These might be fabulous creatures every one, + And this their world might be some other sphere +We had but heard of, for all said or done + To know of them,--of what this many a year +They may have thought of man, or of his sway, +Or even if they have a God and pray, + +The sweetest river bank can never more + Home to its source tempt back the lapsed stream, +Nor memory reach the ante-natal shore, + Nor one awake behold a sleeper's dream, +Not easier 't were that unbridged chasm to walk, +And share the strange lore of their wordless talk. + +Like to a poet voice, remote from ken, + That unregarded sings and undesired, +Like to a star unnamed by lips of men, + That faints at dawn in saffron light retired, +Like to an echo in some desert deep +From age to age unwakened from its sleep-- + +So falls unmarked that other world's great song, + And lapsing wastes without interpreter. +Slave world! not man's to raise, yet man's to wrong, + He cannot to a loftier place prefer, +But he can,--all its earlier rights forgot, +Reign reckless if its nations rue their lot. + +If they can sin or feel life's wear and fret, + An men had loved them better, it may be +We had discovered. But who e'er did yet, + After the sage saints in their clemency, +Ponder in hope they had a heaven to win, +Or make a prayer with a dove's name therein. + +As grave Augustine pleading in his day, + 'Have pity, Lord, upon the unfledged bird, +Lest such as pass do trample it in the way, + Not marking, or not minding; give the word, +O bid an angel in the nest again +To place it, lest the mother's love be vain. + +And let it live, Lord God, till it can fly.' + This man dwelt yearning, fain to guess, to spell +The parable; all work of God Most High + Took to his man's heart. Surely this was well; +To love is more than to be loved, by leave +Of Heaven, to give is more than to receive. + +He made it so that said it. As for us + Strange is their case toward us, for they give +And we receive. Made martyrs ever thus + In deed but not in will, for us they live, +For us they die, we quench their little day, +Remaining blameless, and they pass away. + +The world is better served than it is ruled, + And not alone of them, for ever +Ruleth the man, the woman serveth fooled + Full oft of love, not knowing his yoke is sore. +Life's greatest Son nought from life's measure swerved, +He was among us 'as a man that served.' + +Have they another life, and was it won + In the sore travail of another death, +Which loosed the manacles from our race undone + And plucked the pang from dying? If this breath +Be not their all, reproach no more debarred, +'O unkind lords, you made our bondage hard' + +May be their plaint when we shall meet again + And make our peace with them; the sea of life +Find flowing, full, nor ought or lost or vain. + Shall the vague hint whereof all thought is rife, +The sweet pathetic guess indeed come true, +And things restored reach that great residue? + +Shall we behold fair flights of phantom doves, + Shall furred creatures couch in moly flowers, +Swan souls the rivers oar with their world-loves, + In difference welcome as these souls of ours? +Yet soul of man from soul of man far more +May differ, even as thought did heretofore + +That ranged and varied on th' undying gleam: + From a pure breath of God aspiring, high, +Serving and reigning, to the tender dream, + The winged Psyche and her butterfly-- +From thrones and powers, to--fresh from death alarms +Child spirits entering in an angel's arms. + +Why must we think, begun in paradise, + That their long line, cut off with severance fell, +Shall end in nothingness--the sacrifice + Of their long service in a passing knell? +Could man be wholly blest if not to say +'Forgive'--nor make amends for ever and aye? + +Waste, waste on earth, and waste of God afar. + Celestial flotsam, blazing spars on high, +Drifts in the meteor month from some wrecked star, + Strew oft th' unwrinkled ocean of the sky, +And pass no more accounted of than be +Long dulses limp that stripe a mundane sea. + +The sun his kingdom fills with light, but all + Save where it strikes some planet and her moons +Across cold chartless gulfs ordained to fall, + Void antres, reckoneth no man's nights or noons, +But feeling forth as for some outmost shore, +Faints in the blank of doom, and is no more. + +God scattereth His abundance as forgot, + And what then doth he gather? If we know, +'Tis that One told us it was life. 'For not + A sparrow,' quoth he, uttering long ago +The strangest words that e'er took earthly sound, + 'Without your Father falleth to the ground.' + + + + +PERDITA. + + +_I go beyond the commandment_.' So be it. Then mine be the blame, +The loss, the lack, the yearning, till life's last sand be run,-- +I go beyond the commandment, yet honour stands fast with her claim, +And what I have rued I shall rue; for what I have done--I have done. + +Hush, hush! for what of the future; you cannot the base exalt, +There is no bridging a chasm over, that yawns with so sheer incline; +I will not any sweet daughter's cheek should pale for this mother's fault, +Nor son take leave to lower his life a-thinking on mine. + +'_ Will I tell you all?_' So! this, e'en this, will I do for your great + love's sake; +Think what it costs. '_Then let there be silence--silence you'll count + consent._' +No, and no, and for ever no: rather to cross and to break, +And to lower your passion I speak--that other it was I meant. + +That other I meant (but I know not how) to speak of, nor April days, +Nor a man's sweet voice that pleaded--O (but I promised this)-- +He never talked of marriage, never; I grant him that praise; +And he bent his stately head, and I lost, and he won with a kiss. + +He led me away--O, how poignant sweet the nightingale's note that noon-- +I beheld, and each crisped spire of grass to him for my sake was fair, +And warm winds flattered my soul blowing straight from the soul of June, +And a lovely lie was spread on the fields, but the blue was bare. + +When I looked up, he said: 'Love, fair love! O rather look in these eyes +With thine far sweeter than eyes of Eve when she stepped the valley + unshod'-- +For ONE might be looking through it, he thought, and he would not in any + wise +I should mark it open, limitless, empty, bare 'neath the gaze of God. + +Ah me! I was happy--yes, I was; 't is fit you should know it all, +While love was warm and tender and yearning, the rough winds troubled + me not; +I heard them moan without in the forest; heard the chill rains fall-- +But I thought my place was sheltered with him--I forgot, I forgot. + +After came news of a wife; I think he was glad I should know. +To stay my pleading, 'take me to church and give me my ring'; +'You should have spoken before,' he had sighed, when I prayed him so, +For his heart was sick for himself and me, and this bitter thing. + +But my dream was over me still,--I was half beguiled, +And he in his kindness left me seldom, O seldom, alone, +And yet love waxed cold, and I saw the face of my little child, +And then at the last I knew what I was, and what I had done. + +'YOU _will give me the name of wife_. YOU _will give me a ring_.'--O + peace! +You are not let to ruin your life because I ruined mine; +You will go to your people at home. There will be rest and release; +The bitter now will be sweet full soon--ay, and denial divine. + +But spare me the ending. I did not wait to be quite cast away; +I left him asleep, and the bare sun rising shone red on my gown. +There was dust in the lane, I remember; prints of feet in it lay, +And honeysuckle trailed in the path that led on to the down. + +I was going nowhere--I wandered up, then turned and dared to look back, +Where low in the valley he careless and quiet--quiet and careless slept. +'_Did I love him yet?_' I loved him. Ay, my heart on the upland track +Cried to him, sighed to him out by the wheat, as I walked, and I wept. + +I knew of another alas, one that had been in my place, +Her little ones, she forsaken, were almost in need; +I went to her, and carried my babe, then all in my satins and lace +I sank at the step of her desolate door, a mourner indeed. + +I cried, ''T is the way of the world, would I had never been born!' +'Ay, 't is the way of the world, but have you no sense to see +For all the way of the world,' she answers and laughs me to scorn, +'The world is made the world that it is by fools like you, like me.' + +Right hard upon me, hard on herself, and cold as the cold stone, +But she took me in; and while I lay sick I knew I was lost, +Lost with the man I loved, or lost without him, making my moan +Blighted and rent of the bitter frost, wrecked, tempest tossed, lost, + lost! + +How am I fallen:--we that might make of the world what we would, +Some of us sink in deep waters. Ah! '_you would raise me again?'_ +No true heart,--you cannot, you cannot, and all in my soul that is good +Cries out against such a wrong. Let be, your quest is for ever in vain. + +For I feel with another heart, I think with another mind, +I have worsened life, I have wronged the world, I have lowered the light; +But as for him, his words and his ways were after his kind, +He did but spoil where he could, and waste where he might. + +For he was let to do it; I let him and left his soul +To walk mid the ruins he made of home in remembrance of love's despairs, +Despairs that harden the hearts of men and shadow their heads with dole, +And woman's fault, though never on earth, may be healed,--but what of + theirs. + +'T was fit you should hear it all--What, tears? they comfort me; now you + will go, +Nor wrong your life for the nought you call 'a pair of beautiful eyes,' +_'I will not say I love you.'_ Truly I will not, no. +_'Will, I pity you?'_ Ay, but the pang will be short, you shall wake and be + wise. + +_'Shall we meet?_ We shall meet on the other side, but not before. +I shall be pure and fair, I shall hear the sound of THE NAME, +And see the form of His face. You too will walk on that shore, +In the garden of the Lord God, where neither is sorrow nor shame. + +Farewell, I shall bide alone, for God took my one white lamb, +I work for such as she was, and I will the while I last, +But there's no beginning again, ever I am what I am, +And nothing, nothing, nothing, can do away with the past. + + + + +SERIOUS POEMS, + +AND + +SONGS AND POEMS + +OF + +LOVE AND CHILDHOOD. + + + + +LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. + + +_(First of a Series.)_ + +A PARSON'S LETTER TO A YOUNG POET. + +They said "Too late, too late, the work is done; +Great Homer sang of glory and strong men +And that fair Greek whose fault all these long +years +Wins no forgetfulness nor ever can; +For yet cold eyes upon her frailty bend, +For yet the world waits in the victor's tent +Daily, and sees an old man honourable, +His white head bowed, surprise to passionate tears +Awestruck Achilles; sighing, 'I have endured, +The like whereof no soul hath yet endured, +To kiss the hand of him that slew my son.'" + +They said: "We, rich by him, are rich by more; +One Aeschylus found watchfires on a hill +That lit Old Night's three daughters to their work; +When the forlorn Fate leaned to their red light +And sat a-spinning, to her feet he came +And marked her till she span off all her thread. + +"O, it is late, good sooth, to cry for more: +The work once done, well done," they said, "forbear! +A Tuscan afterward discovered steps +Over the line of life in its mid-way; +He climbed the wall of Heaven, beheld his love +Safe at her singing, and he left his foes +In a vale of shadow weltering, unassoiled +Immortal sufferers henceforth in both worlds. + +"Who may inherit next or who shall match +The Swan of Avon and go float with him +Down the long river of life aneath a sun +Not veiled, and high at noon?--the river of life +That as it ran reflected all its lapse +And rippling on the plumage of his breast? + +"Thou hast them, heed them, for thy poets now, +Albeit of tongue full sweet and majesty +Like even to theirs, are fallen on evil days, +Are wronged by thee of life, wronged of the world. +Look back they must and show thee thy fair past, +Or, choosing thy to-day, they may but chant +As they behold. + + "The mother-glowworm broods +Upon her young, fast-folded in the egg +And long before they come to life they shine-- +The mother-age broods on her shining thought +That liveth, but whose life is hid. He comes +Her poet son, and lo you, he can see +The shining, and he takes it to his breast +And fashions for it wings that it may fly +And show its sweet light in the dusky world. + +"Mother, O Mother of our dusk to-day, +What hast thou lived for bards to sing of thee? +Lapsed water cannot flow above its source; +'_The kid must browse_,'" they said, "'_where she is tied_.'" + +Son of to-day, rise up, and answer them. +What! wilt thou let thy mother sit ashamed +And crownless?--Set the crown on her fair head: +She waited for thy birth, she cries to thee +"Thou art the man." He that hath ears to hear, +To him the mother cries "Thou art the man." + +She murmurs, for thy mother's voice is low-- +"Methought the men of war were even as gods +The old men of the ages. Now mine eyes +Retrieve the truth from ruined city walls +That buried it; from carved and curious homes +Full of rich garments and all goodly spoil, +Where having burned, battered, and wasted them, +They flung it. Give us, give us better gods +Than these that drink with blood upon their hands, +For I repent me that I worshipped them. +O that there might be yet a going up! +O to forget--and to begin again!" + +Is not thy mother's rede at one with theirs +Who cry "The work is done"? What though to thee, +Thee only, should the utterance shape itself +"O to forget, and to begin again," +Only of thee be heard as that keen cry +Rending its way from some distracted heart +That yields it and so breaks? Yet list the cry +Begin for her again, and learn to sing; +But first, in all thy learning learn to be. +Is life a field? then plough it up--re-sow +With worthier seed--Is life a ship? O heed +The southing of thy stars--Is life a breath? +Breathe deeper, draw life up from hour to hour, +Aye, from the deepest deep in thy deep soul. + +It may be God's first work is but to breathe +And fill the abysm with drifts of shining air +That slowly, slowly curdle into worlds. +A little space is measured out to us +Of His long leisure; breathe and grow therein, +For life, alas! is short, and "_When we die_ +_It is not for a little while_." + +They said, +"The work is done," and is it therefore done? +Speak rather to thy mother thus: "All-fair, +Lady of ages, beautiful To-day +And sorrowful To-day, thy children set +The crown of sorrow on their heads, their loss +Is like to be the loss of all: we hear +Lamenting, as of some that mourn in vain +Loss of high leadership, but where is he +That shall be great enough to lead thee now? +Where is thy Poet? thou hast wanted him. +Where? Thou hast wakened as a child in the night +And found thyself alone. The stars have set, +There is great darkness, and the dark is void +Of music. Who shall set thy life afresh +And sing thee thy new songs? Whom wilt thou love +And lean on to break silence worthily-- +Discern the beauty in thy goings--feel +The glory of thy yearning,--thy self-scorn +Matter to dim oblivion with a smile-- +Own thy great want, that knew not its great name? +O who shall make to thee mighty amends +For thy lost childhood, joining two in one, +Thyself and Him? Behold Him, He is near: +God is thy Poet now. + +"A King sang once +Long years ago 'My soul is athirst for God, +Yea for the living God'--thy thirst and his +Are one. It is thy Poet whom thy hands +Grope for, not knowing. Life is not enough, +Nor love, nor learning,--Death is not enough +Even to them, happy, who forecast new life; +But give us now and satisfy us now, +Give us now, now, to live in the life of God, +Give us now, now, to be at one with Him." + +Would I had words--I have not words for her, +Only for thee; and thus I tell them out: +For every man the world is made afresh; +To God both it and he are young. There are +Who call upon Him night, and morn, and night +"Where is the kingdom? Give it us to-day. +We would be here with God, not there with God. +Make Thine abode with us, great Wayfarer, +And let our souls sink deeper into Thee"-- +There are who send but yearnings forth, in quest +They know not why, of good they know not what. + +The unknown life, and strange its stirring is. +The babe knows nought of life, yet clothed in it +And yearning only for its mother's breast +Feeds thus the unheeded thing--and as for thee, +That life thou hast is hidden from thine eyes, +And when it yearns, thou, knowing not for what, +Wouldst fain appease it with one grand, deep joy, +One draught of passionate peace--but wilt thou know +The other name of joy, the better name +Of peace? It is thy Father's name. Thy life +Yearns to its Source. The spirit thirsts for God, +Even the living God. + + But "No," thou sayest, +"My heart is all in ruins with pain, my feet +Tread a dry desert where there is no way +Nor water. I look back, and deep through time +The old words come but faintly up the track +Trod by the sons of men. The man He sent, +The Prince of life, methinks I could have loved +If I had looked once in His deep man's eyes. +But long ago He died, and long ago +Is gone." + + He is not dead, He cannot go. +Men's faith at first was like a mastering stream, +Like Jordan "the descender" leaping down +Pure from his snow; and warmed of tropic heat +Hiding himself in verdure: then at last +In a Dead Sea absorbed, as faith of doubt. +But yet the snow lies thick on Hermon's breast +And daily at his source the stream is born. +Go up--go mark the whiteness of the snow--Thy +faith is not thy Saviour, not thy God, +Though faith waste fruitless down a desert old. +The living God is new, and He is near. + +What need to look behind thee and to sigh? +When God left speaking He went on before +To draw men after, following up and on; +And thy heart fails because thy feet are slow; +Thou think'st of Him as one that will not wait, +A Father and not wait!--He waited long +For us, and yet perchance He thinks not long +And will not count the time. There are no dates +In His fine leisure. + + Speak then as a son: +"Father, I come to satisfy Thy love +With mine, for I had held Thee as remote, +The background of the stars--Time's yesterday-- +Illimitable Absence. Now my heart +Communes, methinks, with somewhat teaching me +Thou art the Great To-day. God, is it so? +Then for all love that WAS, I thank Thee, God, +It is and yet shall hide. And I have part +In all, for in Thine image I was made, +To Thee my spirit yearns, as Thou to mine. +If aught be stamped of Thy Divine on me, +And man be God-like, God is like to man. + +"Dear and dread Lord, I have not found it hard +To fear Thee, though Thy love in visible form +Bled 'neath a thorny crown--but since indeed, +For kindred's sake and likeness, Thou dost thirst +To draw men nigh, and make them one with Thee, +My soul shall answer 'Thou art what I want: +I am athirst for God, the living God.'" + +Then straightway flashes up athwart the words: +"And if I be a son I am very far +From my great Father's house; I am not clean. +I have not always willed it should be so, +And the gold of life is rusted with my tears." + +It is enough. He never said to men, +"Seek ye My face in vain." And have they sought-- +Beautiful children, well-beloved sons, +Opening wide eyes to ache among the moons +All night, and sighing because star multitudes +Fainted away as to a glittering haze, +And sparkled here and there like silver wings, +Confounding them with nameless, numberless, +Unbearable, fine flocks? It is not well +For them, for thee. Hast thou gone forth so far +To the unimaginable steeps on high +Trembling and seeking God? Yet now come home, +Cry, cry to Him: "I cannot search Thee out, +But Thou and I must meet. O come, come down, +Come." And that cry shall have the mastery. +Ay, He shall come in truth to visit thee, +And thou shalt mourn to Him, "Unclean, unclean," +But never more "I will to have it so." +From henceforth thou shalt learn that there is love +To long for, pureness to desire, a mount +Of consecration it were good to scale. + +Look you, it is to-day as at the first. +When Adam first was 'ware his new-made eyes +And opened them, behold the light! And breath +Of God was misting yet about his mouth, +Whereof they had made his soul. Then he looked forth +And was a part of light; also he saw +Beautiful life, and it could move. But Eve--Eve +was the child of midnight and of sleep. +Lo, in the dark God led her to his side; +It may be in the dark she heard him breathe +Before God woke him. And she knew not light, +Nor life but as a voice that left his lips, +A warmth that clasped her; but the stars were out, +And she with wide child-eyes gazed up at them. + +Haply she thought that always it was night; +Haply he, whispering to her in that reach +Of beauteous darkness, gave her unworn heart +A rumour of the dawn, and wakened it +To a trembling, and a wonder, and a want +Kin to his own; and as he longed to gaze +On his new fate, the gracious mystery +His wife, she may have longed, and felt not why, +After the light that never she had known. + +So doth each age walk in the light beheld, +Nor think on light, if it be light or no; +Then comes the night to it, and in the night +Eve. + + The God-given, the most beautiful +Eve. And she is not seen for darkness' sake; +Yet, when she makes her gracious presence felt, +The age perceives how dark it is, and fain, +Fain would have daylight, fain would see her well, +A beauty half revealed, a helpmeet sent +To draw the soul away from valley clods; +Made from itself, yet now a better self-- +Soul in the soulless, arrow tipped with fire +Let down into a careless breast; a pang +Sweeter than healing that cries out with it +For light all light, and is beheld at length-- +The morning dawns. + + Were not we born to light? +Ay, and we saw the men and women as saints +Walk in a garden. All our thoughts were fair; +Our simple hearts, as dovecotes full of doves, +Made home and nest for them. They fluttered forth. +And flocks of them flew white about the world. +And dreams were like to ships that floated us +Far out on silent floods, apart from earth, +From life--so far that we could see their lights +In heaven--and hear the everlasting tide, +All dappled with that fair reflected gold, +Wash up against the city wall, and sob +At the dark bows of vessels that drew on +Heavily freighted with departed souls +To whom did spirits sing; but on that song +Might none, albeit the meaning was right plain, +Impose the harsh captivity of words. + +Afterward waking, sweet was early air, +Full excellent was morning: whether deep +The snow lay keenly white, and shrouds of hail +Blurred the grey breaker on a long foreshore, +And swarming plover ran, and wild white mews +And sea-pies printed with a thousand feet +The fallen whiteness, making shrill the storm; +Or whether, soothed of sunshine, throbbed and hummed +The mill atween its bowering maple trees, +And churned the leaping beck that reared, and urged +A diamond-dripping wheel. + + The happy find +Equality of beauty everywhere +To feed on. All of shade and sheen is theirs, +All the strange fashions and the fair wise ways +Of lives beneath man's own. He breathes delight +Whose soul is fresh, whose feet are wet with dew +And the melted mist of morning, when at watch +Sunk deep in fern he marks the stealthy roe, +Silent as sleep or shadow, cross the glade, +Or dart athwart his view as August stars +Shoot and are out--while gracefully pace on +The wild-eyed harts to their traditional tree +To clear the velvet from their budded horns. +There is no want, both God and life are kind; +It is enough to hear, it is enough +To see; the pale wide barley-field they love, +And its weird beauty, and the pale wide moon +That lowering seems to lurk between the sheaves. +So in the rustic hamlet at high noon +The white owl sailing drowsed and deaf with sleep +To hide her head in turrets browned of moss +That is the rust of time. Ay so the pinks +And mountain grass marked on a sharp sea-cliff +While far below the northern diver feeds; +She having ended settling while she sits, +As vessels water-logged that sink at sea +And quietly into the deep go down. + +It is enough to wake, it is enough +To sleep:--With God and time he leaves the rest. +But on a day death on the doorstep sits +Waiting, or like a veilèd woman walks +Dogging his footsteps, or athwart his path +The splendid passion-flower love unfolds +Buds full of sorrow, not ordained to know +Appeasement through the answer of a sigh, +The kiss of pity with denial given, +The crown and blossom of accomplishment. +Or haply comes the snake with subtlety, +And tempts him with an apple to know all. + +So,--Shut the gate; the story tells itself +Over and over; Eden must be lost +If after it be won. He stands at fault, +Not knowing at all how this should be--he feels +The great bare barrenness o' the outside world. +He thinks on Time and what it has to say; +He thinks on God, but God has changed His hand, +Sitting afar. And as the moon draws on +To cover the day-king in his eclipse, +And thin the last fine sickle of light, till all +Be gone, so fares it with his darkened soul. + +The dark, but not Orion sparkling there +With his best stars; the dark, but not yet Eve. +And now the wellsprings of sweet natural joy +Lie, as the Genie sealed of Solomon, +Fast prisoned in his heart; he hath not learned +The spell whereby to loose and set them forth, +And all the glad delights that boyhood loved +Smell at Oblivion's poppy, and lie still. + +Ah! they must sleep--"The mill can grind no more +With water that hath passed." Let it run on. +For he hath caught a whisper in the night; +This old inheritance in darkness given, +The world, is widened, warmed, it is alive, +Comes to his beating heart and bids it wake, +Opens the door to youth, and bids it forth, +Exultant for expansion and release, +And bent to satisfy the mighty wish, +Comfort and satisfy the mighty wish, +Life of his life, the soul's immortal child +That is to him as Eve. + + He cannot win, +Nor earn, nor see, nor hear, nor comprehend, +With all the watch, tender, impetuous, +That wastes him, this, whereof no less he feels +Infinite things; but yet the night is full +Of air-beats and of heart-beats for her sake. +Eve the aspirer, give her what she wants, +Or wherefore was he born? + + O he was born +To wish--then turn away:--to wish again +And half forget his wish for earthlier joy; +He draws the net to land that brings red gold; +His dreams among the meshes tangled lie, +And learning hath him at her feet;--and love, +The sea-born creature fresh from her sea foam, +Touches the ruddiest veins in his young heart, +Makes it to sob in him and sigh in him, +Restless, repelled, dying, alive and keen, +Fainting away for the remorseless ALL +Gone by, gone up, or sweetly gone before, +But never in his arms. Then pity comes, +Knocks at his breast, it may be, and comes in, +Makes a wide wound that haply will not heal, +But bleeds for poverty, and crime, and pain, +Till for the dear kin's sake he grandly dares +Or wastes him, with a wise improvidence; +But who can stir the weighty world; or who +Can drink a sea of tears? + + O love, and life, +O world, and can it be that this is all? +Leave him to tread expectance underfoot; +Let him alone to tame down his great hope +Before it breaks his heart: "Give me my share +That I foresaw, my place, my draught of life. +This that I bear, what is it?--me no less +It binds, I cannot disenslave my soul." + +There is but halting for the wearied foot. +The better way is hidden; faith hath failed-- +One stronger far than reason mastered her. +It is not reason makes faith hard, but life. +The husks of his dead creed, downtrod and dry, +Are powerless now as some dishonoured spell, +Some aged Pythia in her priestly clothes, +Some widow'd witch divining by the dead. +Or if he keep one shrine undesecrate +And go to it from time to time with tears, +What lies there? A dead Christ enswathed and cold, +A Christ that did not rise. The linen cloth +Is wrapped about His head, He lies embalmed +With myrrh and spices in His sepulchre, +The love of God that daily dies;--to them +That trust it the One Life, the all that lives. + +O mother Eve, who wert beguiled of old, +Thy blood is in thy children, thou art yet +Their fate and copy; with thy milk they drew +The immortal want of morning; but thy day +Dawned and was over, and thy children know +Contentment never, nor continuance long. +For even thus it is with them: the day +Waxeth, to wane anon, and a long night +Leaves the dark heart unsatisfied with stars. + +A soul in want and restless and bereft +To whom all life hath lied, shall it too lie? +Saying, "I yield Thee thanks, most mighty God, +Thou hast been pleased to make me thus and thus. +I do submit me to Thy sovereign will +That I full oft should hunger and not have, +And vainly yearn after the perfect good, +Gladness and peace"? + + No, rather dare think thus: +"Ere chaos first had being, earth, or time, +My Likeness was apparent in high heaven, +Divine and manlike, and his dwelling place +Was the bosom of the Father. By His hands +Were the worlds made and filled with diverse growths +And ordered lives. Then afterward they said, +Taking strange counsel, as if he who worked +Hitherto should not henceforth work alone, +'Let us make man;' and God did look upon +That Divine Word which was the form of God, +And it became a thought before the event. +There they foresaw my face, foreheard my speech, +God-like, God-loved, God-loving, God-derived. + +"And I was in a garden, and I fell +Through envy of God's evil son, but Love +Would not be robbed of me for ever--Love +For my sake passed into humanity, +And there for my first Father won me home. +How should I rest then? I have NOT gone home; +I feed on husks, and they given grudgingly, +While my great Father--Father--O my God, +What shall I do?" + + Ay, I will dare think thus: +"I cannot rest because He doth not rest +In whom I have my being. THIS is GOD-- +My soul is conscious of His wondrous wish, +And my heart's hunger doth but answer His +Whose thought has met with mine. + + "I have not all; +He moves me thus to take of Him what lacks. +My want is God's desire to give,--He yearns +To add Himself to life and so for aye +Make it enough." + A thought by night, a wish +After the morning, and behold it dawns +Pathetic in a still solemnity, +And mighty words are said for him once more, +"Let there be light." Great heaven and earth have heard, +And God comes down to him, and Christ doth rise. + + + + +THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. + + +There are who give themselves to work for men,-- +To raise the lost, to gather orphaned babes +And teach them, pitying of their mean estate, +To feel for misery, and to look on crime +With ruth, till they forget that they themselves +Are of the race, themselves among the crowd +Under the sentence and outside the gate, +And of the family and in the doom. +Cold is the world; they feel how cold it is, +And wish that they could warm it. Hard is life +For some. They would that they could soften it; +And, in the doing of their work, they sigh +As if it was their choice and not their lot; +And, in the raising of their prayer to God, +They crave his kindness for the world he made, +Till they, at last, forget that he, not they, +Is the true lover of man. + + * * * * * + +Now, in an ancient town, that had sunk low,-- +Trade having drifted from it, while there stayed +Too many, that it erst had fed, behind,-- +There walked a curate once, at early day. + +It was the summer-time; but summer air +Came never, in its sweetness, down that dark +And crowded alley,--never reached the door +Whereat he stopped,--the sordid, shattered door. + +He paused, and, looking right and left, beheld +Dirt and decay, the lowering tenements +That leaned toward each other; broken panes +Bulging with rags, and grim with old neglect; +And reeking hills of formless refuse, heaped +To fade and fester in a stagnant air. +But he thought nothing of it: he had learned +To take all wretchedness for granted,--he, +Reared in a stainless home, and radiant yet +With the clear hues of healthful English youth, +Had learned to kneel by beds forlorn, and stoop +Under foul lintels. He could touch, with hand +Unshrinking, fevered fingers; he could hear +The language of the lost, in haunt and den,-- +So dismal, that the coldest passer-by +Must needs be sorry for them, and, albeit +They cursed, would dare to speak no harder words +Than these,--"God help them!" + + Ay! a learned man +The curate in all woes that plague mankind,-- +Too learned, for he was but young. His heart +Had yearned till it was overstrained, and now +He--plunged into a narrow slough unblest, +Had struggled with its deadly waters, till +His own head had gone under, and he took +Small joy in work he could not look to aid +Its cleansing. + + Yet, by one right tender tie, +Hope held him yet. The fathers coarse and dull, +Vile mothers hard, and boys and girls profane, +His soul drew back from. He had worked for them,-- +Work without joy: but, in his heart of hearts, +He loved the little children; and whene'er +He heard their prattle innocent, and heard +Their tender voices lisping sacred words +That he had taught them,--in the cleanly calm +Of decent school, by decent matron held,-- +Then would he say, "I shall have pleasure yet, +In these." + + But now, when he pushed back that door +And mounted up a flight of ruined stairs, +He said not that. He said, "Oh! once I thought +The little children would make bright for me +The crown they wear who have won many souls +For righteousness; but oh, this evil place! +Hard lines it gives them, cold and dirt abhorred,-- +Hunger and nakedness, in lieu of love, +And blows instead of care. + + "And so they die, +The little children that I love,--they die,--They +turn their wistful faces to the wall, +And slip away to God." + + With that, his hand +He laid upon a latch and lifted it, +Looked in full quietly, and entered straight. + +What saw he there? He saw a three-years child, +That lay a-dying on a wisp of straw +Swept up into a corner. O'er its brow +The damps of death were gathering: all alone, +Uncared for, save that by its side was set +A cup, it waited. And the eyes had ceased +To look on things at hand. He thought they gazed +In wistful wonder, or some faint surmise +Of coming change,--as though they saw the gate +Of that fair land that seems to most of us +Very far off. + When he beheld the look, +He said, "I knew, I knew how this would be! +Another! Ay, and but for drunken blows +And dull forgetfulness of infant need, +This little one had lived." And thereupon +The misery of it wrought upon him so, +That, unaware, he wept. Oh! then it was +That, in the bending of his manly head, +It came between the child and that whereon +He gazed, and, when the curate glanced again, +Those dying eyes, drawn back to earth once more, +Looked up into his own, and smiled. + He drew +More near, and kneeled beside the small frail thing, +Because the lips were moving; and it raised +Its baby hand, and stroked away his tears, +And whispered, "Master! master!" and so died. + +Now, in that town there was an ancient church, +A minster of old days which these had turned +To parish uses: there the curate served. +It stood within a quiet swarded Close, +Sunny and still, and, though it was not far +From those dark courts where poor humanity +Struggled and swarmed, it seemed to wear its own +Still atmosphere about it, and to hold +That old-world calm within its precincts pure +And that grave rest which modern life foregoes. + +When the sad curate, rising from his knees, +Looked from the dead to heaven,--as, unaware, +Men do when they would track departed life,--He +heard the deep tone of the minster-bell +Sounding for service, and he turned away +So heavy at heart, that, when he left behind +That dismal habitation, and came out +In the clear sunshine of the minster-yard, +He never marked it. Up the aisle he moved, +With his own gloom about him; then came forth, +And read before the folk grand words and calm,--Words +full of hope; but into his dull heart +Hope came not. As one talketh in a dream, +And doth not mark the sense of his own words, +He read; and, as one walketh in a dream, +He after walked toward the vestment-room, +And never marked the way he went by,--no, +Nor the gray verger that before him stood, +The great church-keys depending from his hand, +Ready to follow him out and lock the door. + +At length, aroused to present things, but not +Content to break the sequence of his thought, +Nor ready for the working day that held +Its busy course without, he said, "Good friend, +Leave me the keys: I would remain a while." +And, when the verger gave, he moved with him +Toward the door distraught, then shut him out, +And locked himself within the church alone. +The minster-church was like a great brown cave, +Fluted and fine with pillars, and all dim +With glorious gloom; but, as the curate turned, +Suddenly shone the sun,--and roof and walls, +Also the clustering shafts from end to end, +Were thickly sown all over, as it were, +With seedling rainbows. And it went and came +And went, that sunny beam, and drifted up +Ethereal bloom to flush the open wings +And carven cheeks of dimpled cherubim, +And dropped upon the curate as he passed, +And covered his white raiment and his hair. + +Then did look down upon him from their place, +High in the upper lights, grave mitred priests, +And grand old monarchs in their flowered gowns +And capes of miniver; and therewithal +(A veiling cloud gone by) the naked sun +Smote with his burning splendor all the pile, +And in there rushed, through half-translucent panes, +A sombre glory as of rusted gold, +Deep ruby stains, and tender blue and green, +That made the floor a beauty and delight, +Strewed as with phantom blossoms, sweet enough +To have been wafted there the day they dropt +On the flower-beds in heaven. + The curate passed +Adown the long south aisle, and did not think +Upon this beauty, nor that he himself-- +Excellent in the strength of youth, and fair +With all the majesty that noble work +And stainless manners give--did add his part +To make it fairer. + In among the knights +That lay with hands uplifted, by the lute +And palm of many a saint,--'neath capitals +Whereon our fathers had been bold to carve +With earthly tools their ancient childlike dream +Concerning heavenly fruit and living bowers, +And glad full-throated birds that sing up there +Among the branches of the tree of life-- +Through all the ordered forest of the shafts, +Shooting on high to enter into light, +That swam aloft,--he took his silent way, +And in the southern transept sat him down, +Covered his face, and thought. + He said, "No pain, +No passion, and no aching, heart o' mine, +Doth stir within thee. Oh! I would there did: +Thou art so dull, so tired. I have lost +I know not what. I see the heavens as lead: +They tend no whither. Ah! the world is bared +Of her enchantment now: she is but earth +And water. And, though much hath passed away, +There may be more to go. I may forget +The joy and fear that have been: there may live +No more for me the fervency of hope +Nor the arrest of wonder. + + "Once I said, +'Content will wait on work, though work appear +Unfruitful.' Now I say, 'Where is the good? +What is the good? A lamp when it is lit +Must needs give light; but I am like a man +Holding his lamp in some deserted place +Where no foot passeth. Must I trim my lamp, +And ever painfully toil to keep it bright, +When use for it is none? I must; I will. +Though God withhold my wages, I must work, +And watch the bringing of my work to nought,-- +Weed in the vineyard through the heat o' the day, +And, overtasked, behold the weedy place +Grow ranker yet in spite of me. + + "Oh! yet +My meditated words are trodden down +Like a little wayside grass. Castaway shells, +Lifted and tossed aside by a plunging wave, +Have no more force against it than have I +Against the sweeping, weltering wave of life, +That, lifting and dislodging me, drives on, +And notes not mine endeavor." + + Afterward, +He added more words like to these; to wit, +That it was hard to see the world so sad: +He would that it were happier. It was hard +To see the blameless overborne; and hard +To know that God, who loves the world, should yet +Let it lie down in sorrow, when a smile +From him would make it laugh and sing,--a word +From him transform it to a heaven. He said, +Moreover, "When will this be done? My life +Hath not yet reached the noon, and I am tired; +And oh! it may be that, uncomforted +By foolish hope of doing good and vain +Conceit of being useful, I may live, +And it may be my duty to go on +Working for years and years, for years and years." + +But, while the words were uttered, in his heart +There dawned a vague alarm. He was aware +That somewhat touched him, and he lifted up +His face. "I am alone," the curate said,-- +"I think I am alone. What is it, then? +I am ashamed! My raiment is not clean. +My lips,--I am afraid they are not clean. +My heart is darkened and unclean. Ah me, +To be a man, and yet to tremble so! +Strange, strange!" + And there was sitting at his feet-- +He could not see it plainly--at his feet +A very little child. And, while the blood +Drave to his heart, he set his eye on it, +Gazing, and, lo! the loveliness from heaven +Took clearer form and color. He beheld +The strange, wise sweetness of a dimpled mouth,-- +The deep serene of eyes at home with bliss, +And perfect in possession. So it spoke, +"My master!" but he answered not a word; +And it went on: "I had a name, a name. +He knew my name; but here they can forget." +The curate answered: "Nay, I know thee well. +I love thee. Wherefore art thou come?" It said, +"They sent me;" and he faltered, "Fold thy hand, +O most dear little one! for on it gleams +A gem that is so bright I cannot look +Thereon." It said, "When I did leave this world, +That was a tear. But that was long ago; +For I have lived among the happy folk, +You wot of, ages, ages." Then said he, +"Do they forget us, while beneath the palms +They take their infinite leisure?" And, with eyes +That seemed to muse upon him, looking up +In peace the little child made answer, "Nay;" +And murmured, in the language that he loved, +"How is it that his hair is not yet white; +For I and all the others have been long +Waiting for him to come." + "And was it long?" +The curate answered, pondering. "Time being done, +Shall life indeed expand, and give the sense, +In our to-come, of infinite extension?" +Then said the child, "In heaven we children talk +Of the great matters, and our lips are wise; +But here I can but talk with thee in words +That here I knew." And therewithal, arisen, +It said, "I pray you take me in your arms." +Then, being afraid but willing, so he did; +And partly drew about the radiant child, +For better covering its dread purity, +The foldings of his gown. And he beheld +Its beauty, and the tremulous woven light +That hung upon its hair; withal, the robe, +"Whiter than fuller of this world can white," +That clothed its immortality. And so +The trembling came again, and he was dumb, +Repenting his uncleanness: and he lift +His eyes, and all the holy place was full +Of living things; and some were faint and dim, +As if they bore an intermittent life, +Waxing and waning; and they had no form, +But drifted on like slowly trailèd clouds, +Or moving spots of darkness, with an eye +Apiece. And some, in guise of evil birds, +Came by in troops, and stretched their naked necks, +And some were men-like, but their heads hung down; +And he said, "O my God! let me find grace +Not to behold their faces, for I know +They must be wicked and right terrible." +But while he prayed, lo! whispers; and there moved +Two shadows on the wall. He could not see +The forms of them that cast them: he could see +Only the shadows as of two that sat +Upon the floor, where, clad in women's weeds, +They lisped together. And he shuddered much: +There was a rustling near him, and he feared +Lest they should touch him, and he feel their touch. + +"It is not great," quoth one, "the work achieved. +We do, and we delight to do, our best: +But that is little; for, my dear," quoth she, +"This tower and town have been infested long +With angels."--"Ay," the other made reply, +"I had a little evil-one, of late, +That I picked up as it was crawling out +O' the pit, and took and cherished in my breast. +It would divine for me, and oft would moan, +'Pray thee, no churches,' and it spake of this. +But I was harried once,--thou know'st by whom,-- +And fled in here; and, when he followed me, +I crouching by this pillar, he let down +His hand,--being all too proud to send his eyes +In its wake,--and, plucking forth my tender imp, +Flung it behind him. It went yelping forth; +And, as for me, I never saw it more. +Much is against us,--very much: the times +Are hard." She paused: her fellow took the word, +Plaining on such as preach and them that plead. +"Even such as haunt the yawning mouths of hell," +Quoth she, "and pluck them back that run thereto." +Then, like a sudden blow, there fell on him +The utterance of his name. "There is no soul +That I loathe more, and oftener curse. Woe's me, +That cursing should be vain! Ay, he will go +Gather the sucking children, that are yet +Too young for us, and watch and shelter them. +Till the strong Angels--pitiless and stern, +But to them loving ever--sweep them in, +By armsful, to the unapproachable fold. + +"We strew his path with gold: it will not lie. +'Deal softly with him,' was the master's word. +We brought him all delights: his angel came +And stood between them and his eyes. They spend +Much pains upon him,--keep him poor and low +And unbeloved; and thus he gives his mind +To fill the fateful, the impregnable +Child-fold, and sow on earth the seed of stars. + +"Oh! hard is serving against love,--the love +Of the Unspeakable; for if we soil +The souls He openeth out a washing-place; +And if we grudge, and snatch away the bread, +Then will He save by poverty, and gain +By early giving up of blameless life; +And if we shed out gold, He even will save +In spite of gold,--of twice-refinèd gold." + +With that the curate set his daunted eyes +To look upon the shadows of the fiends. +He was made sure they could not see the child +That nestled in his arms; he also knew +They were unconscious that his mortal ears +Had new intelligence, which gave their speech +Possible entrance through his garb of clay. + +He was afraid, yet awful gladness reached +His soul: the testimony of the lost +Upbraided him; but while he trembled yet, +The heavenly child had lifted up its head +And left his arms, and on the marble floor +Stood beckoning. + + And, its touch withdrawn, the place +Was silent, empty; all that swarming tribe +Of evil ones concealed behind the veil, +And shut into their separate world, were closed +From his observance. He arose, and paced +After the little child,--as half in fear +That it would leave him,--till they reached a door; +And then said he,--but much distraught he spoke, +Laying his hand across the lock,--"This door +Shuts in the stairs whereby men mount the tower. +Wouldst thou go up, and so withdraw to heaven?" +It answered, "I will mount them." Then said he, +"And I will follow."--"So thou shalt do well," +The radiant thing replied, and it went up, +And he, amazed, went after; for the stairs, +Otherwhile dark, were lightened by the rays +Shed out of raiment woven in high heaven, +And hair whereon had smiled the light of God. + +With that, they, pacing on, came out at last +Into a dim, weird place,--a chamber formed +Betwixt the roofs: for you shall know that all +The vaulting of the nave, fretted and fine, +Was covered with the dust of ages, laid +Thick with those chips of stone which they had left +Who wrought it; but a high-pitched roof was reared +Above it, and the western gable pierced +With three long narrow lights. Great tie-beams loomed +Across, and many daws frequented there, +The starling and the sparrow littered it +With straw, and peeped from many a shady nook; +And there was lifting up of wings, and there +Was hasty exit when the curate came. +But sitting on a beam and moving not +For him, he saw two fair gray turtle-doves +Bowing their heads, and cooing; and the child +Put forth a hand to touch his own, but straight +He, startled, drew it back, because, forsooth, +A stirring fancy smote him, and he thought +That language trembled on their innocent tongues, +And floated forth in speech that man could hear. +Then said the child, "Yet touch, my master dear." +And he let down his hand, and touched again; +And so it was. "But if they had their way," +One turtle cooed, "how should this world go on?" + +Then he looked well upon them, as he stood +Upright before them. They were feathered doves, +And sitting close together; and their eyes +Were rounded with the rim that marks their kind. +Their tender crimson feet did pat the beam,-- +No phantoms they; and soon the fellow-dove +Made answer, "Nay they count themselves so wise, +There is no task they shall be set to do +But they will ask God why. What mean they so? +The glory is not in the task, but in +The doing it for Him. What should he think, +Brother, this man that must, forsooth, be set +Such noble work, and suffered to behold +Its fruit, if he knew more of us and ours?" +With that the other leaned, as if attent: +"I am not perfect, brother, in his thought." +The mystic bird replied. "Brother, he saith, +'But it is nought: the work is overhard.' +Whose fault is that? God sets not overwork. +He saith the world is sorrowful, and he +Is therefore sorrowful. He cannot set +The crooked straight;--but who demands of him, +O brother, that he should? What! thinks he, then, +His work is God's advantage, and his will +More bent to aid the world than its dread Lord's? +Nay, yet there live amongst us legions fair, +Millions on millions, who could do right well +What he must fail in; and 'twas whispered me, +That chiefly for himself the task is given,-- +His little daily task." With that he paused. + +Then said the other, preening its fair wing, +"Men have discovered all God's islands now, +And given them names; whereof they are as proud, +And deem themselves as great, as if their hands +Had made them. Strange is man, and strange his pride. +Now, as for us, it matters not to learn +What and from whence we be: How should we tell? +Our world is undiscovered in these skies, +Our names not whispered. Yet, for us and ours, +What joy it is,--permission to come down, +Not souls, as he, to the bosom of their God, +To guide, but to their goal the winged fowls, +His lovely lower-fashioned lives to help +To take their forms by legions, fly, and draw +With us the sweet, obedient, flocking things +That ever hear our message reverently, +And follow us far. How should they know their way, +Forsooth, alone? Men say they fly alone; +Yet some have set on record, and averred, +That they, among the flocks, had duly marked +A leader." + Then his fellow made reply: +"They might divine the Maker's heart. Come forth, +Fair dove, to find the flocks, and guide their wings, +For Him that loveth them." + With that, the child +Withdrew his hand, and all their speech was done. +He moved toward them, but they fluttered forth +And fled into the sunshine. + "I would fain," +Said he, "have heard some more. And wilt thou go?" +He added to the child, for this had turned. +"Ay," quoth he, gently, "to the beggar's place; +For I would see the beggar in the porch." + +So they went down together to the door, +Which, when the curate opened, lo! without +The beggar sat; and he saluted him: +"Good morrow, master." "Wherefore art thou here?" +The curate asked: "it is not service time, +And none will enter now to give thee alms." +Then said the beggar, "I have hope at heart +That I shall go to my poor house no more." +"Art thou so sick that thou dost think to die?" +The curate said. With that the beggar laughed, +And under his dim eyelids gathered tears, +And he was all a-tremble with a strange +And moving exaltation. "Ay," quoth he, +And set his face toward high heaven: "I think +The blessing that I wait on must be near." +Then said the curate, "God be good to thee." +And, straight, the little child put forth his hand, +And touched him. "Master, master, hush! +You should not, master, speak so carelessly +In this great presence." + But the touch so wrought, +That, lo! the dazzled curate staggered back, +For dread effulgence from the beggar's eyes +Smote him, and from the crippled limbs shot forth +Terrible lights, as pure long blades of fire. +"Withdraw thy touch! withdraw thy touch!" he cried, +"Or else shall I be blinded." Then the child +Stood back from him; and he sat down apart, +Recovering of his manhood: and he heard +The beggar and the child discourse of things +Dreadful for glory, till his spirits came +Anew; and, when the beggar looked on him, +He said, "If I offend not, pray you tell +Who and what are you--I behold a face +Marred with old age, sickness, and poverty,-- +A cripple with a staff, who long hath sat +Begging, and ofttimes moaning, in the porch, +For pain and for the wind's inclemency. +What are you?" Then the beggar made reply, +"I was a delegate, a living power; +My work was bliss, for seeds were in my hand +To plant a new-made world. O happy work! +It grew and blossomed; but my dwelling-place +Was far remote from heaven. I have not seen; +I knew no wish to enter there. But lo! +There went forth rumors, running out like rays, +How some, that were of power like even to mine, +Had made request to come and find a place +Within its walls. And these were satisfied +With promises, and sent to this far world +To take the weeds of your mortality, +And minister, and suffer grief and pain, +And die like men. Then were they gathered in. +They saw a face, and were accounted kin +To Whom thou knowest, for he is kin to men. + +"Then I did wait; and oft, at work, I sang, +'To minister! oh, joy, to minister!' +And, it being known, a message came to me: +'Whether is best, thou forest-planter wise, +To minister to others, or that they +Should minister to thee?' Then, on my face +Low lying, I made answer: 'It is best, +Most High, to minister;' and thus came back +The answer,--'Choose not for thyself the best: +Go down, and, lo! my poor shall minister, +Out of their poverty, to thee; shall learn +Compassion by thy frailty; and shall oft +Turn back, when speeding home from work, to help +Thee, weak and crippled, home. My little ones, +Thou shalt importune for their slender mite, +And pray, and move them that they give it up +For love of Me.'" + The curate answered him, +"Art thou content, O great one from afar! +If I may ask, and not offend?" He said, +"I am. Behold! I stand not all alone, +That I should think to do a perfect work. +I may not wish to give; for I have heard +'Tis best for me that I receive. For me, +God is the only giver, and His gift +Is one." With that, the little child sighed out, +"O master! master! I am out of heaven +Since noonday, and I hear them calling me. +If you be ready, great one, let us go:-- +Hark! hark! they call." + Then did the beggar lift +His face to heaven, and utter forth a cry +As of the pangs of death, and every tree +Moved as if shaken by a sudden wind. +He cried again, and there came forth a hand +From some invisible form, which, being laid +A little moment on the curate's eyes, +It dazzled him with light that brake from it, +So that he saw no more. + "What shall I do?" +The curate murmured, when he came again +To himself and looked about him. "This is strange! +My thoughts are all astray; and yet, methinks, +A weight is taken from my heart. Lo! lo! +There lieth at my feet, frail, white, and dead, +The sometime beggar. He is happy now. +There was a child; but he is gone, and he +Is also happy. I am glad to think +I am not bound to make the wrong go right; +But only to discover, and to do +With cheerful heart, the work that God appoints." + +With that, he did compose, with reverent care, +The dead; continuing, "I will trust in Him, +THAT HE CAN HOLD HIS OWN; and I will take +His will, above the work He sendeth me, +To be my chiefest good." + Then went he forth, +"I shall die early," thinking: "I am warned, +By this fair vision, that I have not long +To live." Yet he lived on to good old age;-- +Ay, he lives yet, and he is working still. + + * * * * * + +It may be there are many in like case: +They give themselves, and are in misery +Because the gift is small, and doth not make +The world by so much better as they fain +Would have it. 'Tis a fault; but, as for us, +Let us not blame them. Maybe, 'tis a fault +More kindly looked on by The Majesty +Than our best virtues are. Why, what are we? +What have we given, and what have we desired +To give, the world? + There must be something wrong +Look to it: let us mend our ways. Farewell. + + + + +THE SHEPHERD LADY. + + +I. + +Who pipes upon the long green hill, + Where meadow grass is deep? +The white lamb bleats but followeth on-- + Follow the clean white sheep. +The dear white lady in yon high tower, + She hearkeneth in her sleep. + +All in long grass the piper stands, + Goodly and grave is he; +Outside the tower, at dawn of day, + The notes of his pipe ring free. +A thought from his heart doth reach to hers: + "Come down, O lady! to me." + +She lifts her head, she dons her gown: + Ah! the lady is fair; +She ties the girdle on her waist, + And binds her flaxen hair, +And down she stealeth, down and down, + Down the turret stair. + +Behold him! With the flock he wons + Along yon grassy lea. +"My shepherd lord, my shepherd love, + What wilt thou, then, with me? +My heart is gone out of my breast, + And followeth on to thee." + + +II. + +"The white lambs feed in tender grass: + With them and thee to bide, +How good it were," she saith at noon; + "Albeit the meads are wide. +Oh! well is me," she saith when day + Draws on to eventide. + +Hark! hark! the shepherd's voice. Oh, sweet! + Her tears drop down like rain. +"Take now this crook, my chosen, my fere, + And tend the flock full fain; +Feed them, O lady, and lose not one, + Till I shall come again." + +Right soft her speech: "My will is thine, + And my reward thy grace!" +Gone are his footsteps over the hill, + Withdrawn his goodly face; +The mournful dusk begins to gather, + The daylight wanes apace. + + +III. + +On sunny slopes, ah! long the lady + Feedeth her flock at noon; +She leads it down to drink at eve + Where the small rivulets croon. +All night her locks are wet with dew, + Her eyes outwatch the moon. + +Beyond the hills her voice is heard, + She sings when light doth wane: +"My longing heart is full of love, + Nor shall my watch be vain. +My shepherd lord. I see him not, + But he will come again." + + + + +POEMS + +WRITTEN ON THE DEATHS OF THREE LOVELY CHILDREN +WHO WERE TAKEN FROM THEIR PARENTS WITHIN A MONTH +OF ONE ANOTHER. + + +HENRY, + +AGED EIGHT YEARS. + +Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter--woodland hollows thickly strewing, + Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the mid-day win, +While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in saddened hues imbuing + All without and all within! + +All within! but winds of autumn, little Henry, round their dwelling + Did not load your father's spirit with those deep and burdened sighs;-- +Only echoed thoughts of sadness, in your mother's bosom swelling, + Fast as tears that dim her eyes. + +Life is fraught with many changes, checked with sorrow and mutation, + But no grief it ever lightened such a truth before to know:-- +I behold them--father, mother--as they seem to contemplation, + Only three short weeks ago! + +Saddened for the morrow's parting--up the stairs at midnight stealing-- + As with cautious foot we glided past the children's open door,-- +"Come in here," they said, the lamplight dimpled forms at last revealing, + "Kiss them in their sleep once more." + +You were sleeping, little Henry, with your eyelids scarcely closing, + Two sweet faces near together, with their rounded arms entwined:-- +And the rose-bud lips were moving, as if stirred in their reposing + By the movements of the mind! + +And your mother smoothed the pillow, and her sleeping treasures numbered, + Whispering fondly--"He is dreaming"--as you turned upon your bed-- +And your father stooped to kiss you, happy dreamer, as you slumbered, + With his hand upon your head! + +Did he know the true deep meaning of his blessing? No! he never + Heard afar the summons uttered--"Come up hither"--Never knew +How the awful Angel faces kept his sleeping boy for ever, + And for ever in their view. + +Awful Faces, unimpassioned, silent Presences were by us, + Shrouding wings--majestic beings--hidden by this earthly veil-- +Such as we have called on, saying, "Praise the Lord, O Ananias, + Azarias and Misael!" + +But we saw not, and who knoweth, what the missioned Spirits taught him, + To that one small bed drawn nearer, when we left him to their will? +While he slumbered, who can answer for what dreams they may have brought + him, + When at midnight all was still? + +Father! Mother! must you leave him on his bed, but not to slumber? + Are the small hands meekly folded on his breast, but not to pray? +When you count your children over, must you tell a different number, + Since that happier yesterday? + +Father! Mother! weep if need be, since this is a "time" for weeping, + Comfort comes not for the calling, grief is never argued down-- +Coldly sounds the admonition, "Why lament? in better keeping + Rests the child than in your own." + +"Truth indeed! but, oh! compassion! Have you sought to scan my sorrow?" + (Mother, you shall meekly ponder, list'ning to that common tale) +"Does your heart repeat its echo, or by fellow-feeling borrow + Even a tone that might avail? + +"Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep heart-warm affection? + Might perceive by strength of loving how the fond words to combine? +Surely no! I will be silent, in your soul is no reflection + Of the care that burdens mine!" + +When the winter twilight gathers, Father, and your thoughts shall wander, + Sitting lonely you shall blend him with your listless reveries, +Half forgetful what division holds the form whereon you ponder + From its place upon your knees-- + +With a start of recollection, with a half-reproachful wonder, + Of itself the heart shall question, "Art Thou then no longer here? +Is it so, my little Henry? Are we set so far asunder + Who were wont to be so near?" + +While the fire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthened shades are meeting, + To itself the heart shall answer, "He shall come to me no more: +I shall never hear his footsteps nor the child's sweet voice entreating + For admission at my door." + +But upon _your_ fair, fair forehead, no regrets nor griefs are dwelling, + Neither sorrow nor disquiet do the peaceful features know; +Nor that look, whose wistful beauty seemed their sad hearts to be telling, + "Daylight breaketh, let me go!" + +Daylight breaketh, little Henry; in its beams your soul awaketh-- + What though night should close around us, dim and dreary to the view-- +Though _our_ souls should walk in darkness, far away that morning breaketh + Into endless day for you! + + +SAMUEL, + +AGED NINE YEARS. + +They have left you, little Henry, but they have not left you lonely-- + Brothers' hearts so knit together could not, might not separate dwell. +Fain to seek you in the mansions far away--One lingered only + To bid those behind farewell! + +Gentle Boy!--His childlike nature in most guileless form was moulded, + And it may be that his spirit woke in glory unaware, +Since so calmly he resigned it, with his hands still meekly folded, + Having said his evening prayer. + +Or--if conscious of that summons--"Speak, O Lord, Thy servant heareth"-- + As one said, whose name they gave him, might his willing answer be, +"Here am I"--like him replying--"At Thy gates my soul appeareth, + For behold Thou calledst me!" + +A deep silence--utter silence, on his earthly home descendeth:-- + Reading, playing, sleeping, waking--he is gone, and few remain! +"O the loss!"--they utter, weeping--every voice its echo lendeth-- + "O the loss!"--But, O the gain! + +On that tranquil shore his spirit was vouchsafed an early landing, + Lest the toils of crime should stain it, or the thrall of guilt control-- +Lest that "wickedness should alter the yet simple understanding, + Or deceit beguile his soul!" + +"Lay not up on earth thy treasure"--they have read that sentence duly, + Moth and rust shall fret thy riches--earthly good hath swift decay-- +"Even so," each heart replieth--"As for me, my riches truly + Make them wings and flee away!" + +"O my riches!--O my children!--dearest part of life and being, +Treasures looked to for the solace of this life's declining years,-- +Were our voices cold to hearing--or our faces cold to seeing, + That ye left us to our tears?" + +"We inherit conscious silence, ceasing of some merry laughter, + And the hush of two sweet voices--(healing sounds for spirits bruised!) +Of the tread of joyous footsteps in the pathway following after, + Of two names no longer used!" + +Question for them, little Sister, in your sweet and childish fashion-- + Search and seek them, Baby Brother, with your calm and asking eyes-- +Dimpled lips that fail to utter fond appeal or sad compassion, + Mild regret or dim surprise! + +There are two tall trees above you, by the high east window growing, + Underneath them, slumber sweetly, lapt in silence deep, serene; +Save, when pealing in the distance, organ notes towards you flowing + Echo--with a pause between! + +And that pause?--a voice shall fill it--tones that blessed you daily, + nightly, + Well beloved, but not sufficing, Sleepers, to awake you now, +Though so near he stand, that shadows from your trees may tremble lightly + On his book and on his brow! + +Sleep then ever! Neither singing of sweet birds shall break your slumber, + Neither fall of dew, nor sunshine, dance of leaves, nor drift of snow, +Charm those dropt lids more to open, nor the tranquil bosoms cumber + With one care for things below! + +It is something, the assurance, that _you_ ne'er shall feel like sorrow, + Weep no past and dread no future--know not sighing, feel not pain-- +Nor a day that looketh forward to a mournfuller to-morrow-- + "Clouds returning after rain!" + +No, far off, the daylight breaketh, in its beams each soul awaketh: + "What though clouds," they sigh, "be gathered dark and stormy to the + view, +Though the light our eyes forsaketh, fresh and sweet behold it breaketh + Into endless day for you!" + + +KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS. + +(ASLEEP IN THE DAYTIME.) + +All rough winds are hushed and silent, golden light the meadow steepeth, + And the last October roses daily wax more pale and fair; +They have laid a gathered blossom on the breast of one who sleepeth + With a sunbeam on her hair. + +Calm, and draped in snowy raiment she lies still, as one that dreameth, + And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips that may not speak; +Slanting down that narrow sunbeam like a ray of glory gleameth + On the sainted brow and cheek. + +There is silence! They who watch her, speak no word of grief or wailing, + In a strange unwonted calmness they gaze on and cannot cease, +Though the pulse of life beat faintly, thought shrink back, and hope be + failing, + They, like Aaron, "hold their peace." + +While they gaze on her, the deep bell with its long slow pauses soundeth; + Long they hearken--father--mother--love has nothing more to say: +Beating time to feet of Angels leading her where love aboundeth + Tolls the heavy bell this day. + +Still in silence to its tolling they count over all her meetness + To lie near their hearts and soothe them in all sorrows and all fears; +Her short life lies spread before them, but they cannot tell her + sweetness, + Easily as tell her years. + +Only daughter--Ah! how fondly Thought around that lost name lingers, + Oft when lone your mother sitteth, she shall weep and droop her head, +She shall mourn her baby-sempstress, with those imitative fingers, + Drawing out her aimless thread. + +In your father's Future cometh many a sad uncheered to-morrow, + But in sleep shall three fair faces heavenly-calm towards him lean-- +Like a threefold cord shall draw him through the weariness of sorrow, + Nearer to the things unseen. + +With the closing of your eyelids close the dreams of expectation, + And so ends the fairest chapter in the records of their way: +Therefore--O thou God most holy--God of rest and consolation, + Be Thou near to them this day! + +Be Thou near, when they shall nightly, by the bed of infant brothers, + Hear their soft and gentle breathing, and shall bless them on their + knees; +And shall think how coldly falleth the white moonlight on the others, + In their bed beneath the trees. + +Be Thou near, when they, they _only_, bear those faces in remembrance, + And the number of their children strangers ask them with a smile; +And when other childlike faces touch them by the strong resemblance + To those turned to them erewhile. + +Be Thou near, each chastened Spirit for its course and conflict nerving, + Let Thy voice say, "Father--mother--lo! thy treasures live above! +Now be strong, be strong, no longer cumbered over much with serving + At the shrine of human love." + +Let them sleep! In course of ages e'en the Holy House shall crumble, + And the broad and stately steeple one day bend to its decline, +And high arches, ancient arches bowed and decked in clothing humble, + Creeping moss shall round them twine. + +Ancient arches, old and hoary, sunny beams shall glimmer through them, + And invest them with a beauty we would fain they should not share, +And the moonlight slanting down them, the white moonlight shall imbue them + With a sadness dim and fair. + +Then the soft green moss shall wrap you, and the world shall all forget + you, + Life, and stir, and toil, and tumult unawares shall pass you by; +Generations come and vanish: but it shall not grieve nor fret you, + That they sin, or that they sigh. + +And the world, grown old in sinning, shall deny her first beginning, + And think scorn of words which whisper how that all must pass away; +Time's arrest and intermission shall account a vain tradition, + And a dream, the reckoning day! + +Till His blast, a blast of terror, shall awake in shame and sadness + Faithless millions to a vision of the failing earth and skies, +And more sweet than song of Angels, in their shout of joy and gladness, + Call the dead in Christ to rise! + +Then, by One Man's intercession, standing clear from their transgression, + Father--mother--you shall meet them fairer than they were before, +And have joy with the Redeemèd, joy ear hath not heard heart dreamèd, + Ay for ever--evermore! + + + + +THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT (IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL). + + + Marvels of sleep, grown cold! + Who hath not longed to fold +With pitying ruth, forgetful of their bliss, + Those cherub forms that lie, + With none to watch them nigh, +Or touch the silent lips with one warm human kiss? + + What! they are left alone + All night with graven stone, +Pillars and arches that above them meet; + While through those windows high + The journeying stars can spy, +And dim blue moonbeams drop on their uncovered feet? + + O cold! yet look again, + There is a wandering vein +Traced in the hand where those white snowdrops lie. + Let her rapt dreamy smile + The wondering heart beguile, +That almost thinks to hear a calm contented sigh. + + What silence dwells between + Those severed lips serene! +The rapture of sweet waiting breathes and grows. + What trance-like peace is shed + On her reclining head, +And e'en on listless feet what languor of repose! + + Angels of joy and love + Lean softly from above +And whisper to her sweet and marvellous things; + Tell of the golden gate + That opened wide doth wait, +And shadow her dim sleep with their celestial wings. + + Hearing of that blest shore + She thinks on earth no more, +Contented to forego this wintry land. + She has nor thought nor care + But to rest calmly there, +And hold the snowdrops pale that blossom in her hand. + + But on the other face + Broodeth a mournful grace, +This had foreboding thoughts beyond her years, + While sinking thus to sleep + She saw her mother weep, +And could not lift her hand to dry those heart-sick tears. + + Could not--but failing lay, + Sighed her young life away. +And let her arm drop down in listless rest, + Too weary on that bed + To turn her dying head, +Or fold the little sister nearer to her breast. + + Yet this is faintly told + On features fair and cold, +A look of calm surprise, of mild regret, + As if with life oppressed + She turned her to her rest, +But felt her mother's love and looked not to forget. + + How wistfully they close, + Sweet eyes, to their repose! +How quietly declines the placid brow! + The young lips seem to say, + "I have wept much to-day, +And felt some bitter pains, but they are over now." + + Sleep! there are left below + Many who pine to go, +Many who lay it to their chastened souls, + That gloomy days draw nigh, + And they are blest who die, +For this green world grows worse the longer that she rolls. + + And as for me I know + A little of her woe, +Her yearning want doth in my soul abide, + And sighs of them that weep, + "O put us soon to sleep, +For when we wake--with Thee--we shall be satisfied." + + + + +HYMNS. + + +THE MEASURELESS GULFS OF AIR ARE FULL OF THEE. + +"_In Him we live, and move, and have our being._" + +The measureless gulfs of air are full of Thee: + Thou Art, and therefore hang the stars; they wait, +And swim, and shine in God who bade them be, + And hold their sundering voids inviolate. + +A God concern'd (veil'd in pure light) to bless, + With sweet revealing of His love, the soul; +Toward things piteous, full of piteousness; + The Cause, the Life, and the continuing Whole. + +He is more present to all things He made + Than anything unto itself can be; +Full-foliaged boughs of Eden could not shade + Afford, since God was also 'neath the tree. + +Thou knowest me altogether; I knew not + Thy likeness till Thou mad'st it manifest. +There is no world but is Thy heaven; no spot + Remote; Creation leans upon Thy breast. + +Thou art beyond all stars, yet in my heart + Wonderful whisperings hold Thy creature dumb; +I need no search afar; to me Thou art + Father, Redeemer, and Renewer--come. + + +THOU WERT FAR OFF AND IN THE SIGHT OF HEAVEN. + +"_And fell on his neck, and kissed him._" + +Thou wert far off, and in the sight of heaven + Dead. And thy Father would not this should be; +And now thou livest, it is all forgiven; + Think on it, O my soul, He kissèd thee! + +What now are gold and gear? thou canst afford + To cast them from thee at His sacred call, +As Mary, when she met her living Lord, +The burial spice she had prepared let fall. + +O! what is death to life? One dead could well + Afford to waste his shroud, if he might wake; +Thou canst afford to waste the world, and sell + Thy footing in it, for the new world's sake. + +What is the world? it is a waiting place, + Where men put on their robes for that above. +What is the new world? 'tis a Father's face + Beholden of His sons--the face of love. + + +THICK ORCHARDS ALL IN WHITE. + +"_The time of the singing of birds is come._" + + Thick orchards, all in white, + Stand 'neath blue voids of light, +And birds among the branches blithely sing, + For they have all they know; + There is no more, but so, +All perfectness of living, fair delight of spring. + + Only the cushat dove + Makes answer as for love +To the deep yearning of man's yearning breast; + And mourneth, to his thought, + As in her notes were wrought +Fulfill'd in her sweet having, sense of his unrest. + + Not with possession, not + With fairest earthly lot, +Cometh the peace assured, his spirit's quest; + With much it looks before, + With most it yearns for more; +And 'this is not our rest,' and 'this is not our rest.' + + Give Thou us more. We look + For more. The heart that took +All spring-time for itself were empty still; + Its yearning is not spent + Nor silenced in content, +Till He that all things filleth doth it sweetly fill. + + Give us Thyself. The May + Dureth so short a day; +Youth and the spring are over all too soon; + Content us while they last, + Console us for them past, +Thou with whom bides for ever life, and love, and noon. + + +SWEET ARE HIS WAYS WHO RULES ABOVE. + +"_Though I take the wings of the morning_." + +Sweet are His ways who rules above, + He gives from wrath a sheltering place; + But covert none is found from grace, +Man shall not hide himself from love. + +What though I take to me the wide + Wings of the morning and forth fly, + Faster He goes, whoso care on high +Shepherds the stars and doth them guide. + +What though the tents foregone, I roam + Till day wax dim lamenting me; + He wills that I shall sleep to see +The great gold stairs to His sweet home. + +What though the press I pass before, + And climb the branch, He lifts his face; + I am not secret from His grace +Lost in the leafy sycamore. + +What though denied with murmuring deep + I shame my Lord,--it shall not be; + For He will turn and look on me, +Then must I think thereon and weep. + +The nether depth, the heights above, + Nor alleys pleach'd of Paradise, + Nor Herod's judgment-halls suffice: +Man shall not hide himself from love. + + +O NIGHT OF NIGHTS! + +"_Let us now go even unto Bethlehem_." + +O Night of nights! O night + Desired of man so long! +The ancient heavens fled forth in light + To sing thee thy new song; +And shooting down the steep, + To shepherd folk of old, +An angel, while they watch'd their sheep, + Set foot beside the fold. + +Lo! while as like to die + Of that keen light he shed, +They look'd on his pure majesty, + Amazed, and sore bestead; +Lo! while with words of cheer + He bade their trembling cease, +The flocks of God swept sweetly near, + And sang to them of peace. + +All on the hillside grass + That fulgent radiance fell, +So close those innocents did pass, + Their words were heard right well; +Among the sheep, their wings + Some folding, walk'd the sod +An order'd throng of shining things, + White, with the smile of God. + +The waits of heaven to hear, + Oh! what it must have been! +Think, Christian people, think, and fear + For cold hearts, for unclean; +Think how the times go by, + How love and longing fail, +Think how we live and how we die, + As this were but a tale. + +O tender tale of old, + Live in thy dear renown; +God's smile was in the dark, behold + That way His hosts came down; +Light up, great God, Thy Word, + Make the blest meaning strong, +As if our ears, indeed, had heard + The glory of their song. + +It was so far away, + But Thou could'st make it near, +And all its living might display + And cry to it, "Be here," +Here, in th' unresting town, + As once remote to them, +Who heard it when the heavens came down, + On pastoral Bethlehem. + +It was so long ago, + But God can make it _now_, +And as with that sweet overflow, + Our empty hearts endow; +Take, Lord, those words outworn, + O! make them new for aye, +Speak--"Unto you a child is born," + To-day--to-day--to-day. + + +DEAR IS THE LOST WIFE TO A LONE MAN'S HEART. + +"_I have loved thee with an everlasting love_." + +Dear is the lost wife to a lone man's heart, + When in a dream he meets her at his door, +And, waked for joy, doth know she dwells apart, + All unresponsive on a silent shore; +Dearer, yea, more desired art thou--for thee +My divine heart yearns by the jasper sea. + +More than the mother's for her sucking child; + She wants, with emptied arms and love untold, +Her most dear little one that on her smiled + And went; but more, I want Mine own. Behold, +I long for My redeem'd, where safe with Me +Twelve manner of fruits grow on th' immortal tree; + +The tree of life that I won back for men, + And planted in the city of My God. +Lift up thy head, I love thee; wherefore, then, + Liest thou so long on thy memorial sod +Sleeping for sorrow? Rise, for dawn doth break-- +I love thee, and I cry to thee "Awake." + +Serve,--woman whom I love, ere noon be high, + Ere the long shadow lengthen at thy feet. +Work,--I have many poor, O man, that cry, + My little ones do languish in the street. +Love,--'tis a time for love, since I love thee. +Live,--'tis a time to live. Man, live in Me. + + +WEEPING AND WAILING NEEDS MUST BE. + +"_Blessed are ye that weep now_." + +Weeping and wailing needs must be + When Love His name shall disavow, +When christen'd men His wrath shall dree, +Who mercy scorn'd in this their day; +But what? He turns not yet away, + Not yet--not now. + +Let me not, waken'd after sleep, + Behold a Judge with lowering brow, +The world must weep, and I must weep +Those sins that nail'd Thee on the tree, +Lord Jesu, of Thy clemency. + Let it be NOW. + +Let us have weeping NOW for sin, + And not us only; let Thy tears +Avail the tears of many to win; +Weep with us, Jesu, kind art Thou; +We that have sinn'd many long years, + Let us weep NOW; + +And then, waked up, behold Thy face, + Who did forgive us. See Thy brow-- +Beautiful--learn Thy love and grace. +Then wilt Thou wipe away our tears, +And comfort in th' all-hallow'd spheres, + Them that weep now. + + +JESUS, THE LAMB OF GOD. + +"_Art Thou He that should come?_" + +Jesus, the Lamb of God, gone forth to heal and bless. +Calm lie the desert pools in a fair wilderness; +Wind-shaken moves the reed, so moves His voice the soul, +Sick folk surprised of joy, wax when they hear it, whole. + +Calm all His mastering might, calm smiles the desert waste; +Peace, peace, He shall not cry, nay, He shall not make haste; +Heaven gazes, hell beneath moved for Him, moans and stirs-- +Lo, John lies fast in prison, sick for his messengers. + +John, the forerunner, John, the desert's tameless son, +Cast into loathèd thrall, his use and mission done; +John from his darkness sends a cry, but not a plea; +Not, "Hast Thou felt my need?" but only, "Art Thou He?" + +Unspoken pines his hope, grown weak in lingering dole; +None know what pang that hour might pierce the Healer's soul; +Silence that faints to Him--but must e'en so be vain; +A word--the fetters fall--He will that word restrain. + +Jesus, the Father's son, bound in a mighty plan, +Retired full oft in God, show'd not His mind to man; +Nor their great matters high His human lips confess; +He will His wonders work, and not make plain, but bless. + +The bournes of His wide way kept secret from all thought, +Enring'd the outmost waste that evil power had wrought; +His measure none can take, His strife we are not shown, +Nor if He gathered then more sheaves than earth hath grown. + +"John, from the Christ of God, an answer for all time," +The proof of Sonship given in characters sublime; +Sad hope will He make firm, and fainting faith restore, +But yet with mortal eyes will see His face no more. + +He bow'd His sacred head to exigence austere, +Unknown to us and dark, first piercings of the spear: +And to each martyr since 'tis even as if He said, +"Verily I am He--I live, and I was dead. + +"The All-wise found a way--a dark way--dread, unknown; +I chose it, will'd it Mine, seal'd for My feet alone; +Thou canst not therein walk, yet thou hast part in Me, +I will not break thy bonds, but I am bound with thee. + +"With thee and for thee bound, with thee and for thee given, +A mystery seal'd from hell, and wonder'd at in heaven; +I send thee rest at heart to love, and still believe; +But not for thee--nor Me--is found from death reprieve." + + +THOU HAST BEEN ALWAY GOOD TO ME. + +"_He doeth all things well._" + +Thou hast been alway good to me and mine + Since our first father by transgression fell. +Through all Thy sorest judgments love doth shine-- + Lord, of a truth, Thou doest all things well. + +Thou didst the food of immortality + Compass with flame, lest he thereto should win. +But what? his doom, yet eating of that tree, + Had been immortal life of shame and sin! + +I would not last immortal in such wise; + Desirèd death, not life, is now my song. +Through death shall I go back to Paradise, + And sin no more--Sweet death, tarry not long! + +One did prevail that closèd gate to unseal, + Where yet th' immortalizing tree doth grow; +He shall there meet us, and once more reveal + The fruit of life, where crime is not, nor woe. + + +THOU THAT SLEEPEST NOT AFRAID. + +"_Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ +shall give thee light_." + +Thou that sleepest not afraid, +Men and angels thee upbraid; +Rise, cry, cry to God aloud, +Ere the swift hours weave thy shroud: + O, for Jesus' sake, + Wake! + +Thee full ill doth it beseem +Through the dark to drowse and dream; +In the dead-time of the night +Here is One can give thee light: + O, for Jesus' sake, + Wake! + +The year passeth--it and all +God shall take and shall let fall +Soon, into the whelming sea +Of His wide eternity: + O, for Jesus' sake, + Wake! + +Noiseless as the flakes of snow +The last moments falter and go; +The time-angel sent this way +Sweeps them like a drift away: + O, for Jesus' sake, + Wake! + +Loved and watch'd of heaven, for whom +The crowned Saviour there makes room, +Sleeper, hark! He calls thee, rise, +Lift thy head, and raise thine eyes! + Now, for Jesus' sake, + Wake! + + +NOW WINTER PAST, THE WHITE-THORN BOWER. + +"_Thy gentleness hath made me great_." + +Now winter past, the white-thorn bower + Breaks forth and buds down all the glen; +Now spreads the leaf and grows the flower: + So grows the life of God, in men. + +Oh, my child-God, most gentle King, + To me Thy waxing glory show; +Wake in my heart as wakes the spring, + Grow as the leaf and lily grow. + +I was a child, when Thou a child + Didst make Thyself again to me; +And holy, harmless, undefiled, + Play'd at Thy mother Mary's knee. + +Thou gav'st Thy pure example so, + The copy in my childish breast +Was a child's copy. I did know + God, made in childhood manifest. + +Now I am grown, and Thou art grown + The God-man, strong to love, to will, +Who was alone, yet not alone, + Held in His Father's presence still. + +Now do I know Thee for my cure, + My peace, the Absolver for me set; +Thy goings pass through deeps obscure, + But Thou with me art gentle yet. + +Long-suffering Lord, to man reveal'd + As One that e'en the child doth wait, +Thy full salvation is my shield, + Thy gentleness hath made me great. + + +SUCH AS HAVE NOT GOLD TO BRING THEE. + +"_Ye also, as lively stones, are built up a spiritual house_." + +Such as have not gold to bring Thee, + They bring thanks--Thy grateful sons; +Such as have no song to sing Thee, + Live Thee praise--Thy silent ones. + +Such as have their unknown dwelling, + Secret from Thy children here, +Known of Thee, will Thee be telling + How Thy ways with them are dear. + +None the place ordained refuseth, + They are one, and they are all +Living stones, the Builder chooseth + For the courses of His wall. + +Now Thy work by us fulfilling, + Build us in Thy house divine; +Each one cries, "I, Lord, am willing, + Whatsoever place be mine." + +Some, of every eye beholden, + Hewn to fitness for the height, +By Thy hand to beauty moulden, + Show Thy workmanship in light. + +Other, Thou dost bless with station + Dark, and of the foot downtrod, +Sink them deep in the foundation-- + Buried, hid with Christ in God. + + +A MORN OF GUILT, AN HOUR OF DOOM. + +"_There was darkness_." + +A Morn of guilt, an hour of doom-- + Shocks and tremblings dread; +All the city sunk in gloom-- + Thick darkness overhead. +An awful Sufferer straight and stark; + Mocking voices fell; +Tremblings--tremblings in the dark, + In heaven, and earth, and hell. + +Groping, stumbling up the way, + They pass, whom Christ forgave; +They know not what they do--they say, + "Himself He cannot save. +On His head behold the crown + That alien hands did weave; +Let Him come down, let Him come down, + And we will believe!" + +Fearsome dreams, a rending veil, + Cloven rocks down hurl'd; +God's love itself doth seem to fail + The Saviour of the world. +Dying thieves do curse and wail, + Either side is scorn; +Lo! He hangs while some cry "Hail!" + Of heaven and earth forlorn. + +Still o'er His passion darkness lowers, + He nears the deathly goal; +But He shall see in His last hours + Of the travail of His soul; +Lo, a cry!--the firstfruits given + On the accursèd tree-- +"Dying Love of God in heaven, + Lord, remember me!" + +By His sacrifice, foreknown + Long ages ere that day, +And by God's sparing of His own + Our debt of death to pay; +By the Comforter's consent, + With ardent flames bestow'd, +In this dear race when Jesus went + To make His mean abode-- + +By the pangs God look'd not on, + And the world dared not see; +By all redeeming wonders won + Through that dread mystery;-- +Lord, receive once more the sigh + From the accursèd tree-- +"Sacred Love of God most high, + O remember me!" + + +MARY OF MAGDALA. + +"_While it was yet dark_." + +Mary of Magdala, when the moon had set, +Forth to the garden that was with night dews wet, +Fared in the dark--woe-wan and bent was she, +'Neath many pounds' weight of fragrant spicery. + +Mary of Magdala, in her misery, +"Who shall roll the stone up from yon door?" quoth she; +And trembling down the steep she went, and wept sore, +Because her dearest Lord was, alas! no more. + +Her burden she let fall, lo! the stone was gone; +Light was there within, out to the dark it shone; +With an angel's face the dread tomb was bright, +The which she beholding fell for sore affright. + +Mary of Magdala, in her misery, +Heard the white vision speak, and did straightway flee; +And an idle tale seem'd the wild words she said, +And nought her heart received--nought was comforted. + +"Nay," quoth the men He loved, when they came to see, +"Our eyes beheld His death, the Saint of Galilee; +Who have borne Him hence truly we cannot say;" +Secretly in fear, they turn'd and went their way. + +Mary of Magdala, in her misery, +Follow'd to the tomb, and wept full bitterly, +Linger'd in the dark, where first the Lord was laid; +The white one spake again, she was no more afraid. + +In a moment--dawn! solemn, and sweet, and clear, +Kneeling, yet she weeps, and some one stands anear; +Asketh of her grief--she, all her thoughts are dim, +"If thou hast borne Him hence, tell me," doth answer Him. + +"Mary," He saith, no more, shades of night have fled +Under dewy leaves, behold Him!--death is dead; +"Mary," and "O my Master," sorrow speeds away, +Sunbeams touch His feet this earliest Easter day. + +After the pains of death, in a place unknown, +Trembling, of visions haunted, and all alone, +I too shall want Thee, Jesus, my hope, my trust, +Fall'n low, and all unclothed, even of my poor dust. + +I, too, shall hear Thee speak, Jesus, my life divine; +And call me by my name, Lord, for I am Thine; +Thou wilt stand and wait, I shall so look and SEE, +In the garden of God, I SHALL look up--on THEE. + + +WOULD I, TO SAVE MY DEAR CHILD? + +"_Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself._" + +Would I, to save my dear child dutiful, + Dare the white breakers on a storm-rent shore? +Ay, truly, Thou all good, all beautiful, + Truly I would,--then truly Thou would'st more. + +Would I for my poor son, who desolate + After long sinning, sued without my door +For pardon, open it? Ay, fortunate + To hear such prayer, I would,--Lord, Thou would'st more. + +Would I for e'en the stranger's weariness + And want divide, albeit 'twere scant, my store? +Ay, and mine enemy, sick, shelterless, + Dying, I would attend,--O, Lord, Thou more. + +In dust and ashes my long infamy + Of unbelief I rue. My love before +Thy love I set: my heart's discovery, + Is sweet,--whate'er I would, Thou wouldest more. + +I was Thy shelterless, sick enemy, + And Thou didst die for me, yet heretofore +I have fear'd; now learn I love's supremacy,-- + Whate'er is known of love, Thou lovest more. + + + + +AT ONE AGAIN. + + +I. NOONDAY. + +Two angry men--in heat they sever, + And one goes home by a harvest field:-- +"Hope's nought," quoth he, "and vain endeavor; + I said and say it, I will not yield! + +"As for this wrong, no art can mend it, + The bond is shiver'd that held us twain; +Old friends we be, but law must end it, + Whether for loss or whether for gain. + +"Yon stream is small--full slow its wending; + But winning is sweet, but right is fine; +And shoal of trout, or willowy bending-- + Though Law be costly--I'll prove them mine. + +"His strawberry cow slipped loose her tether, + And trod the best of my barley down; +His little lasses at play together + Pluck'd the poppies my boys had grown. + +"What then?--Why naught! _She_ lack'd of reason; + And _they_--my little ones match them well:-- +But _this_--Nay all things have their season, + And 'tis my season to curb and quell." + + +II. SUNSET. + +So saith he, when noontide fervors flout him, + So thinks, when the West is amber and red, +When he smells the hop-vines sweet about him, + And the clouds are rosy overhead. + +While slender and tall the hop-poles going + Straight to the West in their leafy lines, +Portion it out into chambers, glowing, + And bask in red day as the sun declines. + +Between the leaves in his latticed arbor + He sees the sky, as they flutter and turn, +While moor'd like boats in a golden harbor + The fleets of feathery cloudlets burn. + +Withdrawn in shadow, he thinketh over + Harsh thoughts, the fruit-laden trees among, +Till pheasants call their young to cover, + And cushats coo them a nursery song. + +And flocks of ducks forsake their sedges, + Wending home to the wide barn-door, +And loaded wains between the hedges + Slowly creep to his threshing floor-- + +Slowly creep. And his tired senses, + Float him over the magic stream, +To a world where Fancy recompenses + Vengeful thoughts, with a troubled dream! + + +III. THE DREAM. + +What's this? a wood--What's that? one calleth, + Calleth and cryeth in mortal dread-- +He hears men strive--then somewhat falleth!-- + "Help me, neighbor--I'm hard bestead." + +The dream is strong--the voice he knoweth-- + But when he would run, his feet are fast, +And death lies beyond, and no man goeth + To help, and he says the time is past. + +His feet are held, and he shakes all over,-- + Nay--they are free--he has found the place-- +Green boughs are gather'd--what is't they cover?-- + "I pray you, look on the dead man's face; + +"You that stand by," he saith, and cowers-- + "Man, or Angel, to guard the dead +With shadowy spear, and a brow that lowers, + And wing-points reared in the gloom o'erhead.-- + +"I dare not look. He wronged me never. + Men say we differ'd; they speak amiss: +This man and I were neighbors ever-- + I would have ventured my life for his. + +"But fast my feet were--fast with tangles-- + Ay! words--but they were not sharp, I trow, +Though parish feuds and vestry wrangles-- + O pitiful sight--I see thee now!-- + +"If we fell out, 'twas but foul weather, + After long shining! O bitter cup,-- +What--dead?--why, man, we play'd together-- + Art dead--ere a friend can make it up?" + + +IV. THE WAKING. + +Over his head the chafer hummeth, + Under his feet shut daisies bend: +Waken, man! the enemy cometh, + Thy neighbor, counted so long a friend. + +He cannot waken--and firm, and steady, + The enemy comes with lowering brow; +He looks for war, his heart is ready, + His thoughts are bitter--he will not bow. + +He fronts the seat,--the dream is flinging + A spell that his footsteps may not break,-- +But one in the garden of hops is singing-- + The dreamer hears it, and starts awake. + + +V. A SONG. + +Walking apart, she thinks none listen; + And now she carols, and now she stops; +And the evening star begins to glisten + Atween the lines of blossoming hops. + +Sweetest Mercy, your mother taught you + All uses and cares that to maids belong; +Apt scholar to read and to sew she thought you-- + She did not teach you that tender song-- + +"The lady sang in her charmèd bower, + Sheltered and safe under roses blown-- +'_Storm cannot touch me, hail, nor shower, + Where all alone I sit, all alone. + +"My bower! The fair Fay twined it round me, + Care nor trouble can pierce it through; +But once a sigh from the warm world found me + Between two leaves that were bent with dew. + +"And day to night, and night to morrow, + Though soft as slumber the long hours wore, +I looked for my dower of love, of sorrow-- + Is there no more--no more--no more?_' + +"Give her the sun-sweet light, and duly + To walk in shadow, nor chide her part; +Give her the rose, and truly, truly-- + To wear its thorn with a patient heart-- + +"Misty as dreams the moonbeam lyeth + Chequered and faint on her charmèd floor; +The lady singeth, the lady sigheth-- + '_Is there no more_--no more--no more!_'" + + +VI. LOVERS. + +A crash of boughs!--one through them breaking! + Mercy is startled, and fain would fly, +But e'en as she turns, her steps o'ertaking, + He pleads with her--"Mercy, it is but I!" + +"Mercy!" he touches her hand unbidden-- + "The air is balmy, I pray you stay-- +Mercy?" Her downcast eyes are hidden, + And never a word she has to say. + +Till closer drawn, her prison'd fingers + He takes to his lips with a yearning strong; +And she murmurs low, that late she lingers, + Her mother will want her, and think her long. + +"Good mother is she, then honor duly + The lightest wish in her heart that stirs; +But there is a bond yet dearer truly, + And there is a love that passeth hers. + +"Mercy, Mercy!" Her heart attendeth-- + Love's birthday blush on her brow lies sweet; +She turns her face when his own he bendeth, + And the lips of the youth and the maiden meet. + + +VII. FATHERS. + +Move through the bowering hops, O lovers,-- + Wander down to the golden West,-- +But two stand mute in the shade that covers + Your love and youth from their souls opprest. + +A little shame on their spirits stealing,-- + A little pride that is loth to sue,-- +A little struggle with soften'd feeling,-- + And a world of fatherly care for you. + +One says: "To this same running water, + May be, Neighbor, your claim is best." +And one--"Your son has kissed my daughter: + Let the matters between us--rest." + + + + +SONNETS. + + +FANCY. + +O fancy, if thou flyest, come back anon, + Thy fluttering wings are soft as love's first word, + And fragrant as the feathers of that bird, +Which feeds upon the budded cinnamon. +I ask thee not to work, or sigh--play on, + From nought that was not, was, or is, deterred; + The flax that Old Fate spun thy flights have stirred, +And waved memorial grass of Marathon. +Play, but be gentle, not as on that day + I saw thee running down the rims of doom +With stars thou hadst been stealing--while they lay + Smothered in light and blue--clasped to thy breast; +Bring rather to me in the firelit room + A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest. + + +COMPENSATION. + +One launched a ship, but she was wrecked at sea; + He built a bridge, but floods have borne it down; +He meant much good, none came: strange destiny, + His corn lies sunk, his bridge bears none to town, + Yet good he had not meant became his crown; +For once at work, when even as nature free, + From thought of good he was, or of renown, +God took the work for good and let good be. +So wakened with a trembling after sleep, + Dread Mona Roa yields her fateful store; +All gleaming hot the scarlet rivers creep, + And fanned of great-leaved palms slip to the shore, +Then stolen to unplumbed wastes of that far deep, + Lay the foundations for one island more. + + +LOOKING DOWN. + +Mountains of sorrow, I have heard your moans, + And the moving of your pines; but we sit high + On your green shoulders, nearer stoops the sky, +And pure airs visit us from all the zones. + Sweet world beneath, too happy far to sigh, +Dost thou look thus beheld from heavenly thrones? +No; not for all the love that counts thy stones, + While sleepy with great light the valleys lie. +Strange, rapturous peace! its sunshine doth enfold + My heart; I have escaped to the days divine, +It seemeth as bygone ages back had rolled, + And all the eldest past was now, was mine; +Nay, even as if Melchizedec of old + Might here come forth to us with bread and wine. + + +WORK. + +Like coral insects multitudinous + The minutes are whereof our life is made. + They build it up as in the deep's blue shade +It grows, it comes to light, and then, and thus +For both there is an end. The populous + Sea-blossoms close, our minutes that have paid + Life's debt of work are spent; the work is laid +Before our feet that shall come after us. +We may not stay to watch if it will speed, + The bard if on some luter's string his song +Live sweetly yet; the hero if his star +Doth shine. Work is its own best earthly meed, + Else have we none more than the sea-born throng +Who wrought those marvellous isles that bloom afar. + + +WISHING. + +When I reflect how little I have done, + And add to that how little I have seen, +Then furthermore how little I have won + Of joy, or good, how little known, or been: + I long for other life more full, more keen, +And yearn to change with such as well have run-- + Yet reason mocks me--nay, the soul, I ween, +Granted her choice would dare to change with none; +No,--not to feel, as Blondel when his lay + Pierced the strong tower, and Richard answered it-- +No,--not to do, as Eustace on the day + He left fair Calais to her weeping lit-- +No,--not to be, Columbus, waked from sleep +When his new world rose from the charmèd deep. + + +TO ----. + +Strange was the doom of Heracles, whose shade + Had dwelling in dim Hades the unblest, + While yet his form and presence sat a guest +With the old immortals when the feast was made. +Thine like, thus differs; form and presence laid + In this dim chamber of enforcèd rest, + It is the unseen "shade" which, risen, hath pressed +Above all heights where feet Olympian strayed. +My soul admires to hear thee speak; thy thought + Falls from a high place like an August star, +Or some great eagle from his air-hung rings-- + When swooping past a snow-cold mountain scar-- +Down he steep slope of a long sunbeam brought, + He stirs the wheat with the steerage of his wings. + + +ON THE BORDERS OF CANNOCK CHASE. + +A cottager leaned whispering by her hives, + Telling the bees some news, as they lit down, + And entered one by one their waxen town. +Larks passioning hung o'er their brooding wives, +And all the sunny hills where heather thrives + Lay satisfied with peace. A stately crown + Of trees enringed the upper headland brown, +And reedy pools, wherein the moor-hen dives, +Glittered and gleamed. + A resting-place for light, +They that were bred here love it; but they say, + "We shall not have it long; in three years' time +A hundred pits will cast out fires by night, +Down yon still glen their smoke shall trail its way, +And the white ash lie thick in lieu of rime." + + +AN ANCIENT CHESS KING. + +Haply some Rajah first in the ages gone + Amid his languid ladies fingered thee, + While a black nightingale, sun-swart as he, +Sang his one wife, love's passionate oraison; +Haply thou may'st have pleased Old Prester John + Among his pastures, when full royally + He sat in tent, grave shepherds at his knee, +While lamps of balsam winked and glimmered on. +What doest thou here? Thy masters are all dead; + My heart is full of ruth and yearning pain +At sight of thee; O king that hast a crown + Outlasting theirs, and tell'st of greatness fled +Through cloud-hung nights of unabated rain +And murmurs of the dark majestic town. + + +COMFORT IN THE NIGHT. + +She thought by heaven's high wall that she did stray + Till she beheld the everlasting gate: + And she climbed up to it to long, and wait, +Feel with her hands (for it was night), and lay +Her lips to it with kisses; thus to pray + That it might open to her desolate. + And lo! it trembled, lo! her passionate +Crying prevailed. A little little way +It opened: there fell out a thread of light, + And she saw wingèd wonders move within; +Also she heard sweet talking as they meant +To comfort her. They said, "Who comes to-night + Shall one day certainly an entrance win;" +Then the gate closed and she awoke content. + + +THOUGH ALL GREAT DEEDS. + +Though all great deeds were proved but fables fine, + Though earth's old story could be told anew, + Though the sweet fashions loved of them that sue +Were empty as the ruined Delphian shrine-- +Though God did never man, in words benign, + With sense of His great Fatherhood endue, + Though life immortal were a dream untrue, +And He that promised it were not divine-- +Though soul, though spirit were not, and all hope + Reaching beyond the bourne, melted away; +Though virtue had no goal and good no scope, + But both were doomed to end with this our clay-- +Though all these were not,--to the ungraced heir +Would this remain,--to live, as though they were. + + +A SNOW MOUNTAIN. + +Can I make white enough my thought for thee, + Or wash my words in light? Thou hast no mate +To sit aloft in the silence silently + And twin those matchless heights undesecrate. +Reverend as Lear, when, lorn of shelter, he + Stood, with his old white head, surprised at fate; +Alone as Galileo, when, set free, + Before the stars he mused disconsolate. + +Ay, and remote, as the dead lords of song, + Great masters who have made us what we are, +For thou and they have taught us how to long + And feel a sacred want of the fair and far: +Reign, and keep life in this our deep desire-- +Our only greatness is that we aspire. + + +SLEEP. + +(A WOMAN SPEAKS.) + +O sleep, we are beholden to thee, sleep, + Thou bearest angels to us in the night, + Saints out of heaven with palms. Seen by thy light +Sorrow is some old tale that goeth not deep; +Love is a pouting child. Once I did sweep + Through space with thee, and lo, a dazzling sight-- + Stars! They came on, I felt their drawing and might; +And some had dark companions. Once (I weep +When I remember that) we sailed the tide, +And found fair isles, where no isles used to bide, + And met there my lost love, who said to me, +_That 'twas a long mistake: he had not died_. + Sleep, in the world to come how strange 'twill be +Never to want, never to wish for thee! + + +PROMISING. + +(A MAN SPEAKS.) + +Once, a new world, the sunswart marinere, + Columbus, promised, and was sore withstood, +Ungraced, unhelped, unheard for many a year; + But let at last to make his promise good. +Promised and promising I go, most dear, + To better my dull heart with love's sweet feud, +My life with its most reverent hope and fear, + And my religion, with fair gratitude. +O we must part; the stars for me contend, + And all the winds that blow on all the seas. +Through wonderful waste places I must wend, + And with a promise my sad soul appease. +Promise then, promise much of far-off bliss; +But--ah, for present joy, give me one kiss. + + +LOVE. + +Who veileth love should first have vanquished fate. + She folded up the dream in her deep heart, + Her fair full lips were silent on that smart, +Thick fringèd eyes did on the grasses wait. +What good? one eloquent blush, but one, and straight + The meaning of a life was known; for art + Is often foiled in playing nature's part, +And time holds nothing long inviolate. +Earth's buried seed springs up--slowly, or fast: +The ring came home, that one in ages past + Flung to the keeping of unfathomed seas: + And golden apples on the mystic trees +Were sought and found, and borne away at last, + Though watched of the divine Hesperides. + + +FAILURE. + +We are much bound to them that do succeed; + But, in a more pathetic sense, are bound +To such as fail. They all our loss expound; +They comfort us for work that will not speed, +And life--itself a failure. + Ay, his deed, +Sweetest in story, who the dusk profound + Of Hades flooded with entrancing sound, +Music's own tears, was failure. Doth it read + Therefore the worse? Ah, no! so much, to dare, + He fronts the regnant Darkness on its throne.-- +So much to do; impetuous even there, + He pours out love's disconsolate sweet moan-- +He wins; but few for that his deed recall: +Its power is in the look which costs him all. + + + + +A BIRTHDAY WALK. + + +(WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND'S BIRTHDAY.) + +"_The days of our life are threescore years and ten_." + + +A birthday:--and a day that rose + With much of hope, with meaning rife-- +A thoughtful day from dawn to close: + The middle day of human life. + +In sloping fields on narrow plains, + The sheep were feeding on their knees +As we went through the winding lanes, + Strewed with red buds of alder-trees. + +So warm the day--its influence lent + To flagging thought a stronger wing; +So utterly was winter spent, + So sudden was the birth of spring. + +Wild crocus flowers in copse and hedge-- + In sunlight, clustering thick below, +Sighed for the firwood's shaded ledge, + Where sparkled yet a line of snow. + +And crowded snowdrops faintly hung + Their fair heads lower for the heat, +While in still air all branches flung + Their shadowy doubles at our feet. + +And through the hedge the sunbeams crept, + Dropped through the maple and the birch; +And lost in airy distance slept + On the broad tower of Tamworth Church. + +Then, lingering on the downward way, + A little space we resting stood, +To watch the golden haze that lay + Adown that river by the wood. + +A distance vague, the bloom of sleep + The constant sun had lent the scene, +A veiling charm on dingles deep + Lay soft those pastoral hills between. + +There are some days that die not out, + Nor alter by reflection's power, +Whose converse calm, whose words devout, + For ever rest, the spirit's dower. + +And they are days when drops a veil-- + A mist upon the distance past; +And while we say to peace--"All hail!" + We hope that always it shall last. + +Times when the troubles of the heart + Are hushed--as winds were hushed that day-- +And budding hopes begin to start, + Like those green hedgerows on our way: + +When all within and all around + Like hues on that sweet landscape blend, +And Nature's hand has made to sound + The heartstrings that her touch attend: + +When there are rays within, like those + That streamed through maple and through birch, +And rested in such calm repose + On the broad tower of Tamworth Church. + + + + +NOT IN VAIN I WAITED. + + + She was but a child, a child, + And I a man grown; + Sweet she was, and fresh, and wild, + And, I thought, my own. +What could I do? The long grass groweth, + The long wave floweth with a murmur on: +The why and the wherefore of it all who knoweth? + Ere I thought to lose her she was grown--and gone. +This day or that day in warm spring weather. +The lamb that was tame will yearn to break its tether. +"But if the world wound thee," I said, "come back to me, +Down in the dell wishing--wishing, wishing for thee." + + The dews hang on the white may, + Like a ghost it stands, + All in the dusk before day + That folds the dim lands: + +Dark fell the skies when once belated, + Sad, and sorrow-fated, I missed the sun; +But wake, heart, and sing, for not in vain I waited. + O clear, O solemn dawning, lo, the maid is won! +Sweet dews, dry early on the grass and clover, +Lest the bride wet her feet while she walks over; +Shine to-day, sunbeams, and make all fair to see: +Down the dell she's coming--coming, coming with me. + + + + +A GLEANING SONG. + + +"Whither away, thou little eyeless rover? + (Kind Roger's true) +Whither away across yon bents and clover, + Wet, wet with dew?" + "Roger here, Roger there-- + Roger--O, he sighed, + Yet let me glean among the wheat, + Nor sit kind Roger's bride." + +"What wilt thou do when all the gleaning's ended, + What wilt thou do? +The cold will come, and fog and frost-work blended + (Kind Roger's true)." + "Sleet and rain, cloud and storm, + When they cease to frown + I'll bind me primrose bunches sweet, + And cry them up the town." + +"What if at last thy careless heart awaking + This day thou rue?" +"I'll cry my flowers, and think for all its breaking, + Kind Roger's true; + Roger here, Roger there, + O, my true love sighed, + Sigh once, once more, I'll stay my feet + And rest kind Roger's bride." + + + + +WITH A DIAMOND. + + +While Time a grim old lion gnawing lay, + And mumbled with his teeth yon regal tomb, +Like some immortal tear undimmed for aye, + This gem was dropped among the dust of doom. + +Dropped, haply, by a sad, forgotten queen, + A tear to outlast name, and fame, and tongue: +Her other tears, and ours, all tears terrene, + For great new griefs to be hereafter sung. + +Take it,--a goddess might have wept such tears, + Or Dame Electra changed into a star, +That waxed so dim because her children's years + In leaguered Troy were bitter through long war. + +Not till the end to end grow dull or waste,-- + Ah, what a little while the light we share! +Hand after hand shall yet with this be graced, + Signing the Will that leaves it to an heir. + + + + +MARRIED LOVERS. + + +Come away, the clouds are high, +Put the flashing needles by. +Many days are not to spare, +Or to waste, my fairest fair! +All is ready. Come to-day, +For the nightingale her lay, +When she findeth that the whole +Of her love, and all her soul, +Cannot forth of her sweet throat, +Sobs the while she draws her breath, +And the bravery of her note +In a few days altereth. + +Come, ere she despond, and see +In a silent ecstasy +Chestnuts heave for hours and hours +All the glory of their flowers +To the melting blue above, +That broods over them like love. +Leave the garden walls, where blow +Apple-blossoms pink, and low +Ordered beds of tulips fine. +Seek the blossoms made divine +With a scent that is their soul. +These are soulless. Bring the white +Of thy gown to bathe in light +Walls for narrow hearts. The whole +Earth is found, and air and sea, +Not too wide for thee and me. + +Not too wide, and yet thy face +Gives the meaning of all space; +And thine eyes, with starbeams fraught, +Hold the measure of all thought; +For of them my soul besought, +And was shown a glimpse of thine-- +A veiled vestal, with divine +Solace, in sweet love's despair, +For that life is brief as fair. +Who hath most, he yearneth most, +Sure, as seldom heretofore, +Somewhere of the gracious more. +Deepest joy the least shall boast, +Asking with new-opened eyes +The remainder; that which lies +O, so fair! but not all conned-- +O, so near! and yet beyond. + +Come, and in the woodland sit, +Seem a wonted part of it. +Then, while moves the delicate air, +And the glories of thy hair +Little flickering sun-rays strike, +Let me see what thou art like; +For great love enthralls me so, +That, in sooth, I scarcely know. +Show me, in a house all green, +Save for long gold wedges' sheen, +Where the flies, white sparks of fire, +Dart and hover and aspire, +And the leaves, air-stirred on high, +Feel such joy they needs must sigh, +And the untracked grass makes sweet +All fair flowers to touch thy feet, +And the bees about them hum. +All the world is waiting. Come! + + + + +A WINTER SONG. + + +Came the dread Archer up yonder lawn-- + Night is the time for the old to die-- +But woe for an arrow that smote the fawn, + When the hind that was sick unscathed went by. + +Father lay moaning, "Her fault was sore + (Night is the time when the old must die), +Yet, ah to bless her, my child, once more, + For heart is failing: the end is nigh." + +"Daughter, my daughter, my girl," I cried + (Night is the time for the old to die), +"Woe for the wish if till morn ye bide"-- + Dark was the welkin and wild the sky. + +Heavily plunged from the roof the snow-- + (Night is the time when the old will die), +She answered, "My mother, 'tis well, I go." + Sparkled the north star, the wrack flew high. + +First at his head, and last at his feet + (Night is the time when the old should die), +Kneeling I watched till his soul did fleet, + None else that loved him, none else were nigh. + +I wept in the night as the desolate weep + (Night is the time for the old to die), +Cometh my daughter? the drifts are deep, + Across the cold hollows how white they lie. + +I sought her afar through the spectral trees + (Night is the time when the old must die), +The fells were all muffled, the floods did freeze, + And a wrathful moon hung red in the sky. + +By night I found her where pent waves steal + (Night is the time when the old should die), +But she lay stiff by the locked mill-wheel, + And the old stars lived in their homes on high. + + + + +BINDING SHEAVES. + + +Hark! a lover binding sheaves + To his maiden sings, +Flutter, flutter go the leaves, + Larks drop their wings. +Little brooks for all their mirth + Are not blythe as he. +"Give me what the love is worth + That I give thee. + +"Speech that cannot be forborne + Tells the story through: +I sowed my love in with the corn, + And they both grew. +Count the world full wide of girth, + And hived honey sweet, +But count the love of more worth + Laid at thy feet. + +"Money's worth is house and land, + Velvet coat and vest. +Work's worth is bread in hand, + Ay, and sweet rest. +Wilt thou learn what love is worth? + Ah! she sits above, +Sighing, 'Weigh me not with earth, + Love's worth is love.'" + + + + +THE MARINER'S CAVE. + + +Once on a time there walked a mariner, + That had been shipwrecked;--on a lonely shore, +And the green water made a restless stir, + And a great flock of mews sped on before. +He had nor food nor shelter, for the tide +Rose on the one, and cliffs on the other side. + +Brown cliffs they were; they seemed to pierce the sky, + That was an awful deep of empty blue, +Save that the wind was in it, and on high + A wavering skein of wild-fowl tracked it through. +He marked them not, but went with movement slow, +Because his thoughts were sad, his courage low. + +His heart was numb, he neither wept nor sighed, + But wearifully lingered by the wave; +Until at length it chanced that he espied, + Far up, an opening in the cliff, a cave, +A shelter where to sleep in his distress, +And lose his sorrow in forgetfulness. + +With that he clambered up the rugged face + Of that steep cliff that all in shadow lay, +And, lo, there was a dry and homelike place, + Comforting refuge for the castaway; +And he laid down his weary, weary head, +And took his fill of sleep till dawn waxed red. + +When he awoke, warm stirring from the south + Of delicate summer air did sough and flow; +He rose, and, wending to the cavern's mouth, + He cast his eyes a little way below +Where on the narrow ledges, sharp and rude, +Preening their wings the blue rock-pigeons cooed. + +Then he looked lower and saw the lavender + And sea-thrift blooming in long crevices, +And the brown wallflower--April's messenger, + The wallflower marshalled in her companies. +Then lower yet he looked adown the steep, +And sheer beneath him lapped the lovely deep. + +The laughing deep;--and it was pacified + As if it had not raged that other day. +And it went murmuring in the morningtide + Innumerable flatteries on its way, +Kissing the cliffs and whispering at their feet +With exquisite advancement, and retreat. + +This when the mariner beheld he sighed, + And thought on his companions lying low. +But while he gazed with eyes unsatisfied + On the fair reaches of their overthow, +Thinking it strange he only lived of all, +But not returning thanks, he heard a call! + +A soft sweet call, a voice of tender ruth, + He thought it came from out the cave. And, lo, +It whispered, "Man, look up!" But he, forsooth, + Answered, "I cannot, for the long waves flow +Across my gallant ship where sunk she lies + With all my riches and my merchandise. + +"Moreover, I am heavy for the fate + Of these my mariners drowned in the deep; +I must lament me for their sad estate + Now they are gathered in their last long sleep. +O! the unpitying heavens upon me frown, +Then how should I look up?--I must look down." + +And he stood yet watching the fair green sea + Till hunger reached him; then he made a fire, +A driftwood fire, and wandered listlessly + And gathered many eggs at his desire, +And dressed them for his meal, and then he lay +And slept, and woke upon the second day. + +Whenas he said, "The cave shall be my home; + None will molest me, for the brown cliffs rise +Like castles of defence behind,--the foam + Of the remorseless sea beneath me lies; +'Tis easy from the cliff my food to win-- +The nations of the rock-dove breed therein. + +"For fuel, at the ebb yon fair expanse + Is strewed with driftwood by the breaking wave, +And in the sea is fish for sustenance. + I will build up the entrance of the cave, +And leave therein a window and a door, +And here will dwell and leave it nevermore." + +Then even so he did: and when his task, + Many long days being over, was complete, +When he had eaten, as he sat to bask + In the red firelight glowing at his feet, +He was right glad of shelter, and he said, +"Now for my comrades am I comforted." + +Then did the voice awake and speak again; + It murmured, "Man, look up!" But he replied, +"I cannot. O, mine eyes, mine eyes are fain + Down on the red wood-ashes to abide +Because they warm me." Then the voice was still, +And left the lonely mariner to his will. + +And soon it came to pass that he got gain. + He had great flocks of pigeons which he fed, +And drew great store of fish from out the main, + And down from eiderducks; and then he said, +"It is not good that I should lead my life +In silence, I will take to me a wife." + +He took a wife, and brought her home to him; + And he was good to her and cherished her +So that she loved him; then when light waxed dim + Gloom came no more; and she would minister +To all his wants; while he, being well content, +Counted her company right excellent. + +But once as on the lintel of the door + She leaned to watch him while he put to sea, +This happy wife, down-gazing at the shore, + Said sweetly, "It is better now with me +Than it was lately when I used to spin +In my old father's house beside the lin." + +And then the soft voice of the cave awoke-- + The soft voice which had haunted it erewhile-- +And gently to the wife it also spoke, + "Woman, look up!" But she, with tender guile, +Gave it denial, answering, "Nay, not so, +For all that I should look on lieth below. + +"The great sky overhead is not so good + For my two eyes as yonder stainless sea, +The source and yielder of our livelihood, + Where rocks his little boat that loveth me." +This when the wife had said she moved away, +And looked no higher than the wave all day. + +Now when the year ran out a child she bore, + And there was such rejoicing in the cave +As surely never had there been before + Since God first made it. Then full, sweet, and grave, +The voice, "God's utmost blessing brims thy cup, +O, father of this child, look up, look up!" + +"Speak to my wife," the mariner replied. + "I have much work--right welcome work 'tis true-- +Another mouth to feed." And then it sighed, + "Woman, look up!" She said, "Make no ado, +For I must needs look down, on anywise, + My heaven is in the blue of these dear eyes." + +The seasons of the year did swiftly whirl, + They measured time by one small life alone; +On such a day the pretty pushing pearl, + That mouth they loved to kiss had sweetly shown, +That smiling mouth, and it had made essay +To give them names on such another day. + +And afterward his infant history, + Whether he played with baubles on the floor, +Or crept to pat the rock-doves pecking nigh, + And feeding on the threshold of the door, +They loved to mark, and all his marvellings dim, +The mysteries that beguiled and baffled him. + +He was so sweet, that oft his mother said, + "O, child, how was it that I dwelt content +Before thou camest? Blessings on thy head, + Thy pretty talk it is so innocent, +That oft for all my joy, though it be deep, +When thou art prattling, I am like to weep." + +Summer and winter spent themselves again, + The rock-doves in their season bred, the cliff +Grew sweet, for every cleft would entertain + Its tuft of blossom, and the mariner's skiff, +Early and late, would linger in the bay, +Because the sea was calm and winds away. + +The little child about that rocky height, + Led by her loving hand who gave him birth, +Might wander in the clear unclouded light, + And take his pastime in the beauteous earth; +Smell the fair flowers in stony cradles swung, +And see God's happy creatures feed their young. + +And once it came to pass, at eventide, + His mother set him in the cavern door, +And filled his lap with grain, and stood aside + To watch the circling rock-doves soar, and soar, +Then dip, alight, and run in circling bands, +To take the barley from his open hands. + +And even while she stood and gazed at him, + And his grave father's eyes upon him dwelt, +They heard the tender voice, and it was dim, + And seemed full softly in the air to melt; +"Father," it murmured, "Mother," dying away, +"Look up, while yet the hours are called to-day." + +"I will," the father answered, "but not now;" + The mother said, "Sweet voice, O speak to me +At a convenient season." And the brow + Of the cliff began to quake right fearfully, +There was a rending crash, and there did leap +A riven rock and plunge into the deep. + +They said, "A storm is coming;" but they slept + That night in peace, and thought the storm had passed, +For there was not a cloud to intercept + The sacred moonlight on the cradle cast; +And to his rocking boat at dawn of day, +With joy of heart the mariner took his way. + +But when he mounted up the path at night, + Foreboding not of trouble or mischance, +His wife came out into the fading light, + And met him with a serious countenance; +And she broke out in tears and sobbings thick, +"The child is sick, my little child is sick." + +They knelt beside him in the sultry dark, + And when the moon looked in his face was pale, +And when the red sun, like a burning barque, + Rose in a fog at sea, his tender wail +Sank deep into their hearts, and piteously +They fell to chiding of their destiny. + +The doves unheeded cooed that livelong day, + Their pretty playmate cared for them no more; +The sea-thrift nodded, wet with glistening spray, + None gathered it; the long wave washed the shore; +He did not know, nor lift his eyes to trace, +The new fallen shadow in his dwelling-place. + +The sultry sun beat on the cliffs all day, + And hot calm airs slept on the polished sea, +The mournful mother wore her time away, + Bemoaning of her helpless misery, +Pleading and plaining, till the day was done, +"O look on me, my love, my little one. + +"What aileth thee, that thou dost lie and moan? + Ah would that I might bear it in thy stead!" +The father made not his forebodings known, + But gazed, and in his secret soul he said, +"I may have sinned, on sin waits punishment, +But as for him, sweet blameless innocent, + +"What has he done that he is stricken down? + O it is hard to see him sink and fade, +When I, that counted him my dear life's crown, + So willingly have worked while he has played; +That he might sleep, have risen, come storm, come heat, +And thankfully would fast that he might eat." + +My God, how short our happy days appear! + How long the sorrowful! They thought it long, +The sultry morn that brought such evil cheer, + And sat, and wished, and sighed for evensong; +It came, and cooling wafts about him stirred, +Yet when they spoke he answered not a word. + +"Take heart," they cried, but their sad hearts sank low + When he would moan and turn his restless head, +And wearily the lagging morns would go, + And nights, while they sat watching by his bed, +Until a storm came up with wind and rain, +And lightning ran along the troubled main. + +Over their heads the mighty thunders brake, + Leaping and tumbling down from rock to rock, +Then burst anew and made the cliffs to quake + As they were living things and felt the shock; +The waiting sea to sob as if in pain, +And all the midnight vault to ring again. + +A lamp was burning in the mariner's cave, + But the blue lightning flashes made it dim; +And when the mother heard those thunders rave, + She took her little child to cherish him; +She took him in her arms, and on her breast +Full wearily she courted him to rest, + +And soothed him long until the storm was spent, + And the last thunder peal had died away, +And stars were out in all the firmament. + Then did he cease to moan, and slumbering lay, +While in the welcome silence, pure and deep, +The care-worn parents sweetly fell asleep. + +And in a dream, enwrought with fancies thick, + The mother thought she heard the rock-doves coo +(She had forgotten that her child was sick), + And she went forth their morning meal to strew; +Then over all the cliff with earnest care +She sought her child, and lo, he was not there! + +But she was not afraid, though long she sought + And climbed the cliff, and set her feet in grass, +Then reached a river, broad and full, she thought, + And at its brink he sat. Alas! alas! +For one stood near him, fair and undefiled, +An innocent, a marvellous man-child. + +In garments white as wool, and O, most fair, + A rainbow covered him with mystic light; +Upon the warmèd grass his feet were bare, + And as he breathed, the rainbow in her sight +In passions of clear crimson trembling lay, +With gold and violet mist made fair the day. + +Her little life! she thought, his little hands + Were full of flowers that he did play withal; +But when he saw the boy o' the golden lands, + And looked him in the face, he let them fall, +Held through a rapturous pause in wistful wise +To the sweet strangeness of those keen child-eyes. + +"Ah, dear and awful God, who chastenest me, + How shall my soul to this be reconciled! +It is the Saviour of the world," quoth she, + "And to my child He cometh as a child." +Then on her knees she fell by that vast stream-- +Oh, it was sorrowful, this woman's dream! + +For lo, that Elder Child drew nearer now, + Fair as the light, and purer than the sun. +The calms of heaven were brooding on his brow, + And in his arms He took her little one, +Her child, that knew her, but with sweet demur +Drew back, nor held his hands to come to her. + +With that in mother misery sore she wept-- + "O Lamb of God, I love my child so MUCH! +He stole away to Thee while we two slept, + But give him back, for Thou hast many such; +And as for me I have but one. O deign, +Dear Pity of God, to give him me again." + +His feet were on the river. Oh, his feet + Had touched the river now, and it was great; +And yet He hearkened when she did entreat, + And turned in quietness as He would wait-- +Wait till she looked upon Him, and behold, +There lay a long way off a city of gold. + +Like to a jasper and a sardine stone, + Whelmed in the rainbow stood that fair man-child, +Mighty and innocent, that held her own, + And as might be his manner at home he smiled, +Then while she looked and looked, the vision brake, +And all amazed she started up awake. + +And lo, her little child was gone indeed! + The sleep that knows no waking he had slept, +Folded to heaven's own heart; in rainbow brede + Clothed and made glad, while they two mourned and wept, +But in the drinking of their bitter cup +The sweet voice spoke once more, and sighed, "Look up!" + +They heard, and straightway answered, "Even so: + For what abides that we should look on here? +The heavens are better than this earth below, + They are of more account and far more dear. +We will look up, for all most sweet and fair, +Most pure, most excellent, is garnered there." + + + + +A REVERIE. + + + When I do sit apart + And commune with my heart, +She brings me forth the treasures once my own; + Shows me a happy place + Where leaf-buds swelled apace, +And wasting rims of snow in sunlight shone. + + Rock, in a mossy glade, + The larch-trees lend thee shade, +That just begin to feather with their leaves; + From out thy crevice deep + White tufts of snowdrops peep, +And melted rime drips softly from thine eaves. + + Ah, rock, I know, I know + That yet thy snowdrops grow, +And yet doth sunshine fleck them through the tree, + Whose sheltering branches hide + The cottage at its side, +That nevermore will shade or shelter me. + + I know the stockdoves' note + Athwart the glen doth float: +With sweet foreknowledge of her twins oppressed, + And longings onward sent, + She broods before the event, +While leisurely she mends her shallow nest. + + Once to that cottage door, + In happy days of yore, +My little love made footprints in the snow. + She was so glad of spring, + She helped the birds to sing, +I know she dwells there yet--the rest I do not know. + + They sang, and would not stop, + While drop, and drop, and drop, +I heard the melted rime in sunshine fall; + And narrow wandering rills, + Where leaned the daffodils, +Murmured and murmured on, and that was all. + + I think, but cannot tell, + I think she loved me well, +And some dear fancy with my future twined. + But I shall never know, + Hope faints, and lets it go, +That passionate want forbid to speak its mind. + + + + +DEFTON WOOD. + + +I held my way through Defton Wood, + And on to Wandor Hall; +The dancing leaf let down the light, + In hovering spots to fall. +"O young, young leaves, you match me well," + My heart was merry, and sung-- +"Now wish me joy of my sweet youth; + My love--she, too, is young! + O so many, many, many + Little homes above my head! + O so many, many, many + Dancing blossoms round me spread! + O so many, many, many + Maidens sighing yet for none! + Speed, ye wooers, speed with any-- + Speed with all but one." + +I took my leave of Wandor Hall, + And trod the woodland ways. +"What shall I do so long to bear + The burden of my days?" +I sighed my heart into the boughs + Whereby the culvers cooed; +For only I between them went + Unwooing and unwooed. + "O so many, many, many + Lilies bending stately heads! + O so many, many, many + Strawberries ripened on their beds! + O so many, many, many + Maids, and yet my heart undone! + What to me are all, are any-- + I have lost my--one." + + + + +THE LONG WHITE SEAM. + + +As I came round the harbor buoy, + The lights began to gleam, +No wave the land-locked water stirred, + The crags were white as cream; +And I marked my love by candle-light + Sewing her long white seam. + It's aye sewing ashore, my dear, + Watch and steer at sea, + It's reef and furl, and haul the line, + Set sail and think of thee. + +I climbed to reach her cottage door; + O sweetly my love sings! +Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, + My soul to meet it springs +As the shining water leaped of old, + When stirred by angel wings. + Aye longing to list anew, + Awake and in my dream, + But never a song she sang like this, + Sewing her long white seam. + +Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights, + That brought me in to thee, +And peace drop down on that low roof + For the sight that I did see, + And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear + All for the love of me. + For O, for O, with brows bent low + By the candle's flickering gleam, + Her wedding gown it was she wrought, + Sewing the long white seam. + + + + +AN OLD WIFE'S SONG. + + +And what will ye hear, my daughters dear?-- + Oh, what will ye hear this night? +Shall I sing you a song of the yuletide cheer, + Or of lovers and ladies bright? + +"Thou shalt sing," they say (for we dwell far away + From the land where fain would we be), +"Thou shalt sing us again some old-world strain + That is sung in our own countrie. + +"Thou shalt mind us so of the times long ago, + When we walked on the upland lea, +While the old harbor light waxed faint in the white, + Long rays shooting out from the sea; + +"While lambs were yet asleep, and the dew lay deep + On the grass, and their fleeces clean and fair. +Never grass was seen so thick nor so green + As the grass that grew up there! + +"In the town was no smoke, for none there awoke-- + At our feet it lay still as still could be; +And we saw far below the long river flow, + And the schooners a-warping out to sea. + +"Sing us now a strain shall make us feel again + As we felt in that sacred peace of morn, +When we had the first view of the wet sparkling dew, + In the shyness of a day just born." + +So I sang an old song--it was plain and not long-- + I had sung it very oft when they were small; +And long ere it was done they wept every one: + Yet this was all the song--this was all:-- + +The snow lies white, and the moon gives light, + I'll out to the freezing mere, +And ease my heart with one little song, + For none will be nigh to hear. + And it's O my love, my love! + And it's O my dear, my dear! +It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring, + When nobody's nigh to hear. + +My love is young, she is young, is young; + When she laughs the dimple dips. +We walked in the wind, and her long locks blew + Till sweetly they touched my lips. + And I'll out to the freezing mere, + Where the stiff reeds whistle so low. +And I'll tell my mind to the friendly wind, + Because I have loved her so. + +Ay, and she's true, my lady is true! + And that's the best of it all; +And when she blushes my heart so yearns + That tears are ready to fall. + And it's O my love, my love! + And it's O my dear, my dear! +It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring, + When nobody's nigh to hear. + + + + +COLD AND QUIET. + + +Cold, my dear,--cold and quiet. + In their cups on yonder lea, +Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet; + So the moss enfoldeth thee. +"Plant me, plant me, O love, a lily flower-- + Plant at my head, I pray you, a green tree; +And when our children sleep," she sighed, "at the dusk hour, + And when the lily blossoms, O come out to me!" + + Lost, my dear? Lost! nay deepest + Love is that which loseth least; + Through the night-time while thou sleepest, + Still I watch the shrouded east. +Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye liveth, + "Lost" is no word for such a love as mine; +Love from her past to me a present giveth, + And love itself doth comfort, making pain divine. + Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showeth + That which was, and not in vain + Sacred have I kept, God knoweth, + Love's last words atween us twain. +"Hold by our past, my only love, my lover; + Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of me!" +Boughs from our garden, white with bloom hang over. + Love, now the children slumber, I come out to thee. + + + + +SLEDGE BELLS. + + +The logs burn red; she lifts her head, + For sledge-bells tinkle and tinkle, O lightly swung. +"Youth was a pleasant morning, but ah! to think 'tis fled, + Sae lang, lang syne," quo' her mother, "I, too, was young." + +No guides there are but the North star, + And the moaning forest tossing wild arms before, +The maiden murmurs, "O sweet were yon bells afar, + And hark! hark! hark! for he cometh, he nears the door." + +Swift north-lights show, and scatter and go. + How can I meet him, and smile not, on this cold shore? +Nay, I will call him, "Come in from the night and the snow, + And love, love, love in the wild wood, wander no more." + + + + +MIDSUMMER NIGHT, NOT DARK, NOT LIGHT. + + +Midsummer night, not dark, not light, + Dusk all the scented air, +I'll e'en go forth to one I love, + And learn how he doth fare. +O the ring, the ring, my dear, for me, + The ring was a world too fine, +I wish it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea, + Or ever thou mad'st it mine. + +Soft falls the dew, stars tremble through, + Where lone he sits apart, +Would I might steal his grief away + To hide in mine own heart. +Would, would 'twere shut in yon blossom fair, + The sorrow that bows thy head, +Then--I would gather it, to thee unaware, + And break my heart in thy stead. + +That charmèd flower, far from thy bower, + I'd bear the long hours through, +Thou should'st forget, and my sad breast + The sorrows twain should rue. +O sad flower, O sad, sad ring to me. + The ring was a world too fine; +And would it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea, + Ere the morn that made it mine. + + + + +THE BRIDEGROOM TO HIS BRIDE. + + + Fairest fair, best of good, + Too high for hope that stood; +White star of womanhood shining apart + O my liege lady, + And O my one lady, +And O my loved lady, come down to my heart. + + Reach me life's wine and gold, + What is man's best all told, +If thou thyself withhold, sweet, from thy throne? + O my liege lady, + And O my loved lady, +And O my heart's lady, come, reign there alone. + + + + +THE FAIRY WOMAN'S SONG. + + +The fairy woman maketh moan, + "Well-a-day, and well-a-day, +Forsooth I brought thee one rose, one, + And thou didst cast my rose away." +Hark! Oh hark, she mourneth yet, + "One good ship--the good ship sailed, +One bright star, at last it set, + One, one chance, forsooth it failed." + +Clear thy dusk hair from thy veiled eyes, + Show thy face as thee beseems, +For yet is starlight in the skies, + Weird woman piteous through my dreams. +"Nay," she mourns, "forsooth not now, + Veiled I sit for evermore, +Rose is shed, and charmèd prow + Shall not touch the charmèd shore." + +There thy sons that were to be, + Thy small gamesome children play; +There all loves that men foresee + Straight as wands enrich the way. +Dove-eyed, fair, with me they worm + Where enthroned I reign a queen, +In the lovely realms foregone, + In the lives that might have been. + + + + +ABOVE THE CLOUDS.[1] + + +And can this be my own world? + 'Tis all gold and snow, +Save where scarlet waves are hurled + Down yon gulf below. +'Tis thy world, 'tis my world, + City, mead, and shore, +For he that hath his own world + Hath many worlds more. + +[Footnote 1: "Above the Clouds," and thirteen poems following, are from +"Mopsa the Fairy."] + + + + +SLEEP AND TIME. + + +"Wake, baillie, wake! the crafts are out; + Wake!" said the knight, "be quick! +For high street, bye street, over the town + They fight with poker and stick." +Said the squire, "A fight so fell was ne'er + In all my bailliewick." +What said the old clock in the tower? + "Tick, tick, tick!" + +"Wake, daughter, wake! the hour draws on; + Wake!" quoth the dame, "be quick! +The meats are set, the guests are coming, + The fiddler waxing his stick." +She said, "The bridegroom waiting and waiting + To see thy face is sick." +What said the new clock in her bower? + "Tick, tick, tick!" + + + + +BEES AND OTHER FELLOW-CREATURES. + + +The dove laid some little sticks, + Then began to coo; +The gnat took his trumpet up + To play the day through; +The pie chattered soft and long-- + But that she always does; +The bee did all he had to do, + And only said, "Buzz." + + + + +THE GYPSY'S SELLING SONG. + + +My good man--he's an old, old man-- + And my good man got a fall, +To buy me a bargain so fast he ran + When he heard the gypsies call: + "Buy, buy brushes, + Baskets wrought o' rushes. + Buy them, buy them, take them, try them, + Buy, dames all." + +My old man, he has money and land, + And a young, young wife am I. +Let him put the penny in my white hand + When he hears the gypsies cry: + "Buy, buy laces, + Veils to screen your faces. + Buy them, buy them, take and try them. + Buy, maids, buy." + + + + +A WOOING SONG. + + +My fair lady's a dear, dear lady-- + I walked by her side to woo. +In a garden alley, so sweet and shady, + She answered, "I love not you, + John, John Brady," + Quoth my dear lady, +"Pray now, pray now, go your way now, + Do, John, do!" + +Yet my fair lady's my own, own lady, + For I passed another day; +While making her moan, she sat all alone, + And thus, and thus did she say: + "John, John Brady," + Quoth my dear lady, +"Do now, do now, once more woo now. + Pray, John, pray!" + + + + +A COURTING SONG. + + +"Master," quoth the auld hound + "Where will ye go?" +"Over moss, over muir, + To court my new jo." +"Master, though the night be merk, + I'se follow through the snow. + +"Court her, master, court her, + So shall ye do weel; +But and ben she'll guide the house, + I'se get milk and meal. +Ye'se get lilting while she sits + With her rock and reel." + +"For, oh! she has a sweet tongue, + And een that look down, +A gold girdle for her waist, + And a purple gown. +She has a good word forbye + Fra a' folk in the town." + + + + +LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD. + + +In the night she told a story, + In the night and all night through, +While the moon was in her glory, + And the branches dropped with dew. + +'Twas my life she told, and round it + Rose the years as from a deep; +In the world's great heart she found it, + Cradled like a child asleep. + +In the night I saw her weaving + By the misty moonbeam cold, +All the weft her shuttle cleaving + With a sacred thread of gold. + +Ah! she wept me tears of sorrow, + Lulling tears so mystic sweet; +Then she wove my last to-morrow, + And her web lay at my feet. + +Of my life she made the story: + I must weep--so soon 'twas told! +But your name did lend it glory, + And your love its thread of gold! + + + + +THE LEAVES OF LIGN ALOES. + + +Drop, drop from the leaves of lign aloes, + O honey-dew! drop from the tree. +Float up through your clear river shallows, + White lilies, beloved of the bee. + +Let the people, O Queen! say, and bless thee, + Her bounty drops soft as the dew, +And spotless in honor confess thee, + As lilies are spotless in hue. + +On the roof stands yon white stork awaking, + His feathers flush rosy the while, +For, lo! from the blushing east breaking, + The sun sheds the bloom of his smile. + +Let them boast of thy word, "It is certain; + We doubt it no more," let them say, +"Than to-morrow that night's dusky curtain + Shall roll back its folds for the day." + + + + +THE DAYS WITHOUT ALLOY. + + +When I sit on market-days amid the comers and the goers, + Oh! full oft I have a vision of the days without alloy, +And a ship comes up the river with a jolly gang of towers, + And a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!" + +There is busy talk around me, all about mine ears it hummeth, + But the wooden wharves I look on, and a dancing, heaving buoy, +For 'tis tidetime in the river, and she cometh--oh, she cometh! + With a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!" + +Then I hear the water washing, never golden waves were brighter, + And I hear the capstan creaking--'tis a sound that cannot cloy. +Bring her to, to ship her lading, brig or schooner, sloop or lighter, + With a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!" + +"Will ye step aboard, my dearest? for the high seas lie before us." + So I sailed adown the river in those days without alloy. +We are launched! But when, I wonder, shall a sweeter sound float o'er us + Than yon "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!" + + + + +FEATHERS AND MOSS. + + +The marten flew to the finch's nest, + Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay: +"The arrow it sped to thy brown mate's breast; + Low in the broom is thy mate to-day." + +"Liest thou low, love? low in the broom? + Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay, +Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom." + She beateth her wings, and away, away. + +"Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told + (Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay)! +Thine eyes are dim, and the eggs grow cold. + O mournful morrow! O dark to-day!" + +The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest, + Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay, +Mine is the trouble that rent her breast, + And home is silent, and love is clay. + + + + +ON THE ROCKS BY ABERDEEN. + + +On the rocks by Aberdeen, +Where the whislin' wave had been, +As I wandered and at e'en + Was eerie; + +There I saw thee sailing west, +And I ran with joy opprest-- +Ay, and took out all my best, + My dearie. + +Then I busked mysel' wi' speed, +And the neighbors cried "What need? +'Tis a lass in any weed + Aye bonny!" + +Now my heart, my heart is sair. +What's the good, though I be fair, +For thou'lt never see me mair, + Man Johnnie! + + + + +LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT. + + +It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye, +All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay. +Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride! +All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side. + +What's the world, my lass, my love!--what can it do? +I am thine, and thou art mine; life is sweet and new. +If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by, +For we two have gotten leave, and once more we'll try. + +Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride! +It's we two, it's we two, happy side by side. +Take a kiss from me thy man; now the song begins: +"All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins." + +When the darker days come, and no sun will shine, +Thou shalt dry my tears, lass, and I'll dry thine. +It's we two, it's we two, while the world's away, +Sitting by the golden sheaves on our wedding-day. + + + + +SONG FOR A BABE. + + +Little babe, while burns the west, +Warm thee, warm thee in my breast; +While the moon doth shine her best, + And the dews distil not. + +All the land so sad, so fair-- +Sweet its toils are, blest its care. +Child, we may not enter there! + Some there are that will not. + +Fain would I thy margins know, +Land of work, and land of snow; +Land of life, whose rivers flow + On, and on, and stay not. + +Fain would I thy small limbs fold, +While the weary hours are told, +Little babe in cradle cold. + Some there are that may not. + + + + +GIVE US LOVE AND GIVE US PEACE. + + +One morning, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, +All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they would cease; +'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, "Hear the story, hear the story!" + And the lark sang, "Give us glory!" + And the dove said, "Give us peace!" + +Then I listened, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, +To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my dear, the dove; +When the nightingale came after, "Give us fame to sweeten duty!" + When the wren sang, "Give us beauty!" + She made answer, "Give us love!" + +Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my beloved, my beloved; +Now for us doth spring, doth morning, wait upon the year's increase, +And my prayer goes up, "Oh, give us, crowned in youth with marriage glory, + Give for all our life's dear story, + Give us love, and give us peace!" + + + + +THE TWO MARGARETS. + + +I. + +MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. + +Lying imbedded in the green champaign + That gives no shadow to thy silvery face, +Open to all the heavens, and all their train, + The marshalled clouds that cross with stately pace, +No steadfast hills on thee reflected rest, +Nor waver with the dimpling of thy breast. + +O, silent Mere! about whose marges spring + Thick bulrushes to hide the reed-bird's nest; +Where the shy ousel dips her glossy wing, + And balanced in the water takes her rest: +While under bending leaves, all gem-arrayed, +Blue dragon-flies sit panting in the shade: + +Warm, stilly place, the sundew loves thee well, + And the green sward comes creeping to thy brink, +And golden saxifrage and pimpernel + Lean down to thee their perfumed heads to drink; +And heavy with the weight of bees doth bend +White clover, and beneath thy wave descend: + +While the sweet scent of bean-fields, floated wide + On a long eddy of the lightsome air +Over the level mead to thy lone side, + Doth lose itself among thy zephyrs rare, +With wafts from hawthorn bowers and new-cut hay, +And blooming orchards lying far away. + +Thou hast thy Sabbaths, when a deeper calm + Descends upon thee, quiet Mere, and then +There is a sound of bells, a far off psalm + From gray church towers, that swims across the fen; +And the light sigh where grass and waters meet, +Is thy meek welcome to the visit sweet. + +Thou hast thy lovers. Though the angler's rod + Dimple thy surface seldom; though the oar +Fill not with silvery globes thy fringing sod, + Nor send long ripples to thy lonely shore; +Though few, as in a glass, have cared to trace +The smile of nature moving on thy face; + +Thou hast thy lovers truly. 'Mid the cold + Of northern tarns the wild-fowl dream of thee, +And, keeping thee in mind, their wings unfold, + And shape their course, high soaring, till they see +Down in the world, like molten silver, rest +Their goal, and screaming plunge them in thy breast. + +Fair Margaret, who sittest all day long + On the gray stone beneath the sycamore, +The bowering tree with branches lithe and strong, + The only one to grace the level shore, +Why dost thou wait? for whom with patient cheer +Gaze yet so wistfully adown the Mere? + +Thou canst not tell, thou dost not know, alas! + Long watchings leave behind them little trace; +And yet how sweetly must the mornings pass, + That bring that dreamy calmness to thy face! +How quickly must the evenings come that find +Thee still regret to leave the Mere behind! + +Thy cheek is resting on thy hand; thine eyes + Are like twin violets but half unclosed, +And quiet as the deeps in yonder skies. + Never more peacefully in love reposed +A mother's gaze upon her offspring dear, +Than thine upon the long far-stretching Mere. + +Sweet innocent! Thy yellow hair floats low + In rippling undulations on thy breast, +Then stealing down the parted love-locks flow, + Bathed in a sunbeam on thy knees to rest, +And touch those idle hands that folded lie, +Having from sport and toil a like immunity. + +Through thy life's dream with what a touching grace + Childhood attends thee, nearly woman grown; +Her dimples linger yet upon thy face, + Like dews upon a lily this day blown; +Thy sighs are born of peace, unruffled, deep; +So the babe sighs on mother's breast asleep. + +It sighs, and wakes,--but thou! thy dream is all, + And thou wert born for it, and it for thee; +Morn doth not take thy heart, nor evenfall + Charm out its sorrowful fidelity, +Nor noon beguile thee from the pastoral shore, +And thy long watch beneath the sycamore. + +No, down the Mere as far as eye can see, + Where its long reaches fade into the sky, +Thy constant gaze, fair child, rests lovingly; + But neither thou nor any can descry +Aught but the grassy banks, the rustling sedge, +And flocks of wild-fowl splashing at their edge. + +And yet 'tis not with expectation hushed + That thy mute rosy mouth doth pouting close; +No fluttering hope to thy young heart e'er rushed, + Nor disappointment troubled its repose; +All satisfied with gazing evermore +Along the sunny Mere and reedy shore. + +The brooding wren flies pertly near thy seat, + Thou wilt not move to mark her glancing wing; +The timid sheep browse close before thy feet, + And heedless at thy side do thrushes sing. +So long amongst them thou hast spent thy days, +They know that harmless hand thou wilt not raise. + +Thou wilt not lift it up--not e'en to take + The foxglove bells that nourish in the shade, +And put them in thy bosom; not to make + A posy of wild hyacinth inlaid +Like bright mosaic in the mossy grass, +With freckled orchis and pale sassafras. + +Gaze on;--take in the voices of the Mere. + The break of shallow water at thy feet, +Its plash among long weeds and grasses sere, + And its weird sobbing,--hollow music meet +For ears like thine; listen and take thy till, +And dream on it by night when all is still. + +Full sixteen years have slowly passed away, + Young Margaret, since thy fond mother here +Came down, a six month's wife, one April day, + To see her husband's boat go down the Mere, +And track its course, till, lost in distance blue, +In mellow light it faded from her view. + +It faded, and she never saw it more;-- + Nor any human eye;--oh, grief! oh, woe! +It faded,--and returned not to the shore; + But far above it still the waters flow-- +And none beheld it sink, and none could tell +Where coldly slept the form she loved so well! + +But that sad day, unknowing of her fate, + She homeward turn'd her still reluctant feet; +And at her wheel she spun, till dark and late +The evening fell--the time when they should meet; +Till the stars paled that at deep midnight burned-- +And morning dawned, and he was not returned. + +And the bright sun came up--she thought too soon-- +And shed his ruddy light along the Mere; +And day wore on too quickly, and at noon +She came and wept beside the waters clear. +"How could he be so late?"--and then hope fled; +And disappointment darkened into dread. + +He NEVER came, and she with weepings sore +Peered in the water-nags unceasingly; +Through all the undulations of the shore, +Looking for that which most she feared to see. +And then she took home sorrow to her heart, +And brooded over its cold cruel smart. + +And after, desolate she sat alone +And mourned, refusing to be comforted, +On the gray stone, the moss-embroidered stone, +With the great sycamore above her head; +Till after many days a broken oar +Hard by her seat was drifted to the shore. + +It came,--a token of his fate,--the whole, +The sum of her misfortune to reveal; +As if sent up in pity to her soul, +The tidings of her widowhood to seal; +And put away the pining hope forlorn, +That made her grief more bitter to be borne. + +And she was patient; through the weary day + She toiled; though none was there her work to bless; +And did not wear the sullen months away, + Nor call on death to end her wretchedness, +But lest the grief should overflow her breast, +She toiled as heretofore, and would not rest. + +But, her work done, what time the evening star + Rose over the cool water, then she came +To the gray stone, and saw its light from far + Drop down the misty Mere white lengths of flame, +And wondered whether there might be the place +Where the soft ripple wandered o'er HIS face. + +Unfortunate! In solitude forlorn + She dwelt, and thought upon her husband's grave, +Till when the days grew short a child was born + To the dead father underneath the wave; +And it brought back a remnant of delight, +A little sunshine to its mother's sight; + +A little wonder to her heart grown numb, + And a sweet yearning pitiful and keen: +She took it as from that poor father come, + Her and the misery to stand between; +Her little maiden babe, who day by day +Sucked at her breast and charmed her woes away. + +But years flew on; the child was still the same, + Nor human language she had learned to speak: +Her lips were mute, and seasons went and came, + And brought fresh beauty to her tender cheek; +And all the day upon the sunny shore +She sat and mused beneath the sycamore. + +Strange sympathy! she watched and wearied not, + Haply unconscious what it was she sought; +Her mother's tale she easily forgot, + And if she listened no warm tears it brought; +Though surely in the yearnings of her heart +The unknown voyager must have had his part. + +Unknown to her; like all she saw unknown, + All sights were fresh as when they first began, +All sounds were new; each murmur and each tone + And cause and consequence she could not scan, +Forgot that night brought darkness in its train, +Nor reasoned that the day would come again. + +There is a happiness in past regret; + And echoes of the harshest sound are sweet. +The mother's soul was struck with grief, and yet, + Repeated in her child, 'twas not unmeet +That echo-like the grief a tone should take +Painless, but ever pensive for her sake. + +For her dear sake, whose patient soul was linked +By ties so many to the babe unborn; +Whose hope, by slow degrees become extinct, + For evermore had left her child forlorn, +Yet left no consciousness of want or woe, +Nor wonder vague that these things should be so. + +Truly her joys were limited and few, + But they sufficed a life to satisfy, +That neither fret nor dim foreboding knew, + But breathed the air in a great harmony +With its own place and part, and was at one +With all it knew of earth and moon and sun. + +For all of them were worked into the dream,-- + The husky sighs of wheat-fields in it wrought; +All the land-miles belonged to it; the stream + That fed the Mere ran through it like a thought. +It was a passion of peace, and loved to wait +'Neath boughs with fair green light illuminate. + +To wait with her alone; always alone: + For any that drew near she heeded not, +Wanting them little as the lily grown + Apart from others in a shady plot, +Wants fellow-lilies of like fair degree, +In her still glen to bear her company. + +Always alone: and yet, there was a child + Who loved this child, and, from his turret towers, +Across the lea would roam to where, in-isled + And fenced in rapturous silence, went her hours, +And, with slow footsteps drawn anear the place +Where mute she sat, would ponder on her face, + +And wonder at her with a childish awe, + And come again to look, and yet again, +Till the sweet rippling of the Mere would draw + His longing to itself; while in her train +The water-hen, come forth, would bring her brood +From slumbering in the rushy solitude; + +Or to their young would curlews call and clang + Their homeless young that down the furrows creep; +Or the wind-hover in the blue would hang, + Still as a rock set in the watery deep. +Then from her presence he would break away, +Unmarked, ungreeted yet, from day to day. + +But older grown, the Mere he haunted yet, + And a strange joy from its sweet wildness caught; +Whilst careless sat alone maid Margaret, + And "shut the gates" of silence on her thought, +All through spring mornings gemmed with melted rime, +All through hay-harvest and through gleaning time. + +O pleasure for itself that boyhood makes, + O happiness to roam the sighing shore, +Plough up with elfin craft the water-flakes, + And track the nested rail with cautious oar; +Then floating lie and look with wonder new +Straight up in the great dome of light and blue. + +O pleasure! yet they took him from the wold, + The reedy Mere, and all his pastime there, +The place where he was born, and would grow old + If God his life so many years should spare; +From the loved haunts of childhood and the plain +And pasture-lands of his own broad domain. + +And he came down when wheat was in the sheaf, + And with her fruit the apple-branch bent low, +While yet in August glory hung the leaf, + And flowerless aftermath began to grow; +He came from his gray turrets to the shore, +And sought the maid beneath the sycamore. + +He sought her, not because her tender eyes + Would brighten at his coming, for he knew +Full seldom any thought of him would rise + In her fair breast when he had passed from view; +But for his own love's sake, that unbeguiled +Drew him in spirit to the silent child. + +For boyhood in its better hour is prone + To reverence what it hath not understood; +And he had thought some heavenly meaning shone + From her clear eyes, that made their watchings good: +While a great peacefulness of shade was shed +Like oil of consecration on her head. + +A fishing wallet from his shoulder slung, + With bounding foot he reached the mossy place, +A little moment gently o'er her hung, + Put back her hair and looked upon her face, +Then fain from that deep dream to wake her yet, +He "Margaret!" low murmured, "Margaret! + +"Look at me once before I leave the land, + For I am going,--going, Margaret." +And then she sighed, and, lifting up her hand, + Laid it along his young fresh cheek, and set +Upon his face those blue twin-deeps, her eyes, +And moved it back from her in troubled wise, + +Because he came between her and her fate, + The Mere. She sighed again as one oppressed; +The waters, shining clear, with delicate + Reflections wavered on her blameless breast; +And through the branches dropt, like flickerings fair, +And played upon her hands and on her hair. + +And he, withdrawn a little space to see, + Murmured in tender ruth that was not pain, +"Farewell, I go; but sometimes think of me, + Maid Margaret;" and there came by again +A whispering in the reed-beds and the sway +Of waters: then he turned and went his way. + +And wilt thou think on him now he is gone? + No; thou wilt gaze: though thy young eyes grow dim, +And thy soft cheek become all pale and wan, + Still thou wilt gaze, and spend no thought on him; +There is no sweetness in his laugh for thee--No +beauty in his fresh heart's gayety. + +But wherefore linger in deserted haunts? + Why of the past, as if yet present, sing? +The yellow iris on the margin flaunts, + With hyacinth the banks are blue in spring, +And under dappled clouds the lark afloat +Pours all the April-tide from her sweet throat. + +But Margaret--ah! thou art there no more, + And thick dank moss creeps over thy gray stone +Thy path is lost that skirted the low shore, + With willow-grass and speedwell overgrown; +Thine eye has closed for ever, and thine ear +Drinks in no more the music of the Mere. + +The boy shall come--shall come again in spring, + Well pleased that pastoral solitude to share, +And some kind offering in his hand will bring + To cast into thy lap, O maid most fair-- +Some clasping gem about thy neck to rest, +Or heave and glimmer on thy guileless breast. + +And he shall wonder why thou art not here + The solitude with "smiles to entertain," +And gaze along the reaches of the Mere; + But he shall never see thy face again-- +Shall never see upon the reedy shore +Maid Margaret beneath her sycamore. + + +II. + +MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. + +["Concerning this man (Robert Delacour), little further is known +than that he served in the king's army, and was wounded in the +battle of Marston Moor, being then about twenty-seven years of age. +After the battle of Nazeby, finding himself a marked man, he quitted +the country, taking with him the child whom he had adopted; and +he made many voyages between the different ports of the Mediterranean +and Levant."] + +Resting within his tent at turn of day, + A wailing voice his scanty sleep beset: +He started up--it did not flee away-- + 'Twas no part of his dream, but still did fret +And pine into his heart, "Ah me! ah me!" +Broken with heaving sobs right mournfully. + +Then he arose, and, troubled at this thing, + All wearily toward the voice he went +Over the down-trod bracken and the ling, + Until it brought him to a soldier's tent, +Where, with the tears upon her face, he found +A little maiden weeping on the ground; + +And backward in the tent an aged crone + Upbraided her full harshly more and more, +But sunk her chiding to an undertone + When she beheld him standing at the door, +And calmed her voice, and dropped her lifted hand, +And answered him with accent soft and bland. + +No, the young child was none of hers, she said, + But she had found her where the ash lay white +About a smouldering tent; her infant head + All shelterless, she through the dewy night +Had slumbered on the field,--ungentle fate +For a lone child so soft and delicate. + +"And I," quoth she, "have tended her with care, + And thought to be rewarded of her kin, +For by her rich attire and features fair + I know her birth is gentle: yet within +The tent unclaimed she doth but pine and weep, +A burden I would fain no longer keep." + +Still while she spoke the little creature wept, + Till painful pity touched him for the flow +Of all those tears, and to his heart there crept + A yearning as of fatherhood, and lo! +Reaching his arms to her, "My sweet," quoth he, +"Dear little madam, wilt thou come with me?" + +Then she left off her crying, and a look + Of wistful wonder stole into her eyes. +The sullen frown her dimpled face forsook, + She let him take her, and forgot her sighs, +Contented in his alien arms to rest, +And lay her baby head upon his breast. + +Ah, sure a stranger trust was never sought + By any soldier on a battle-plain. +He brought her to his tent, and soothed his voice, + Rough with command; and asked, but all in vain, +Her story, while her prattling tongue rang sweet, +She playing, as one at home, about his feet. + +Of race, of country, or of parentage, + Her lisping accents nothing could unfold;-- +No questioning could win to read the page + Of her short life;--she left her tale untold, +And home and kin thus early to forget, +She only knew,--her name was--Margaret. + +Then in the dusk upon his arm it chanced + That night that suddenly she fell asleep; +And he looked down on her like one entranced, + And listened to her breathing still and deep, +As if a little child, when daylight closed, +With half-shut lids had ne'er before reposed. + +Softly he laid her down from off his arm, + With earnest care and new-born tenderness: +Her infancy, a wonder-working charm, + Laid hold upon his love; he stayed to bless +The small sweet head, then went he forth that night +And sought a nurse to tend this new delight. + +And day by day his heart she wrought upon, + And won her way into its inmost fold-- +A heart which, but for lack of that whereon + To fix itself, would never have been cold; +And, opening wide, now let her come to dwell +Within its strong unguarded citadel. + +She, like a dream, unlocked the hidden springs + Of his past thoughts, and set their current free +To talk with him of half-forgotten things-- + The pureness and the peace of infancy, +"Thou also, thou," to sigh, "wert undefiled +(O God, the change!) once, as this little child." + +The baby-mistress of a soldier's heart, + She had but friendlessness to stand her friend, +And her own orphanhood to plead her part, + When he, a wayfarer, did pause, and bend, +And bear with him the starry blossom sweet +Out of its jeopardy from trampling feet. + +A gleam of light upon a rainy day, + A new-tied knot that must be sever'd soon, +At sunrise once before his tent at play, + And hurried from the battle-field at noon, +While face to face in hostile ranks they stood, +Who should have dwelt in peace and brotherhood. + +But ere the fight, when higher rose the sun, + And yet were distant far the rebel bands, +She heard at intervals a booming gun, + And she was pleased, and laughing clapped her hands; +Till he came in with troubled look and tone, +Who chose her desolate to be his own. + +And he said, "Little madam, now farewell, + For there will be a battle fought ere night. +God be thy shield, for He alone can tell + Which way may fall the fortune of the fight. +To fitter hands the care of thee pertain, +My dear, if we two never meet again." + +Then he gave money shortly to her nurse, + And charged her straitly to depart in haste, +And leave the plain, whereon the deadly curse + Of war should light with ruin, death, and waste, +And all the ills that must its presence blight, +E'en if proud victory should bless the right. + +"But if the rebel cause should prosper, then + It were not good among the hills to wend; +But journey through to Boston in the fen, + And wait for peace, if peace our God shall send; +And if my life is spared, I will essay," +Quoth he, "to join you there as best I may." + +So then he kissed the child, and went his way; + But many troubles rolled above his head; +The sun arose on many an evil day, + And cruel deeds were done, and tears were shed; +And hope was lost, and loyal hearts were fain +In dust to hide,--ere they two met again. + +So passed the little child from thought, from view-- + (The snowdrop blossoms, and then is not there, +Forgotten till men welcome it anew), + He found her in his heavy days of care, +And with her dimples was again beguiled, +As on her nurse's knee she sat and smiled. + +And he became a voyager by sea, + And took the child to share his wandering state; +Since from his native land compelled to flee, + And hopeless to avert her monarch's fate; +For all was lost that might have made him pause, +And, past a soldier's help, the royal cause. + +And thus rolled on long days, long months and years, + And Margaret within the Xebec sailed; +The lulling wind made music in her ears, + And nothing to her life's completeness failed. +Her pastime 'twas to see the dolphins spring, +And wonderful live rainbows glimmering. + +The gay sea-plants familiar were to her, + As daisies to the children of the land; +Red wavy dulse the sunburnt mariner + Raised from its bed to glisten in her hand; +The vessel and the sea were her life's stage-- +Her house, her garden, and her hermitage. + +Also she had a cabin of her own, + For beauty like an elfin palace bright, +With Venice glass adorned, and crystal stone + That trembled with a many-colored light; +And there with two caged ringdoves she did play, +And feed them carefully from day to day. + +Her bed with silken curtains was enclosed, + White as the snowy rose of Guelderland; +On Turkish pillows her young head reposed, + And love had gathered with a careful hand +Fair playthings to the little maiden's side, +From distant ports, and cities parted wide. + +She had two myrtle-plants that she did tend, + And think all trees were like to them that grew; +For things on land she did confuse and blend, + And chiefly from the deck the land she knew, +And in her heart she pitied more and more +The steadfast dwellers on the changeless shore. + +Green fields and inland meadows faded out + Of mind, or with sea-images were linked; +And yet she had her childish thoughts about + The country she had left--though indistinct +And faint as mist the mountain-head that shrouds, +Or dim through distance as Magellan's clouds. + +And when to frame a forest scene she tried, + The ever-present sea would yet intrude, +And all her towns were by the water's side, + It murmured in all moorland solitude, +Where rocks and the ribbed sand would intervene, +And waves would edge her fancied village green; + +Because her heart was like an ocean shell, + That holds (men say) a message from the deep, +And yet the land was strong, she knew its spell, + And harbor lights could draw her in her sleep; +And minster chimes from piercèd towers that swim, +Were the land-angels making God a hymn. + +So she grew on, the idol of one heart, + And the delight of many--and her face, +Thus dwelling chiefly from her sex apart, + Was touched with a most deep and tender grace-- +A look that never aught but nature gave, +Artless, yet thoughtful; innocent, yet grave. + +Strange her adornings were, and strangely blent: + A golden net confined her nut-brown hair; +Quaint were the robes that divers lands had lent, + And quaint her aged nurse's skill and care; +Yet did they well on the sea-maiden meet, +Circle her neck, and grace her dimpled feet. + +The sailor folk were glad because of her, + And deemed good fortune followed in her wake; +She was their guardian saint, they did aver-- + Prosperous winds were sent them for her sake; +And strange rough vows, strange prayers, they nightly made, +While, storm or calm, she slept, in nought afraid. + +Clear were her eyes, that daughter of the sea, + Sweet, when uplifted to her aged nurse, +She sat, and communed what the world could be; + And rambling stories caused her to rehearse +How Yule was kept, how maidens tossed the hay, +And how bells rang upon a wedding day. + +But they grew brighter when the evening star + First trembled over the still glowing wave, +That bathed in ruddy light, mast, sail, and spar; + For then, reclined in rest that twilight gave, +With him who served for father, friend, and guide, +She sat upon the deck at eventide. + +Then turned towards the west, that on her hair + And her young cheek shed down its tender glow, +He taught her many things with earnest care + That he thought fitting a young maid should know, +Told of the good deeds of the worthy dead, +And prayers devout, by faithful martyrs said. + +And many psalms he caused her to repeat + And sing them, at his knees reclined the while, +And spoke with her of all things good and meet, + And told the story of her native isle, +Till at the end he made her tears to flow, +Rehearsing of his royal master's woe. + +And of the stars he taught her, and their names, + And how the chartless mariner they guide; +Of quivering light that in the zenith flames, + Of monsters in the deep sea caves that hide; +Then changed the theme to fairy records wild, +Enchanted moor, elf dame, or changeling child. + +To her the Eastern lands their strangeness spread, + The dark-faced Arab in his long blue gown, +The camel thrusting down a snake-like head + To browse on thorns outside a walled white town. +Where palmy clusters rank by rank upright +Float as in quivering lakes of ribbed light. + +And when the ship sat like a broad-winged bird + Becalmed, lo, lions answered in the night +Their fellows, all the hollow dark was stirred + To echo on that tremulous thunder's flight, +Dying in weird faint moans;--till look: the sun +And night, and all the things of night, were done. + +And they, toward the waste as morning brake, + Turned, where, in-isled in his green watered land, +The Lybian Zeus lay couched of old, and spake, + Hemmed in with leagues of furrow-faced sand-- +Then saw the moon (like Joseph's golden cup +Come back) behind some ruined roof swim up. + +But blooming childhood will not always last, + And storms will rise e'en on the tideless sea; +His guardian love took fright, she grew so fast, + And he began to think how sad 'twould be +If he should die, and pirate hordes should get +By sword or shipwreck his fair Margaret. + +It was a sudden thought; but he gave way, + For it assailed him with unwonted force; +And, with no more than one short week's delay, + For English shores he shaped the vessel's course; +And ten years absent saw her landed now, +With thirteen summers on her maiden brow. + +And so he journeyed with her, far inland, + Down quiet lanes, by hedges gemmed with dew, +Where wonders met her eye on every hand, + And all was beautiful and strange and new-- +All, from the forest trees in stately ranks, +To yellow cowslips trembling on the banks. + +All new--the long-drawn slope of evening shades, + The sweet solemnities of waxing light, +The white-haired boys, the blushing rustic maids, + The ruddy gleam through cottage casements bright, +The green of pastures, bloom of garden nooks, +And endless bubbling of the water-brooks. + +So far he took them on through this green land, + The maiden and her nurse, till journeying +They saw at last a peaceful city stand + On a steep mount, and heard its clear bells ring. +High were the towers and rich with ancient state, +In its old wall enclosed and massive gate. + +There dwelt a worthy matron whom he knew, + To whom in time of war he gave good aid, +Shielding her household from the plundering crew + When neither law could bind nor worth persuade, +And to her house he brought his care and pride, +Aweary with the way and sleepy-eyed. + +And he, the man whom she was fain to serve, + Delayed not shortly his request to make, +Which was, if aught of her he did deserve, + To take the maid, and rear her for his sake, +To guard her youth, and let her breeding be +In womanly reserve and modesty. + +And that same night into the house he brought + The costly fruits of all his voyages-- +Rich Indian gems of wandering craftsmen wrought, + Long ropes of pearls from Persian palaces, +With ingots pure and coins of Venice mould, +And silver bars and bags of Spanish gold; + +And costly merchandise of far-off lands, + And golden stuffs and shawls of Eastern dye, +He gave them over to the matron's hands, + With jewelled gauds, and toys of ivory, +To be her dower on whom his love was set,-- +His dearest child, fair Madam Margaret. + +Then he entreated, that if he should die, + She would not cease her guardian mission mild. +Awhile, as undecided, lingered nigh, + Beside the pillow of the sleeping child, +Severed one wandering lock of wavy hair, +Took horse that night, and left her unaware. + +And it was long before he came again-- + So long that Margaret was woman grown; +And oft she wished for his return in vain, + Calling him softly in an undertone; +Repeating words that he had said the while, +And striving to recall his look and smile. + +If she had known--oh, if she could have known-- + The toils, the hardships of those absent years-- +How bitter thraldom forced the unwilling groan-- + How slavery wrung out subduing tears, +Not calmly had she passed her hours away, +Chiding half pettishly the long delay. + +But she was spared. She knew no sense of harm, + While the red flames ascended from the deck; +Saw not the pirate band the crew disarm, + Mourned not the floating spars, the smoking wreck. +She did not dream, and there was none to tell, +That fetters bound the hands she loved so well. + +Sweet Margaret--withdrawn from human view, + She spent long hours beneath the cedar shade, +The stately trees that in the garden grew, + And, overtwined, a towering shelter made; +She mused among the flowers, and birds, and bees, +In winding walks, and bowering canopies; + +Or wandered slowly through the ancient rooms, + Where oriel windows shed their rainbow gleams; +And tapestried hangings, wrought in Flemish looms, + Displayed the story of King Pharaoh's dreams; +And, come at noon because the well was deep, +Beautiful Rachel leading down her sheep. + +At last she reached the bloom of womanhood, + After five summers spent in growing fair; +Her face betokened all things dear and good, + The light of somewhat yet to come was there +Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, +When childish thoughts, like flowers, would drift away. + +O! we are far too happy while they last; + We have our good things first, and they cost naught; +Then the new splendor comes unfathomed, vast, + A costly trouble, ay, a sumptuous thought, +And will not wait, and cannot be possessed, +Though infinite yearnings fold it to the breast. + +And time, that seemed so long, is fleeting by, + And life is more than life; love more than love; +We have not found the whole--and we must die-- + And still the unclasped glory floats above. +The inmost and the utmost faint from sight, +For ever secret in their veil of light. + +Be not too hasty in your flow, you rhymes, + For Margaret is in her garden bower; +Delay to ring, you soft cathedral chimes, + And tell not out too soon the noontide hour: +For one draws nearer to your ancient town, +On the green mount down settled like a crown. + +He journeyed on, and, as he neared the gate, + He met with one to whom he named the maid, +Inquiring of her welfare and her state. + And of the matron in whose house she stayed. +"The maiden dwelt there yet," the townsman said; +"But, for the ancient lady,--she was dead." + +He further said, she was but little known, + Although reputed to be very fair, +And little seen (so much she dwelt alone) + But with her nurse at stated morning prayer; +So seldom passed her sheltering garden wall, +Or left the gate at quiet evening fall. + +Flow softly, rhymes--his hand is on the door; + Ring out, ye noonday bells, his welcoming-- +"He went out rich, but he returneth poor;" + And strong--now something bowed with suffering. +And on his brow are traced long furrowed lines, +Earned in the fight with pirate Algerines. + +Her aged nurse comes hobbling at his call; + Lifts up her withered hand in dull surprise, +And, tottering, leads him through the pillared hall; + "What! come at last to bless my lady's eyes! +Dear heart, sweet heart, she's grown a likesome maid-- +Go, seek her where she sitteth in the shade." + +The noonday chime had ceased--she did not know + Who watched her, while her ringdoves fluttered near: +While, under the green boughs, in accents low + She sang unto herself. She did not hear +His footstep till she turned, then rose to meet +Her guest with guileless blush and wonder sweet. + +But soon she knew him, came with quickened pace, + And put her gentle hands about his neck; +And leaned her fair cheek to his sun-burned face, + As long ago upon the vessel's deck: +As long ago she did in twilight deep, +When heaving waters lulled her infant sleep. + +So then he kissed her, as men kiss their own, + And, proudly parting her unbraided hair, +He said: "I did not think to see thee grown + So fair a woman,"--but a touch of care +The deep-toned voice through its caressing kept, +And, hearing it, she turned away and wept. + +Wept,--for an impress on the face she viewed-- + The stamp of feelings she remembered not; +His voice was calmer now, but more subdued, + Not like the voice long loved and unforgot! +She felt strange sorrow and delightful pain-- +Grief for the change, joy that he came again. + +O pleasant days, that followed his return, + That made his captive years pass out of mind; +If life had yet new pains for him to learn, + Not in the maid's clear eyes he saw it shrined; +And three full weeks he stayed with her, content +To find her beautiful and innocent. + +It was all one in his contented sight + As though she were a child, till suddenly, +Waked of the chimes in the dead time of the night, + He fell to thinking how the urgency +Of Fate had dealt with him, and could but sigh +For those best things wherein she passed him by. + +Down the long river of life how, cast adrift, + She urged him on, still on, to sink or swim; +And all at once, as if a veil did lift, + In the dead time of the night, and bare to him +The want in his deep soul, he looked, was dumb, +And knew himself, and knew his time was come. + +In the dead time of the night his soul did sound + The dark sea of a trouble unforeseen, +For that one sweet that to his life was bound + Had turned into a want--a misery keen: +Was born, was grown, and wounded sorely cried +All 'twixt the midnight and the morning tide. + +He was a brave man, and he took this thing + And cast it from him with a man's strong hand; +And that next morn, with no sweet altering + Of mien, beside the maid he took his stand, +And copied his past self till ebbing day +Paled its deep western blush, and died away. + +And then he told her that he must depart + Upon the morrow, with the earliest light; +And it displeased and pained her at the heart, + And she went out to hide her from his sight +Aneath the cedar trees, where dusk was deep, +And be apart from him awhile to weep + +And to lament, till, suddenly aware + Of steps, she started up as fain to flee, +And met him in the moonlight pacing there, + Who questioned with her why her tears might be, +Till she did answer him, all red for shame, +"Kind sir, I weep--the wanting of a name." + +"A name!" quoth he, and sighed. "I never knew + Thy father's name; but many a stalwart youth +Would give thee his, dear child, and his love too, + And count himself a happy man forsooth. +Is there none here who thy kind thought hath won?" +But she did falter, and made answer, "None." + +Then, as in father-like and kindly mood, + He said, "Dear daughter, it would please me well +To see thee wed; for know it is not good + That a fair woman thus alone should dwell." +She said, "I am content it should be so, +If when you journey I may with you go." + +This when he heard, he thought, right sick at heart, + Must I withstand myself, and also thee? +Thou, also thou! must nobly do thy part; + That honor leads thee on which holds back me. +No, thou sweet woman; by love's great increase, +I will reject thee for thy truer peace. + +Then said he, "Lady!--look upon my face; + Consider well this scar upon my brow; +I have had all misfortune but disgrace; + I do not look for marriage blessings now. +Be not thy gratitude deceived. I know +Thou think'st it is thy duty--I will go! + +"I read thy meaning, and I go from hence, + Skilled in the reason; though my heart be rude, +I will not wrong thy gentle innocence, + Nor take advantage of thy gratitude. +But think, while yet the light these eyes shall bless, +The more for thee--of woman's nobleness." + +Faultless and fair, all in the moony light, + As one ashamed, she looked upon the ground, +And her white raiment glistened in his sight. + And, hark! the vesper chimes began to sound, +Then lower yet she drooped her young, pure cheek, +And still was she ashamed, and could not speak. + +A swarm of bells from that old tower o'erhead, + They sent their message sifting through the boughs +Of cedars; when they ceased his lady said, + "Pray you forgive me," and her lovely brows +She lifted, standing in her moonlit place, +And one short moment looked him in the face. + +Then straight he cried, "O sweetheart, think all one + As no word yet were said between us twain, +And know thou that in this I yield to none-- + love thee, sweetheart, love thee!" So full fain, +While she did leave to silence all her part, +He took the gleaming whiteness to his heart-- + +The white-robed maiden with the warm white throat, + The sweet white brow, and locks of umber flow, +Whose murmuring voice was soft as rock-dove's note, + Entreating him, and saying, "Do not go!" +"I will not, sweetheart; nay, not now," quoth he, +"By faith and troth, I think thou art for me!" + +And so she won a name that eventide, + Which he gave gladly, but would ne'er bespeak, +And she became the rough sea-captain's bride, + Matching her dimples to his sunburnt cheek; +And chasing from his voice the touch of care, +That made her weep when first she heard it there. + +One year there was, fulfilled of happiness, + But O! it went so fast, too fast away. +Then came that trouble which full oft doth bless-- + It was the evening of a sultry day, +There was no wind the thread-hung flowers to stir, +Or float abroad the filmy gossamer. + +Toward the trees his steps the mariner bent, + Pacing the grassy walks with restless feet: +And he recalled, and pondered as he went, + All her most duteous love and converse sweet, +Till summer darkness settled deep and dim, +And dew from bending leaves dropt down on him. + +The flowers sent forth their nightly odors faint-- + Thick leaves shut out the starlight overhead; +While he told over, as by strong constraint + Drawn on, her childish life on shipboard led, +And beauteous youth, since first low kneeling there, +With folded hands she lisped her evening prayer. + +Then he remembered how, beneath the shade, + She wooed him to her with her lovely words, +While flowers were closing, leaves in moonlight played, + And in dark nooks withdrew the silent birds. +So pondered he that night in twilight dim, +While dew from bending leaves dropt down on him. + +The flowers sent forth their nightly odors faint-- + When, in the darkness waiting, he saw one +To whom he said--"How fareth my sweet saint?" + Who answered--"She hath borne to you a son;" +Then, turning, left him,--and the father said, +"God rain down blessings on his welcome head!" + +But Margaret!--_she_ never saw the child, + Nor heard about her bed love's mournful wails; +But to the last, with ocean dreams beguiled, + Murmured of troubled seas and swelling sails-- +Of weary voyages, and rocks unseen, +And distant hills in sight, all calm and green.... + +Woe and alas!--the times of sorrow come, + And make us doubt if we were ever glad! +So utterly that inner voice is dumb, + Whose music through our happy days we had! +So, at the touch of grief, without our will, +The sweet voice drops from us, and all is still. + +Woe and alas! for the sea-captain's wife-- + That Margaret who in the Xebec played-- +She spent upon his knee her baby life; + Her slumbering head upon his breast she laid. +How shall he learn alone his years to pass? +How in the empty house?--woe and alas! + +She died, and in the aisle, the minster aisle, + They made her grave; and there, with fond intent, +Her husband raised, his sorrow to beguile, + A very fair and stately monument: +Her tomb (the careless vergers show it yet), +The mariner's wife, his love, his Margaret. + +A woman's figure, with the eyelids closed, + The quiet head declined in slumber sweet; +Upon an anchor one fair hand reposed, + And a long ensign folded at her feet, +And carved upon the bordering of her vest +The motto of her house--"_He giveth rest."_ + +There is an ancient window richly fraught + And fretted with all hues most rich, most bright, +And in its upper tracery enwrought + An olive-branch and dove wide-winged and white, +An emblem meet for her, the tender dove, +Her heavenly peace, her duteous earthly love. + +Amid heraldic shields and banners set, + In twisted knots and wildly-tangled bands, +Crimson and green, and gold and violet, + Fall softly on the snowy sculptured hands; +And, when the sunshine comes, full sweetly rest +The dove and olive-branch upon her breast. + + + + +A STORY OF DOOM. + + +BOOK I. + +Niloiya said to Noah, "What aileth thee, +My master, unto whom is my desire, +The father of my sons?" He answered her, +"Mother of many children, I have heard +The Voice again." "Ah, me!" she saith, "ah, me! +What spake it?" and with that Niloiya sighed. + +This when the Master-builder heard, his heart +Was sad in him, the while he sat at home +And rested after toil. The steady rap +O' the shipwright's hammer sounding up the vale +Did seem to mock him; but her distaff down +Niloiya laid, and to the doorplace went, +Parted the purple covering seemly hung +Before it, and let in the crimson light +Of the descending sun. Then looked he forth,-- +Looked, and beheld the hollow where the ark +Was a-preparing; where the dew distilled +All night from leaves of old lign aloe-trees, +Upon the gliding river; where the palm, +The almug, and the gophir shot their heads +Into the crimson brede that dyed the world: +And lo! he marked--unwieldy, dark, and huge--The +ship, his glory and his grief,--too vast +For that still river's floating,--building far +From mightier streams, amid the pastoral dells +Of shepherd kings. + + Niloiya spake again: +"What said the Voice, thou well-beloved man?" +He, laboring with his thought that troubled him, +Spoke on behalf of God: "Behold," said he, +"A little handful of unlovely dust +He fashioned to a lordly grace, and when +He laughed upon its beauty, it waxed warm, +And with His breath awoke a living soul. + +"Shall not the Fashioner command His work? +And who am I, that, if He whisper, 'Rise, +Go forth upon Mine errand,' should reply, +'Lord, God, I love the woman and her sons,--I +love not scorning: I beseech Thee, God, +Have me excused.'" + + She answered him, "Tell on." +And he continuing, reasoned with his soul: +"What though I,--like some goodly lama sunk +In meadow grass, eating her way at ease, +Unseen of them that pass, and asking not +A wider prospect than of yellow-flowers +That nod above her head,--should lay me down, +And willingly forget this high behest, +There should be yet no tarrying. Furthermore, +Though I went forth to cry against the doom, +Earth crieth louder, and she draws it down: +It hangeth balanced over us; she crieth, +And it shall fall. O! as for me, my life +Is bitter, looking onward, for I know +That in the fulness of the time shall dawn +That day: my preaching shall not bring forth fruit, +Though for its sake I leave thee. I shall float +Upon the abhorréd sea, that mankind hate, +With thee and thine." + She answered: "God forbid! +For, sir, though men be evil, yet the deep +They dread, and at the last will surely turn +To Him, and He long-suffering will forgive. +And chide the waters back to their abyss, +To cover the pits where doleful creatures feed. +Sir, I am much afraid: I would not hear +Of riding on the waters: look you, sir, +Better it were to die with you by hand +Of them that hate us, than to live, ah me! +Rolling among the furrows of the unquiet, +Unconsecrate, unfriendly, dreadful sea." + +He saith again: "I pray thee, woman, peace, +For thou wilt enter, when that day appears, +The fateful ship." + + "My lord," quoth she, "I will. +But O, good sir, be sure of this, be sure +The Master calleth; for the time is long +That thou hast warned the world: thou art but here +Three days; the song of welcoming but now +Is ended. I behold thee, I am glad; +And wilt thou go again? Husband, I say, +Be sure who 't is that calleth; O, be sure, +Be sure. My mother's ghost came up last night, +Whilst I thy beard, held in my hands did kiss, +Leaning anear thee, wakeful through my love, +And watchful of thee till the moon went down. + +"She never loved me since I went with thee +To sacrifice among the hills: she smelt +The holy smoke, and could no more divine +Till the new moon. I saw her ghost come up; +It had a snake with a red comb of fire +Twisted about its waist,--the doggish head +Lolled on its shoulder, and so leered at me. +'This woman might be wiser,' quoth the ghost; +'Shall there be husbands for her found below, +When she comes down to us? O, fool! O, fool! +She must not let her man go forth, to leave +Her desolate, and reap the whole world's scorn, +A harvest for himself.' With that they passed." + +He said, "My crystal drop of perfectness, +I pity thee; it was an evil ghost: +Thou wilt not heed the counsel?" "I will not," +Quoth she; "I am loyal to the Highest. Him +I hold by even as thou, and deem Him best. +Sir, am I fairer than when last we met?" + + "God add," said he, "unto thy much yet more, +As I do think thou art." "And think you, sir," +Niloiya saith, "that I have reached the prime?" +He answering, "Nay, not yet." "I would 't were so," +She plaineth, "for the daughters mock at me: +Her locks forbear to grow, they say, so sore +She pineth for the master. Look you, sir, +They reach but to the knee. But thou art come, +And all goes merrier. Eat, my lord, of all +My supper that I set, and afterward +Tell me, I pray thee, somewhat of thy way; +Else shall I be despised as Adam was, +Who compassed not the learning of his sons, +But, grave and silent, oft would lower his head +And ponder, following of great Isha's feet, +When she would walk with her fair brow upraised, +Scorning the children that she bare to him." + +"Ay," quoth the Master; "but they did amiss +When they despised their father: knowest thou that?" + +"Sure he was foolisher," Niloiya saith, +"Than any that came after. Furthermore, +He had not heart nor courage for to rule: +He let the mastery fall from his slack hand. +Had not our glorious mother still borne up +His weakness, chid with him, and sat apart, +And listened, when the fit came over him +To talk on his lost garden, he had sunk +Into the slave of slaves." + + "Nay, thou must think +How he had dwelt long, God's loved husbandman, +And looked in hope among the tribes for one +To be his fellow, ere great Isha, once +Waking, he found at his left side, and knew +The deep delight of speech." So Noah, and thus +Added, "And therefore was his loss the more; +For though the creatures he had singled out +His favorites, dared for him the fiery sword +And followed after him,--shall bleat of lamb +Console one for the foregone talk of God? +Or in the afternoon, his faithful dog, +Fawning upon him, make his heart forget +At such a time, and such a time, to have heard +What he shall hear no more? + + "O, as for him, +It was for this that he full oft would stop, +And, lost in thought, stand and revolve that deed, +Sad muttering, Woman! we reproach thee not; +Though thou didst eat mine immortality; +Earth, be not sorry; I was free to choose. +Wonder not, therefore, if he walked forlorn. +Was not the helpmeet given to raise him up +From his contentment with the lower things? +Was she not somewhat that he could not rule +Beyond the action, that he could not have +By the mere holding, and that still aspired +And drew him after her? So, when deceived +She fell by great desire to rise, he fell +By loss of upward drawing, when she took +An evil tongue to be her counsellor: +'Death is not as the death of lower things, +Rather a glorious change, begrudged of Heaven, +A change to being as gods,'--he from her hand, +Upon reflection, took of death that hour, +And ate it (not the death that she had dared); +He ate it knowing. Then divisions came. +She, like a spirit strayed who lost the way, +Too venturesome, among the farther stars, +And hardly cares, because it hardly hopes +To find the path to heaven; in bitter wise +Did bear to him degenerate seed, and he, +Once having felt her upward drawing, longed, +And yet aspired, and yearned to be restored, +Albeit she drew no more." + + "Sir, ye speak well," +Niloiya saith, "but yet the mother sits +Higher than Adam. He did understand +Discourse of birds and all four-footed things, +But she had knowledge of the many tribes +Of angels and their tongues; their playful ways +And greetings when they met. Was she not wise? +They say she knew much that she never told, +And had a voice that called to her as thou." + +"Nay," quoth the Master-shipwright, "who am I +That I should answer? As for me, poor man, +Here is my trouble: 'if there be a Voice,' +At first I cried, 'let me behold the mouth +That uttereth it,' Thereon it held its peace. +But afterward, I, journeying up the hills, +Did hear it hollower than an echo fallen +Across some clear abyss; and I did stop, +And ask of all my company, 'What cheer? +If there be spirits abroad that call to us, +Sirs, hold your peace and hear,' So they gave heed, +And one man said, 'It is the small ground-doves +That peck upon the stony hillocks': one, +'It is the mammoth in yon cedar swamp +That cheweth in his dream': and one, 'My lord, +It is the ghost of him that yesternight +We slew, because he grudged to yield his wife +To thy great father, when he peaceably +Did send to take her,' Then I answered, 'Pass,' +And they went on; and I did lay mine ear +Close to the earth; but there came up therefrom +No sound, nor any speech; I waited long. +And in the saying, 'I will mount my beast +And on,' I was as one that in a trance +Beholdeth what is coming, and I saw +Great waters and a ship; and somewhat spake, +'Lo, this shall be; let him that heareth it, +And seeth it, go forth to warn his kind, +For I will drown the world,'" + + Niloiya saith, +"Sir, was that all that ye went forth upon?" +The master, he replieth, "Ay, at first, +That same was all; but many days went by, +While I did reason with my heart and hope +For more, and struggle to remain, and think. +'Let me be certain'; and so think again, +'The counsel is but dark; would I had more! +When I have more to guide me, I will go,' +And afterward, when reasoned on too much, +It seemed remoter, then I only said, +'O, would I had the same again'; and still +I had it not. + + "Then at the last I cried, +'If the unseen be silent, I will speak +And certify my meaning to myself. +Say that He spoke, then He will make that good +Which He hath spoken. Therefore it were best +To go, and do His bidding. All the earth +Shall hear the judgment so, and none may cry +When the doom falls, "Thou God art hard on us; +We knew not Thou wert angry. O! we are lost, +Only for lack of being warned." + + "'But say +That He spoke not, and merely it befell +That I being weary had a dream. Why, so +He could not suffer damage; when the time +Was past, and that I threatened had not come, +Men would cry out on me, haply me kill, +For troubling their content. They would not swear, +"God, that did send this man, is proved untrue," +But rather, "Let him die; he lied to us; +God never sent him." Only Thou, great King, +Knowest if Thou didst speak or no. I leave +The matter here. If Thou wilt speak again, +I go in gladness; if Thou wilt not speak, +Nay, if Thou never didst, I not the less +Shall go, because I have believed, what time +I seemed to hear Thee, and the going stands +With memory of believing,' Then I washed, +And did array me in the sacred gown, +And take a lamb." + + "Ay, sir," Niloiya sighed, +"I following, and I knew not anything +Till, the young lamb asleep in thy two arms, +We, moving up among the silent hills, +Paused in a grove to rest; and many slaves +Came near to make obeisance, and to bring +Wood for the sacrifice, and turf and fire. +Then in their hearing thou didst say to me, +'Behold, I know thy good fidelity, +And theirs that are about us; they would guard +The mountain passes, if it were my will +Awhile to leave thee'; and the pygmies laughed +For joy, that thou wouldst trust inferior things; +And put their heads down, as their manner is, +To touch our feet. They laughed, but sore I wept; +Sir, I could weep now; ye did ill to go +If that was all your bidding; I had thought +God drave thee, and thou couldst not choose but go." + +Then said the son of Lamech, "Afterward, +When I had left thee, He whom I had served +Met with me in the visions of the night, +To comfort me for that I had withdrawn +From thy dear company. He sware to me +That no man should molest thee, no, nor touch +The bordering of mine outmost field. I say, +When I obeyed, He made His matters plain. +With whom could I have left thee, but with them, +Born in thy mother's house, and bound thy slaves?" + +She said, "I love not pygmies; they are naught." +And he, "Who made them pygmies?" Then she pushed +Her veiling hair back from her round, soft eyes, +And answered, wondering, "Sir, my mothers did, +Ye know it." And he drew her near to sit +Beside him on the settle, answering, "Ay." +And they went on to talk as writ below, +If any one shall read: + + "Thy mother did, +And they that went before her. Thinkest thou +That they did well?" + + "They had been overcome; +And when the angered conquerors drave them out, +Behoved them find some other way to rule,-- +They did but use their wits. Hath not man aye +Been cunning in dominion, among beasts +To breed for size or swiftness, or for sake +Of the white wool he loveth, at his choice? +What harm if coveting a race of men +That could but serve, they sought among their thralls, +Such as were low of stature, men and maids; +Ay, and of feeble will and quiet mind? +Did they not spend much gear to gather out +Such as I tell of, and for matching them +One with another for a thousand years? +What harm, then, if there came of it a race, +Inferior in their wits, and in their size, +And well content to serve?" + + "'What harm?' thou sayest. +My wife doth ask, 'What harm? '" + + "Your pardon, sir. +I do remember that there came one day, +Two of the grave old angels that God made, +When first He invented life (right old they were, +And plain, and venerable); and they said, +Rebuking of my mother as with hers +She sat, 'Ye do not well, you wives of men, +To match your wit against the Maker's will, +And for your benefit to lower the stamp +Of His fair image, which He set at first +Upon man's goodly frame; ye do not well +To treat his likeness even as ye treat +The bird and beast that perish.'" + + "Said they aught +To appease the ancients, or to speak them fair?" + + "How know I? 'T was a slave that told it me. +My mother was full old when I was born, +And that was in her youth. What think you, sir? +Did not the giants likewise ill?" + + "To that +I have no answer ready. If a man, +When each one is against his fellow, rule, +Or unmolested dwell, or unreproved, +Because, for size and strength, he standeth first, +He will thereof be glad; and if he say, +'I will to wife choose me a stately maid, +And leave a goodly offspring'; 'sooth, I think, +He sinneth not; for good to him and his +He would be strong and great. Thy people's fault +Was, that for ill to others, they did plot +To make them weak and small." + + "But yet they steal +Or take in war the strongest maids, and such +As are of highest stature; ay, and oft +They fight among themselves for that same cause. +And they are proud against the King of heaven: +They hope in course of ages they shall come +To be as strong as He." + + The Master said, +"I will not hear thee talk thereof; my heart +Is sick for all this wicked world. Fair wife, +I am right weary. Call thy slaves to thee, +And bid that they prepare the sleeping place. +O would that I might rest! I fain would rest, +And, no more wandering, tell a thankless world +My never-heeded tale!" + With that she called. +The moon was up, and some few stars were out, +While heavy at the heart he walked abroad +To meditate before his sleep. And yet +Niloiya pondered, "Shall my master go? +And will my master go? What 'vaileth it, +That he doth spend himself, over the waste +A wandering, till he reach outlandish folk, +That mock his warning? O, what 'vaileth it, +That he doth lavish wealth to build yon ark, +Whereat the daughters, when they eat with me, +Laugh? O my heart! I would the Voice were stilled. +Is not he happy? Who, of all the earth, +Obeyed like to me? Have not I learned +From his dear mouth to utter seemly words, +And lay the powers my mother gave me by? +Have I made offerings to the dragon? Nay, +And I am faithful, when he leaveth me +Lonely betwixt the peakéd mountain tops +In this long valley, where no stranger foot +Can come without my will. He shall not go. +Not yet, not yet! But three days--only three-- +Beside me, and a muttering on the third, +'I have heard the Voice again.' Be dull, O dull, +Mind and remembrance! Mother, ye did ill; +'T is hard unlawful knowledge not to use. +Why, O dark mother! opened ye the way?" +Yet when he entered, and did lay aside +His costly robe of sacrifice, the robe +Wherein he had been offering, ere the sun +Went down; forgetful of her mother's craft, +She lovely and submiss did mourn to him: +"Thou wilt not go,--I pray thee, do not go, +Till thou hast seen thy children." And he said, +"I will not. I have cried, and have prevailed: +To-morrow it is given me by the Voice +Upon a four days' journey to proceed, +And follow down the river, till its waves +Are swallowed in the sand, where no flesh dwells. + +"'There,' quoth the Unrevealed, 'we shall meet, +And I will counsel thee; and thou shalt turn +And rest thee with the mother, and with them +She bare.' Now, therefore, when the morn appears, +Thou fairest among women, call thy slaves, +And bid them yoke the steers, and spread thy car +With robes, the choicest work of cunning hands; +Array thee in thy rich apparel, deck +Thy locks with gold; and while the hollow vale +I thread beside yon river, go thou forth +Atween the mountains to my father's house, +And let thy slaves make all obeisance due, +And take and lay an offering at his feet. +Then light, and cry to him, 'Great king, the son +Of old Methuselah, thy son hath sent +To fetch the growing maids, his children, home.'" + +"Sir," quoth the woman, "I will do this thing, +So thou keep faith with me, and yet return. +But will the Voice, think you, forbear to chide, +Nor that Unseen, who calleth, buffet thee, +And drive thee on?" + He saith, "It will keep faith. +Fear not. I have prevailed, for I besought, +And lovingly it answered. I shall rest, +And dwell with thee till after my three sons +Come from the chase." She said, "I let them forth +In fear, for they are young. Their slaves are few. +The giant elephants be cunning folk; +They lie in ambush, and will draw men on +To follow,--then will turn and tread them down." +"Thy father's house unwisely planned," said he, +"To drive them down upon the growing corn +Of them that were their foes; for now, behold, +They suffer while the unwieldy beasts delay +Retirement to their lands, and, meanwhile, pound +The damp, deep meadows, to a pulpy mash; +Or wallowing in the waters foul them; nay, +Tread down the banks, and let them forth to flood +Their cities; or, assailed and falling, shake +The walls, and taint the wind, ere thirty men, +Over the hairy terror piling stones +Or earth, prevail to cover it." + She said, +"Husband, I have been sorry, thinking oft +I would my sons were home; but now so well +Methinks it is with me, that I am fain +To wish they might delay, for thou wilt dwell +With me till after they return, and thou +Hast set thine eyes upon them. Then,--ah, me! +I must sit joyless in my place; bereft, +As trees that suddenly have dropped their leaves, +And dark as nights that have no moon." + She spake: +The hope o' the world did hearken, but reply +Made none. He left his hand on her fair locks +As she lay sobbing; and the quietness +Of night began to comfort her, the fall +Of far-off waters, and the wingéd wind +That went among the trees. The patient hand, +Moreover, that was steady, wrought with her, +Until she said, "What wilt thou? Nay, I know. +I therefore answer what thou utterest not. +_Thou lovest me well, and not for thine own will +Consentest to depart_. What more? Ay, this: +_I do avow that He which calleth thee, +Hath right to call; and I do swear, the Voice +Shall have no let of me, to do Its will_." + + +BOOK II + +Now ere the sunrise, while the morning star +Hung yet behind the pine bough, woke and prayed +The world's great shipwright, and his soul was glad +Because the Voice was favorable. Now +Began the tap o' the hammer, now ran forth +The slaves preparing food. They therefore ate +In peace together; then Niloiya forth +Behind the milk-white steers went on her way; +And the great Master-builder, down the course +Of the long river, on his errand sped, +And as he went, he thought: + [They do not well +Who, walking up a trodden path, all smooth +With footsteps of their fellows, and made straight +From town to town, will scorn at them that worm +Under the covert of God's eldest trees +(Such as He planted with His hand, and fed +With dew before rain fell, till they stood close +And awful; drank the light up as it dropt, +And kept the dusk of ages at their roots); +They do not well who mock at such, and cry, +"We peaceably, without or fault or fear, +Proceed, and miss not of our end; but these +Are slow and fearful: with uncertain pace, +And ever reasoning of the way, they oft, +After all reasoning, choose the worser course, +And plunged in swamp, or in the matted growth +Nigh smothered struggle, all to reach a goal +Not worth their pains." Nor do they well whose work +Is still to feed and shelter them and theirs, +Get gain, and gathered store it, to think scorn +Of those who work for a world (no wages paid +By a Master hid in light), and sent alone +To face a laughing multitude, whose eyes +Are full of damaging pity, that forbears +To tell the harmless laborer, "Thou art mad."] + +And as he went, he thought: "They counsel me, +Ay, with a kind of reason in their talk, +'Consider; call thy soberer thought to aid; +Why to but one man should a message come? +And why, if but to one, to thee? Art thou +Above us, greater, wiser? Had He sent, +He had willed that we should heed. Then since He knoweth +That such as thou, a wise man cannot heed, +He did not send.' My answer, 'Great and wise, +If He had sent with thunder, and a voice +Leaping from heaven, ye must have heard; but so +Ye had been robbed of choice, and, like the beasts, +Yoked to obedience. God makes no men slaves,' +They tell me, 'God is great above thy thought: +He meddles not: and this small world is ours, +These many hundred years we govern it; +Old Adam, after Eden, saw Him not.' +Then I, 'It may be He is gone to knead +More clay. But look, my masters; one of you +Going to warfare, layeth up his gown, +His sickle, or his gold, and thinks no more +Upon it, till young trees have waxen great; +At last, when he returneth, he will seek +His own. And God, shall He not do the like? +And having set new worlds a-rolling, come +And say, "I will betake Me to the earth +That I did make": and having found it vile, +Be sorry. Why should man be free, you wise, +And not the Master?' Then they answer, 'Fool! +A man shall cast a stone into the air +For pastime, or for lack of heed,--but He! +Will He come fingering of His ended work, +Fright it with His approaching face, or snatch +One day the rolling wonder from its ring, +And hold it quivering, as a wanton child +Might take a nestling from its downy bed, +And having satisfied a careless wish, +Go thrust it back into its place again?' +To such I answer, and, that doubt once mine, +I am assured that I do speak aright: +'Sirs, the significance of this your doubt +Lies in the reason of it; ye do grudge +That these your lands should have another Lord; +Ye are not loyal, therefore ye would fain +Your King would bide afar. But if ye looked +For countenance and favor when He came, +Knowing yourselves right worthy, would ye care, +With cautious reasoning, deep and hard, to prove +That He would never come, and would your wrath +Be hot against a prophet? Nay, I wot +That as a flatterer you would look on him,-- +Full of sweet words thy mouth is: if He come,-- +We think not that He will,--but if He come, +Would it might be to-morrow, or to-night, +Because we look for praise.'" + + Now, as he went, +The noontide heats came on, and he grew faint; +But while he sat below an almug-tree, +A slave approached with greeting. "Master, hail!" +He answered, "Hail! what wilt thou?" Then she said, +"The palace of thy fathers standeth nigh." +"I know it," quoth he; and she said again, +"The Elder, learning thou wouldst pass, hath sent +To fetch thee"; then he rose and followed her. +So first they walked beneath a lofty roof +Of living bough and tendril, woven on high +To let no drop of sunshine through, and hung +With gold and purple fruitage, and the white +Thick cups of scented blossom. Underneath, +Soft grew the sward and delicate, and flocks +Of egrets, ay, and many cranes, stood up. +Fanning their wings, to agitate and cool +The noonday air, as men with heed and pains +Had taught them, marshalling and taming them +To bear the wind in, on their moving wings. +So long time as a nimble slave would spend +In milking of her cow, they walked at ease; +Then reached the palace, all of forest trunks, +Brought whole, and set together, made. Therein +Had dwelt old Adam, when his mighty sons +Had finished it, and up to Eden gate +Had journeyed for to fetch him. "Here," they said +"Mother and father, ye may dwell, and here +Forget the garden wholly." + So he came +Under the doorplace, and the women sat, +Each with her finger on her lips; but he, +Having been called, went on, until he reached +The jewelled settle, wrought with cunning work +Of gold and ivory, whereon they wont +To set the Elder. All with sleekest skins, +That striped and spotted creatures of the wood +Had worn, the seat was covered, but thereon +The Elder was not; by the steps thereof, +Upon the floor, whereto his silver beard +Did reach, he sat, and he was in his trance. +Upon the settle many doves were perched, +That set the air a going with their wings: +These opposite, the world's great shipwright stood +To wait the burden; and the Elder spake: +"Will He forget me? Would He might forget! +Old, old! The hope of old Methuselah +Is all in His forgetfulness." With that, +A slave-girl took a cup of wine, and crept +Anear him, saying, "Taste"; and when his lips +Had touched it, lo, he trembled, and he cried, +"Behold, I prophesy." + Then straight they fled +That were about him, and did stand apart +And stop their ears. For he, from time to time, +Was plagued with that same fate to prophesy, +And spake against himself, against his day +And time, in words that all men did abhor. +Therefore, he warning them what time the fit +Came on him, saved them, that they heard it not +So while they fled, he cried: "I saw the God +Reach out of heaven His wonderful right hand. +Lo, lo! He dipped it in the unquiet sea, +And in its curved palm behold the ark, +As in a vast calm lake, came floating on. +Ay, then, His other hand--the cursing hand-- +He took and spread between us and the sun. +And all was black; the day was blotted out, +And horrible staggering took the frighted earth. +I heard the water hiss, and then methinks +The crack as of her splitting. Did she take +Their palaces that are my brothers dear, +And huddle them with all their ancientry +Under into her breast? If it was black, +How could this old man see? There was a noise +I' the dark, and He drew back His hand again. +I looked,--It was a dream,--let no man say +It was aught else. There, so--the fit goes by. +Sir, and my daughters, is it eventide?-- +Sooner than that, saith old Methuselah, +Let the vulture lay his beak to my green limbs. +What! art Thou envious?--are the sons of men +Too wise to please Thee, and to do Thy will? +Methuselah, he sitteth on the ground, +Clad in his gown of age, the pale white gown, +And goeth not forth to war; his wrinkled hands +He claspeth round his knees: old, very old. +Would he could steal from Thee one secret more-- +The secret of Thy youth! O, envious God! +We die. The words of old Methuselah +And his prophecy are ended." + + Then the wives, +Beholding how he trembled, and the maids +And children, came anear, saying, "Who art thou +That standest gazing on the Elder? Lo, +Thou dost not well: withdraw; for it was thou +Whose stranger presence troubled him, and brought +The fit of prophecy." And he did turn +To look upon them, and their majesty +And glorious beauty took away his words; +And being pure among the vile, he cast +In his thought a veil of snow-white purity +Over the beauteous throng. "Thou dost not well," +They said. He answered: "Blossoms o' the world, +Fruitful as fair, never in watered glade, +Where in the youngest grass blue cups push forth, +And the white lily reareth up her head, +And purples cluster, and the saffron flower +Clear as a flame of sacrifice breaks out, +And every cedar bough, made delicate +With climbing roses, drops in white and red,-- +Saw I (good angels keep you in their care) +So beautiful a crowd." + + With that, they stamped, +Gnashed their white teeth, and turning, fled and spat +Upon the floor. The Elder spake to him, +Yet shaking with the burden, "Who art thou?" +He answered, "I, the man whom thou didst send +To fetch through this thy woodland, do forbear +To tell my name; thou lovest it not, great sire,-- +No, nor mine errand. To thy house I spake, +Touching their beauty." "Wherefore didst thou spite," +Quoth he, "the daughters?" and it seemed he lost +Count of that prophecy, for very age, +And from his thin lips dropt a trembling laugh. +"Wicked old man," quoth he, "this wise old man +I see as 't were not I. Thou bad old man, +What shall be done to thee? for thou didst burn +Their babes, and strew the ashes all about, +To rid the world of His white soldiers. Ay, +Scenting of human sacrifice, they fled. +Cowards! I heard them winnow their great wings: +They went to tell Him; but they came no more. +The women hate to hear of them, so sore +They grudged their little ones; and yet no way +There was but that. I took it; I did well." + +With that he fell to weeping. "Son," said he, +"Long have I hid mine eyes from stalwart men, +For it is hard to lose the majesty +And pride and power of manhood: but to-day, +Stand forth into the light, that I may look +Upon thy strength, and think, EVEN THUS DID I, +IN THE GLORY OF MY YOUTH, MORE LIKE TO GOD +THAN LIKE HIS SOLDIERS, FACE THE VASSAL WORLD." + +Then Noah stood forward in his majesty, +Shouldering the golden billhook, wherewithal +He wont to cut his way, when tangled in +The matted hayes. And down the opened roof +Fell slanting beams upon his stately head, +And streamed along his gown, and made to shine +The jewelled sandals on his feet. + + And, lo, +The Elder cried aloud: "I prophesy. +Behold, my son is as a fruitful field +When all the lands are waste. The archers drew,-- +They drew the bow against him; they were fain +To slay: but he shall live,--my son shall live, +And I shall live by him in the other days. +Behold the prophet of the Most High God: +Hear him. Behold the hope o' the world, what time +She lieth under. Hear him; he shall save +A seed alive, and sow the earth with man. +O, earth! earth! earth! a floating shell of wood +Shall hold the remnant of thy mighty lords +Will this old man be in it? Sir, and you +My daughters, hear him! Lo, this white old man +He sitteth on the ground. (Let be, let be: +Why dost Thou trouble us to make our tongue +Ring with abhorred words?) The prophecy +Of the Elder, and the vision that he saw, +They both are ended." + + Then said Noah: "The life +Of this my lord is low for very age: +Why then, with bitter words upon thy tongue, +Father-of Lamech, dost thou anger Him? +Thou canst not strive against Him now." He said: +"Thy feet are toward the valley, where lie bones +Bleaching upon the desert. Did I love +The lithe strong lizards that I yoked and set +To draw my car? and were they not possessed? +Yea, all of them were liars. I loved them well. +What did the Enemy, but on a day +When I behind my talking team went forth, +They sweetly lying, so that all men praised +Their flattering tongues and mild persuasive eyes,-- +What did the Enemy but send His slaves, +Angels, to cast down stones upon their heads +And break them? Nay, I could not stir abroad +But havoc came; they never crept or flew +Beyond the shelter that I builded here. +But straight the crowns I had set upon their heads +Were marks for myrmidons that in the clouds +Kept watch to crush them. Can a man forgive +That hath been warred on thus? I will not. Nay, +I swear it,--I, the man Methuselah." +The Master-shipwright, he replied, "'Tis true, +Great loss was that; but they that stood thy friends, +The wicked spirits, spoke upon their tongues, +And cursed the God of heaven. What marvel, sir, +If He was angered?" But the Elder cried, +"They all are dead,--the toward beasts I loved; +My goodly team, my joy, they all are dead; +Their bones lie bleaching in the wilderness: +And I will keep my wrath for evermore +Against the Enemy that slew them. Go, +Thou coward servant of a tyrant King, +Go down the desert of the bones, and ask, +'My King, what bones are these? Methuselah, +The white old man that sitteth on the ground, +Sendeth a message, "Bid them that they live, +And let my lizards run up every path +They wont to take when out of silver pipes, +The pipes that Tubal wrought into my roof, +I blew a sweeter cry than song-bird's throat +Hath ever formed; and while they laid their heads +Submiss upon my threshold, poured away +Music that welled by heartsful out, and made +The throats of men that heard to swell, their breasts +To heave with the joy of grief; yea, caused the lips +To laugh of men asleep. + Return to me +The great wise lizards; ay, and them that flew +My pursuivants before me. Let me yoke +Again that multitude; and here I swear +That they shall draw my car and me thereon +Straight to the ship of doom. So men shall know +My loyalty, that I submit, and Thou +Shalt yet have honor. O mine Enemy, +By me. The speech of old Methuselah."'" +Then Noah made answer, "By the living God, +That is no enemy to men, great sire, +I will not take thy message; hear thou Him. +'Behold (He saith that suffereth thee), behold, +The earth that I made green cries out to Me, +Red with the costly blood of beauteous man. +I am robbed, I am robbed (He saith); they sacrifice +To evil demons of My blameless flocks, +That I did fashion with My hand. Behold, +How goodly was the world! I gave it thee +Fresh from its finishing. What hast thou done? +I will cry out to the waters, _Cover it_, +_And hide it from its Father. Lo, Mine eyes_ +_Turn from it shamed._'" + + With that the old man laughed +Full softly. "Ay," quoth he, "a goodly world, +And we have done with it as we did list. +Why did He give it us? Nay, look you, son: +Five score they were that died in yonder waste; +And if He crieth, 'Repent, be reconciled,' +I answer, 'Nay, my lizards'; and again, +If He will trouble me in this mine age, +'Why hast Thou slain my lizards?' Now my speech +Is cut away from all my other words, +Standing alone. The Elder sweareth it, +The man of many days, Methuselah." +Then answered Noah, "My Master, hear it not; +But yet have patience"; and he turned himself, +And down betwixt the ordered trees went forth, +And in the light of evening made his way +Into the waste to meet the Voice of God. + + +BOOK III. + +Above the head of great Methuselah +There lay two demons in the opened roof +Invisible, and gathered up his words; +For when the Elder prophesied, it came +About, that hidden things were shown to them, +And burdens that he spake against his time. + +(But never heard them, such as dwelt with him; +Their ears they stopped, and willed to live at ease +In all delight; and perfect in their youth, +And strong, disport them in the perfect world.) + +Now these were fettered that they could not fly, +For a certain disobedience they had wrought +Against the ruler of their host; but not +The less they loved their cause; and when the feet +O' the Master-builder were no longer heard, +They, slipping to the sward, right painfully +Did follow, for the one to the other said, +"Behoves our master know of this; and us, +Should he be favorable, he may loose +From these our bonds." + + And thus it came to pass, +That while at dead of night the old dragon lay +Coiled in the cavern where he dwelt, the watch +Pacing before it saw in middle air +A boat, that gleamed like fire, and on it came, +And rocked as it drew near, and then it burst +And went to pieces, and there fell therefrom, +Close at the cavern's mouth, two glowing balls. + +Now there was drawn a curtain nigh the mouth +Of that deep cave, to testify of wrath. +The dragon had been wroth with some that served, +And chased them from him; and his oracles, +That wont to drop from him, were stopped, and men +Might only pray to him through that fell web +That hung before him. Then did whisper low +Some of the little spirits that bat-like clung +And clustered round the opening. "Lo," they said, +While gazed the watch upon those glowing balls, +"These are like moons eclipsed; but let them lie +Red on the moss, and sear its dewy spires, +Until our lord give leave to draw the web, +And quicken reverence by his presence dread, +For he will know and call to them by name, +And they will change. At present he is sick, +And wills that none disturb him." So they lay, +And there was silence, for the forest tribes +Came never near that cave. Wiser than men, +They fled the serpent hiss that oft by night +Came forth of it, and feared the wan dusk forms +That stalked among the trees, and in the dark +Those whiffs of flame that wandered up the sky +And made the moonlight sickly. + + Now, the cave +Was marvellous for beauty, wrought with tools +Into the living rock, for there had worked +All cunning men, to cut on it with signs +And shows, yea, all the manner of mankind. +The fateful apple-tree was there, a bough +Bent with the weight of him that us beguiled; +And lilies of the field did seem to blow +And bud in the storied stone. There Tubal sat, +Who from his harp delivered music, sweet +As any in the spheres. Yea, more; +Earth's latest wonder, on the walls appeared, +Unfinished, workmen clustering on its ribs; +And farther back, within the rock hewn out, +Angelic figures stood, that impious hands +Had fashioned; many golden lamps they held +By golden chains depending, and their eyes +All tended in a reverend quietude +Toward the couch whereon the dragon lay. +The floor was beaten gold; the curly lengths +Of his last coils lay on it, hid from sight +With a coverlet made stiff with crusting gems, +Fire opals shooting, rubies, fierce bright eyes +Of diamonds, or the pale green emerald, +That changed their lustre when he breathed. + + His head +Feathered with crimson combs, and all his neck, +And half-shut fans of his admired wings, +That in their scaly splendor put to shame +Or gold or stone, lay on his ivory couch +And shivered; for the dragon suffered pain: +He suffered and he feared. It was his doom, +The tempter, that he never should depart +From the bright creature that in Paradise +He for his evil purpose erst possessed, +Until it died. Thus only, spirit of might +And chiefest spirit of ill, could he be free. + +But with its nature wed, as souls of men +Are wedded to their clay, he took the dread +Of death and dying, and the coward heart +Of the beast, and craven terrors of the end +Sank him that habited within it to dread +Disunion. He, a dark dominion erst +Rebellious, lay and trembled, for the flesh +Daunted his immaterial. He was sick +And sorry. Great ones of the earth had sent +Their chief musicians for to comfort him, +Chanting his praise, the friend of man, the god +That gave them knowledge, at so great a price +And costly. Yea, the riches of the mine, +And glorious broidered work, and woven gold, +And all things wisely made, they at his feet +Laid daily; for they said, "This mighty one, +All the world wonders after him. He lieth +Sick in his dwelling; he hath long foregone +(To do us good) dominion, and a throne, +And his brave warfare with the Enemy, +So much he pitieth us that were denied +The gain and gladness of this knowledge. Now +Shall he be certified of gratitude, +And smell the sacrifice that most he loves." + +The night was dark, but every lamp gave forth +A tender, lustrous beam. His beauteous wings +The dragon fluttered, cursed awhile, then turned +And moaned with lamentable voice, "I thirst, +Give me to drink." Thereon stepped out in haste, +From inner chambers, lovely ministrants, +Young boys, with radiant locks and peaceful eyes, +And poured out liquor from their cups, to cool +His parched tongue, and kneeling held it nigh +In jewelled basins sparkling; and he lapped, +And was appeased, and said, "I will not hide +Longer, my much desired face from men. +Draw back the web of separation." Then +With cries of gratulation ran they forth, +And flung it wide, and all the watch fell low, +Each on his face, as drunk with sudden joy. +Thus marked he, glowing on the branched moss, +Those red rare moons, and let his serpent eyes +Consider them full subtly, "What be these?" +Enquiring: and the little spirits said, +"As we for thy protection (having heard +That wrathful sons of darkness walk, to-night, +Such as do oft ill use us), clustered here, +We marked a boat a-fire that sailed the skies, +And furrowed up like spray a billowy cloud, +And, lo, it went to pieces, scattering down +A rain of sparks and these two angry moons." +Then said the dragon, "Let my guard, and you, +Attendant hosts, recede"; and they went back, +And formed about the cave a widening ring, +Then halting, stood afar; and from the cave +The snaky wonder spoke, with hissing tongue, +"If ye were Tartis and Deleisonon, +Be Tartis and Deleisonon once more." + +Then egg-like cracked the glowing balls, and forth +Started black angels, trampling hard to free +Their fettered feet from out the smoking shell. + +And he said, "Tartis and Deleisonon, +Your lord I am: draw nigh." "Thou art our lord," +They answered, and with fettered limbs full low +They bent, and made obeisance. Furthermore, +"O fiery flying serpent, after whom +The nations go, let thy dominion last," +They said, "forever." And the serpent said, +"It shall: unfold your errand." They replied, +One speaking for a space, and afterward +His fellow taking up the word with fear +And panting, "We were set to watch the mouth +Of great Methuselah. There came to him +The son of Lamech two days since. My lord, +They prophesied, the Elder prophesied, +Unwitting, of the flood of waters,--ay, +A vision was before him, and the lands +Lay under water drowned: he saw the ark,-- +It floated in the Enemy's right hand." +Lord of the lost, the son of Lamech fled +Into the wilderness to meet His voice +That reigneth; and we, diligent to hear +Aught that might serve thee, followed, but, forbid +To enter, lay upon its boundary cliff, +And wished for morning. + + "When the dawn was red, +We sought the man, we marked him; and he prayed,-- +Kneeling, he prayed in the valley, and he said--" +"Nay," quoth the serpent, "spare me, what devout +He fawning grovelled to the All-powerful; +But if of what shall hap he aught let fall, +Speak that." They answered, "He did pray as one +That looketh to outlive mankind,--and more, +We are certified by all his scattered words, +That HE will take from men their length of days, +And cut them off like grass in its first flower: +From henceforth this shall be." + + That when he heard, +The dragon made to the night his moan. + + "And more," +They said, "that He above would have men know +That He doth love them, whoso will repent, +To that man he is favorable, yea, +Will be his loving Lord." + + The dragon cried, +"The last is worse than all. O, man, thy heart +Is stout against His wrath. But will He love? +I heard it rumored in the heavens of old, +(And doth He love?) Thou wilt not, canst not, stand +Against the love of God. Dominion fails; +I see it float from me, that long have worn +Fetters of flesh to win it. Love of God! +I cry against thee; thou art worse than all." +They answered, "Be not moved, admired chief +And trusted of mankind"; and they went on, +And fed him with the prophecies that fell +From the Master-shipwright in his prayer. + + But prone +He lay, for he was sick: at every word +Prophetic cowering. As a bruising blow, +It fell upon his head and daunted him, +Until they ended, saying, "Prince, behold, +Thy servants have revealed the whole." + + Thereon +He out of snaky lips did hiss forth thanks. +Then said he, "Tartis and Deleisonon, +Receive your wages." So their fetters fell; +And they retiring, lauded him, and cried, +"King, reign forever." Then he mourned, "Amen." + +And he,--being left alone,--he said: "A light! +I see a light,--a star among the trees,-- +An angel." And it drew toward the cave, +But with its sacred feet touched not the grass, +Nor lifted up the lids of its pure eyes, +But hung a span's length from that ground pollute, +At the opening of the cave. + + And when he looked, +The dragon cried, "Thou newly-fashioned thing, +Of name unknown, thy scorn becomes thee not. +Doth not thy Master suffer what thine eyes +Thou countest all too clean to open on?" +But still it hovered, and the quietness +Of holy heaven was on the drooping lids; +And not as one that answereth, it let fall +The music from its mouth, but like to one +That doth not hear, or, hearing, doth not heed. + +"A message: 'I have heard thee, while remote +I went My rounds among the unfinished stars.' +A message: 'I have left thee to thy ways, +And mastered all thy vileness, for thy hate +I have made to serve the ends of My great love. +Hereafter will I chain thee down. To-day +One thing thou art forbidden; now thou knowest +The name thereof: I told it thee in heaven, +When thou wert sitting at My feet. Forbear +To let that hidden thing be whispered forth: +For man, ungrateful (and thy hope it was, +That so ungrateful he might prove), would scorn, +And not believe it, adding so fresh weight +Of condemnation to the doomed world. +Concerning that, thou art forbid to speak; +Know thou didst count it, falling from My tongue, +A lovely song, whose meaning was unknown, +Unknowable, unbearable to thought, +But sweeter in the hearing than all harps +Toned in My holy hollow. Now thine ears +Are opened, know it, and discern and fear, +Forbearing speech of it for evermore.'" + +So said, it turned, and with a cry of joy, +As one released, went up: and it was dawn, +And all boughs dropped with dew, and out of mist +Came the red sun and looked into the cave. + +But the dragon, left a-tremble, called to him, +From the nether kingdom, certain of his friends,-- +Three whom he trusted, councillors accursed. +A thunder-cloud stooped low and swathed the place +In its black swirls, and out of it they rushed, +And hid them in recesses of the cave, +Because they could not look upon the sun, +Sith light is pure. And Satan called to them,-- +All in the dark, in his great rage he spake: +"Up," quoth the dragon; "it is time to work, +Or we are all undone." And he did hiss, +And there came shudderings over land and trees, +A dimness after dawn. The earth threw out +A blinding fog, that crept toward the cave, +And rolled up blank before it like a veil,-- +curtain to conceal its habiters. +Then did those spirits move upon the floor, +Like pillars of darkness, and with eyes aglow. +One had a helm for covering of the scars +That seamed what rested of a goodly face; +He wore his vizor up, and all his words +Were hollower than an echo from the hills: +He was hight Make. And, lo, his fellow-fiend +Came after, holding down his dastard head, +Like one ashamed: now this for craft was great; +The dragon honored him. A third sat down +Among them, covering with his wasted hand +Somewhat that pained his breast. + + And when the fit +Of thunder, and the sobbings of the wind, +Were lulled, the dragon spoke with wrath and rage, +And told them of his matters: "Look to this, +If ye be loyal"; adding, "Give your thoughts, +And let me have your counsel in this need." + +One spirit rose and spake, and all the cave +Was full of sighs, "The words of Make the Prince, +Of him once delegate in Betelgeux: +Whereas of late the manner is to change, +We know not where 't will end; and now my words +Go thus: give way, be peaceable, lie still +And strive not, else the world that we have won +He may, to drive us out, reduce to naught. + +"For while I stood in mine obedience yet, +Steering of Betelgeux my sun, behold, +A moon, that evil ones did fill, rolled up +Astray, and suddenly the Master came, +And while, a million strong, like rooks they rose, +He took and broke it, flung it here and there, +And called a blast to drive the powder forth; +And it was fine as dust, and blurred the skies +Farther than 'tis from hence to this young sun. +Spirits that passed upon their work that day, +Cried out, 'How dusty 'tis.' Behoves us, then, +That we depart, as leaving unto Him +This goodly world and goodly race of man. +Not all are doomed; hereafter it may be +That we find place on it again. But if, +Too zealous to preserve it, and the men +Our servants, we oppose Him, He may come +And choosing rather to undo His work +Than strive with it for aye, make so an end." + +He sighing paused. Lo, then the serpent hissed +In impotent rage, "Depart! and how depart! +Can flesh be carried down where spirits wonn? +Or I, most miserable, hold my life +Over the airless, bottomless gulf, and bide +The buffetings of yonder shoreless sea? +O death, thou terrible doom: O death, thou dread +Of all that breathe." + A spirit rose and spake; +"Whereas in Heaven is power, is much to fear; +For this admired country we have marred. +Whereas in Heaven is love (and there are days +When yet I can recall what love was like), +Is naught to fear. A threatening makes the whole, +And clogged with strong conditions: 'O, repent, +Man, and I turn,' He, therefore, powerful now, +And more so, master, that ye bide in clay, +Threateneth that He may save. They shall not die." + +The dragon said, "I tremble, I am sick." +He said with pain of heart, "How am I fallen! +For I keep silence; yea, I have withdrawn +From haunting of His gates, and shouting up +Defiance. Wherefore doth He hunt me out +From this small world, this little one, that I +Have been content to take unto myself, +I here being loved and worshipped? He knoweth +How much I have foregone; and must He stoop +To whelm the world, and heave the floors o' the deep, +Of purpose to pursue me from my place? +And since I gave men knowledge, must He take +Their length of days whereby they perfect it? +So shall He scatter all that I have stored, +And get them by degrading them. I know +That in the end it is appointed me +To fade. I will not fade before the time." + +A spirit rose, the third, a spirit ashamed +And subtle, and his face he turned aside: +"Whereas," said he, "we strive against both power +And love, behoves us that we strive aright. +Now some of old my comrades, yesterday +I met, as they did journey to appear +In the Presence; and I said, 'My master lieth +Sick yonder, otherwise (for no decree +There stands against it) he would also come +And make obeisance with the sons of God.' +They answered, naught denying. Therefore, lord, +'Tis certain that ye have admittance yet; +And what doth hinder? Nothing but this breath. +Were it not well to make an end, and die, +And gain admittance to the King of kings? +What if thy slaves by thy consent should take +And bear thee on their wings above the earth, +And suddenly let fall,--how soon 't were o'er! +We should have fear and sinking at the heart; +But in a little moment we should see, +Rising majestic from a ruined heap, +The stately spirit that we served of yore." + +The serpent turned his subtle deadly eyes +Upon the spirit, and hissed; and sick with shame, +It bowed itself together, and went back +With hidden face. "This counsel is not good," +The other twain made answer; "look, my lord, +Whereas 'tis evil in thine eyes, in ours +'Tis evil also; speak, for we perceive +That on thy tongue the words of counsel sit, +Ready to fly to our right greedy ears, +That long for them." And Satan, flattered thus +(Forever may the serpent kind be charmed, +With soft sweet words, and music deftly played), +Replied, "Whereas I surely rule the world, +Behoves that ye prepare for me a path, +And that I, putting of my pains aside, +Go stir rebellion in the mighty hearts +O' the giants; for He loveth them, and looks +Full oft complacent on their glorious strength. +He willeth that they yield, that He may spare; +But, by the blackness of my loathed den, +I say they shall not, no, they shall not yield; +Go, therefore, take to you some harmless guise, +And spread a rumor that I come. I, sick, +Sorry, and aged, hasten. I have heard +Whispers that out of heaven dropped unaware. +I caught them up, and sith they bode men harm, +I am ready for to comfort them; yea, more, +To counsel, and I will that they drive forth +The women, the abhorréd of my soul; +Let not a woman breathe where I shall pass, +Lest the curse fall, and that she bruise my head. +Friends, if it be their mind to send for me +An army, and triumphant draw me on +In the golden car ye wot of, and with shouts, +I would not that ye hinder them. Ah, then +Will I make hard their hearts, and grieve Him sore, +That loves them, O, by much too well to wet +Their stately heads, and soil those locks of strength +Under the fateful brine. Then afterward, +While He doth reason vainly with them, I +Will offer Him a pact: 'Great King, a pact, +And men shall worship Thee, I say they shall, +For I will bid them do it, yea, and leave +To sacrifice their kind, so Thou my name +Wilt suffer to be worshipped after Thine.'" + +"Yea, my lord Satan," quoth they, "do this thing, +And let us hear thy words, for they are sweet." + +Then he made answer, "By a messenger +Have I this day been warned. There is a deed +I may not tell of, lest the people add +Scorn to a Coming Greatness to their faults. +Why this? Who careth when about to slay, +And slay indeed, how well they have deserved +Death, whom he slayeth? Therefore yet is hid +A meaning of some mercy that will rob +The nether world. Now look to it,--'Twere vain +Albeit this deluge He would send indeed, +That we expect the harvest; He would yet +Be the Master-reaper; for I heard it said, +Them that be young and know Him not, and them +That are bound and may not build, yea, more, their wives, +Whom, suffering not to hear the doom, they keep +Joyous behind the curtains, every one +With maidens nourished in the house, and babes +And children at her knees,--(then what remain!) +He claimeth and will gather for His own. +Now, therefore, it were good by guile to work, +Princes, and suffer not the doom to fall. +There is no evil like to love. I heard +Him whisper it. Have I put on this flesh +To ruin his two children beautiful, +And shall my deed confound me in the end, +Through awful imitation? Love of God, +I cry against thee; thou art worst of all." + + +BOOK IV. + +Now while these evil ones took counsel strange, +The son of Lamech journeyed home; and, lo! +A company came down, and struck the track +As he did enter it. There rode in front +Two horsemen, young and noble, and behind +Were following slaves with tent gear; others led +Strong horses, others bare the instruments +O' the chase, and in the rear dull camels lagged, +Sighing, for they were burdened, and they loved +The desert sands above that grassy vale. + +And as they met, those horsemen drew the rein, +And fixed on him their grave untroubled eyes; +He in his regal grandeur walked alone, +And had nor steed nor follower, and his mien +Was grave and like to theirs. He said to them, +"Fair sirs, whose are ye?" They made answer cold, +"The beautiful woman, sir, our mother dear, +Niloiya, bear us to great Lamech's son." +And he, replying, "I am he." They said, +"We know it, sir. We have remembered you +Through many seasons. Pray you let us not; +We fain would greet our mother." And they made +Obeisance and passed on; then all their train, +Which while they spoke had halted, moved apace, +And, while the silent father stood, went by, +He gazing after, as a man that dreams; +For he was sick with their cold, quiet scorn, +That seemed to say, "Father, we own you not. +We love you not, for you have left us long,-- +So long, we care not that you come again." + +And while the sullen camels moved, he spake +To him that led the last, "There are but two +Of these my sons; but where doth Japhet ride? +For I would see him." And the leader said, +"Sir, ye shall find him, if ye follow up +Along the track. Afore the noonday meal +The young men, even our masters, bathed; (there grows +A clump of cedars by the bend of yon +Clear river)--there did Japhet, after meat, +Being right weary, lay him down and sleep. +There, with a company of slaves and some +Few camels, ye shall find him." + + And the man +The father of these three, did let him pass, +And struggle and give battle to his heart, +Standing as motionless as pillar set +To guide a wanderer in a pathless waste; +But all his strength went from him, and he strove +Vainly to trample out and trample down +The misery of his love unsatisfied,-- +Unutterable love flung in his face. + +Then he broke out in passionate words, that cried +Against his lot, "I have lost my own, and won +None other; no, not one! Alas, my sons! +That I have looked to for my solacing, +In the bitterness to come. My children dear!" +And when from his own lips he heard those words, +With passionate stirring of the heart, he wept. + +And none came nigh to comfort him. His face +Was on the ground; but, having wept, he rose +Full hastily, and urged his way to find +The river; and in hollow of his hand +Raised up the water to his brow: "This son, +This other son of mine," he said, "shall see +No tears upon my face." And he looked on, +Beheld the camels, and a group of slaves +Sitting apart from some one fast asleep, +Where they had spread out webs of broidery work +Under a cedar-tree; and he came on, +And when they made obeisance he declared +His name, and said, "I will beside my son +Sit till he wakeneth." So Japhet lay +A-dreaming, and his father drew to him. +He said, "This cannot scorn me yet"; and paused, +Right angry with himself, because the youth, +Albeit of stately growth, so languidly +Lay with a listless smile upon his mouth, +That was full sweet and pure; and as he looked, +He half forgot his trouble in his pride. +"And is this mine?" said he, "my son! mine own! +(God, thou art good!) O, if this turn away, +That pang shall be past bearing. I must think +That all the sweetness of his goodly face +Is copied from his soul. How beautiful +Are children to their fathers! Son, my heart +Is greatly glad because of thee; my life +Shall lack of no completeness in the days +To come. If I forget the joy of youth, +In thee shall I be comforted; ay, see +My youth, a dearer than my own again." + +And when he ceased, the youth, with sleep content, +Murmured a little, turned himself and woke. + +He woke, and opened on his father's face +The darkness of his eyes; but not a word +The Master-shipwright said,--his lips were sealed; +He was not ready, for he feared to see +This mouth curl up with scorn. And Japhet spoke, +Full of the calm that cometh after sleep: +"Sir, I have dreamed of you. I pray you, sir, +What is your name?" and even with his words +His countenance changed. The son of Lamech said, +"Why art thou sad? What have I done to thee?" +And Japhet answered, "O, methought I fled +In the wilderness before a maddened beast, +And you came up and slew it; and I thought +You were my father; but I fear me, sir, +My thoughts were vain." With that his father said, +"Whatever of blessing Thou reserv'st for me, +God! if Thou wilt not give to both, give here: +Bless him with both Thy hands"; and laid his own +On Japhet's head. + Then Japhet looked on him, +Made quiet by content, and answered low, +With faltering laughter, glad and reverent: "Sir, +You are my father?" "Ay," quoth he, "I am! +Kiss me, my son; and let me hear my name, +My much desiréd name, from your dear lips." + +Then after, rested, they betook them home: +And Japhet, walking by the Master, thought, +"I did not will to love this sire of mine; +But now I feel as if I had always known +And loved him well; truly, I see not why, +But I would rather serve him than go free +With my two brethren." And he said to him, +"Father!"--who answered, "I am here, my son." +And Japhet said, "I pray you, sir, attend +To this my answer: let me go with you, +For, now I think on it, I do not love +The chase, nor managing the steed, nor yet +The arrows and the bow; but rather you, +For all you do and say, and you yourself, +Are goodly and delightsome in mine eyes. +I pray you, sir, when you go forth again, +That I may also go." And he replied, +"I will tell thy speech unto the Highest; He +Shall answer it. But I would speak to thee +Now of the days to come. Know thou, most dear +To this thy father, that the drenched world, +When risen clean washed from water, shall receive +From thee her lordliest governors, from thee +Daughters of noblest soul." + So Japhet said, +"Sir, I am young, but of my mother straight +I will go ask a wife, that this may be. +I pray you, therefore, as the manner is +Of fathers, give me land that I may reap +Corn for sustaining of my wife, and bruise +The fruit of the vine to cheer her." But he said, +"Dost thou forget? or dost thou not believe, +My son?" He answered, "I did ne'er believe, +My father, ere to-day; but now, methinks, +Whatever thou believest I believe, +For thy belovéd sake. If this then be +As thou (I hear) hast said, and earth doth bear +The last of her wheat harvests, and make ripe +The latest of her grapes; yet hear me, sir, +None of the daughters shall be given to me +If I be landless." Then his father said, +"Lift up thine eyes toward the north, my son" +And so he did. "Behold thy heritage!" +Quoth the world's prince and master, "far away +Upon the side o' the north, where green the field +Lies every season through, and where the dews +Of heaven are wholesome, shall thy children reign; +I part it to them, for the earth is mine; +The Highest gave it me: I make it theirs. +Moreover, for thy marriage gift, behold +The cedars where thou sleepedst! There are vines; +And up the rise is growing wheat. I give +(For all, alas! is mine),--I give thee both +For dowry, and my blessing." + And he said, +"Sir, you are good, and therefore the Most High +Shall bless me also. Sir, I love you well." + + +BOOK V. + +And when two days were over, Japhet said, +"Mother, so please you, get a wife for me." +The mother answered, "Dost thou mock me, son? +'Tis not the manner of our kin to wed +So young. Thou knowest it; art thou not ashamed? +Thou carest not for a wife." And the youth blushed, +And made for answer: "This, my father, saith +The doom is nigh; now therefore find a maid, +Or else shall I be wifeless all my days. +And as for me, I care not; but the lands +Are parted, and the goodliest share is mine. +And lo! my brethren are betrothed; their maids +Are with thee in the house. Then why not mine? +Didst thou not diligently search for these +Among the noblest born of all the earth, +And bring them up? My sisters, dwell they not +With women that bespake them for their sons? +Now, therefore, let a wife be found for me, +Fair as the day, and gentle to my will +As thou art to my father's." When she heard, +Niloiya sighed, and answered, "It is well." +And Japhet went out from her presence. + Then +Quoth the great Master: "Wherefore sought ye not, +Woman, these many days, nor tired at all, +Till ye had found, a maiden for my son? +In this ye have done ill." Niloiya said: +"Let not my lord be angry. All my soul +Is sad: my lord hath walked afar so long, +That some despise thee; yea, our servants fail +Lately to bring their stint of corn and wood. +And, sir, thy household slaves do steal away +To thy great father, and our lands lie waste,-- +None till them: therefore think the women scorn +To give me,--whatsoever gems I send, +And goodly raiment,--(yea, I seek afar, +And sue with all desire and humbleness +Through every master's house, but no one gives)-- +A daughter for my son." With that she ceased. + +Then said the Master: "Some thou hast with thee, +Brought up among thy children, dutiful +And fair; thy father gave them for my slaves,-- +Children of them whom he brought captive forth +From their own heritage." And she replied, +Right scornfully: "Shall Japhet wed a slave?" +Then said the Master: "He shall wed: look thou +To that. I say not he shall wed a slave; +But by the might of One that made him mine, +I will not quit thee for my doomed way +Until thou wilt betroth him. Therefore, haste, +Beautiful woman, loved of me and mine, +To bring a maiden, and to say, 'Behold +A wife for Japhet.'" Then she answered, "Sir, +It shall be done." + And forth Niloiya sped. +She gathered all her jewels,--all she held +Of costly or of rich,--and went and spake +With some few slaves that yet abode with her, +For daily they were fewer; and went forth, +With fair and flattering words, among her feres, +And fain had wrought with them: and she had hope +That made her sick, it was so faint; and then +She had fear, and after she had certainty, +For all did scorn her. "Nay," they cried. "O fool! +If this be so, and on a watery world +Ye think to rock, what matters if a wife +Be free or bond? There shall be none to rule, +If she have freedom: if she have it not, +None shall there be to serve." + And she alit, +The time being done, desponding at her door, +And went behind a screen, where should have wrought +The daughters of the captives; but there wrought +One only, and this rose from off the floor, +Where she the river rush full deftly wove, +And made obeisance. Then Niloiya said, +"Where are thy fellows?" And the maid replied, +"Let not Niloiya, this my lady loved, +Be angry; they are fled since yesternight." +Then said Niloiya, "Amarant, my slave, +When have I called thee by thy name before?" +She answered, "Lady, never"; and she took +And spread her broidered robe before her face. +Niloiya spoke thus: "I am come to woe, +And thou to honor." Saying this, she wept +Passionate tears; and all the damsel's soul +Was full of yearning wonder, and her robe +Slipped from her hand, and her right innocent face +Was seen betwixt her locks of tawny hair +That dropped about her knees, and her two eyes, +Blue as the much-loved flower that rims the beck, +Looked sweetly on Niloiya; but she knew +No meaning in her words; and she drew nigh, +And kneeled and said, "Will this my lady speak? +Her damsel is desirous of her words." +Then said Niloiya, "I, thy mistress, sought +A wife for Japhet, and no wife is found." +And yet again she wept with grief of heart, +Saying, "Ah me, miserable! I must give +A wife: the Master willeth it: a wife, +Ah me! unto the high-born. He will scorn +His mother and reproach me. I must give-- +None else have I to give--a slave,--even thee." +This further spake Niloiya: "I was good,-- +Had rue on thee, a tender sucking child, +When they did tear thee from thy mother's breast; +I fed thee, gave thee shelter, and I taught +Thy hands all cunning arts that women prize. +But out on me! my good is turned to ill. +O, Japhet, well-beloved!" And she rose up, +And did restrain herself, saying, "Dost thou heed? +Behold, this thing shall be." The damsel sighed, +"Lady, I do." Then went Niloiya forth. + +And Amarant murmured in her deep amaze, +"Shall Japhet's little children kiss my mouth? +And will he sometimes take them from my arms, +And almost care for me for their sweet sake? +I have not dared to think I loved him,--now +I know it well: but O, the bitterness +For him!" And ending thus, the damsel rose, +For Japhet entered. And she bowed herself +Meekly and made obeisance, but her blood +Ran cold about her heart, for all his face +Was colored with his passion. + Japhet spoke: +He said, "My father's slave"; and she replied, +Low drooping her fair head, "My master's son." +And after that a silence fell on them, +With trembling at her heart, and rage at his. +And Japhet, mastered of his passion, sat +And could not speak. O! cruel seemed his fate,-- +So cruel her that told it, so unkind. +His breast was full of wounded love and wrath +Wrestling together; and his eyes flashed out +Indignant lights, as all amazed he took +The insult home that she had offered him, +Who should have held his honor dear. + And, lo, +The misery choked him and he cried in pain, +"Go, get thee forth"; but she, all white and still, +Parted her lips to speak, and yet spake not, +Nor moved. And Japhet rose up passionate, +With lifted arm as one about to strike; +But she cried out and met him, and she held +With desperate might his hand, and prayed to him, +"Strike not, or else shall men from henceforth say, +'Japhet is like to us.'" And he shook off +The damsel, and he said, "I thank thee, slave; +For never have I stricken yet or child +Or woman. Not for thy sake am I glad, +Nay, but for mine. Get hence. Obey my words." +Then Japhet lifted up his voice, and wept. + +And no more he restrained himself, but cried, +With heavings of the heart, "O hateful day! +O day that shuts the door upon delight. +A slave! to wed a slave! O loathéd wife, +Hated of Japhet's soul." And after, long, +With face between his hands, he sat, his thoughts +Sullen and sore; then scorned himself, and saying, +"I will not take her, I will die unwed, +It is but that"; lift up his eyes and saw +The slave, and she was sitting at his feet; +And he, so greatly wondering that she dared +The disobedience, looked her in the face +Less angry than afraid, for pale she was +As lily yet unsmiled on by the sun; +And he, his passion being spent, sighed out, +"Low am I fallen indeed. Hast thou no fear, +That thou dost flout me?" but she gave to him +The sighing echo of his sigh, and mourned, +"No." + And he wondered, and he looked again, +For in her heart there was a new-born pang, +That cried; but she, as mothers with their young, +Suffered, yet loved it; and there shone a strange +Grave sweetness in her blue unsullied eyes. +And Japhet, leaning from the settle, thought, +"What is it? I will call her by her name, +To comfort her, for also she is naught +To blame; and since I will not her to wife, +She falls back from the freedom she had hoped." +Then he said "Amarant"; and the damsel drew +Her eyes down slowly from the shaded sky +Of even, and she said, "My master's son, +Japhet"; and Japhet said, "I am not wroth +With thee, but wretched for my mother's deed, +Because she shamed me." + And the maiden said, +"Doth not thy father love thee well, sweet sir?" +"Ay," quoth he, "well." She answered, "Let the heart +Of Japhet, then, be merry. Go to him +And say, 'The damsel whom my mother chose, +Sits by her in the house; but as for me, +Sir, ere I take her, let me go with you +To that same outland country. Also, sir, +My damsel hath not worked as yet the robe +Of her betrothal'; now, then, sith he loves, +He will not say thee nay. Herein for awhile +Is respite, and thy mother far and near +Will seek again: it may be she will find +A fair, free maiden." + Japhet said, "O maid, +Sweet are thy words; but what if I return, +And all again be as it is to-day?" +Then Amarant answered, "Some have died in youth; +But yet, I think not, sir, that I shall die. +Though ye shall find it even as I had died,-- +Silent, for any words I might have said; +Empty, for any space I might have filled. +Sir, I will steal away, and hide afar; +But if a wife be found, then will I bide +And serve." He answered, "O, thy speech is good; +Now therefore (since my mother gave me thee), +I will reward it; I will find for thee +A goodly husband, and will make him free +Thee also." + Then she started from his feet, +And, red with shame and anger, flashed on him +The passion of her eyes; and put her hands +With catching of the breath to her fair throat, +And stood in her defiance lost to fear, +Like some fair hind in desperate danger turned +And brought to bay, and wild in her despair. +But shortly, "I remember," quoth she, low, +With raining down of tears and broken sighs, +"That I am Japhet's slave; beseech you, sir, +As ye were ever gentle, ay, and sweet +Of language to me, be not harder now. +Sir, I was yours to take; I knew not, sir, +That also ye might give me. Pray you, sir, +Be pitiful,--be merciful to me, +A slave." He said, "I thought to do thee good, +For good hath been thy counsel"; but she cried, +"Good master, be you therefore pitiful +To me, a slave." And Japhet wondered much +At her, and at her beauty, for he thought, +"None of the daughters are so fair as this, +Nor stand with such a grace majestical; +She in her locks is like the travelling sun, +Setting, all clad in coifing clouds of gold. +And would she die unmatched?" He said to her, +"What! wilt thou sail alone in yonder ship, +And dwell alone hereafter?" "Ay," she said, +"And serve my mistress." + "It is well," quoth he, +And held his hand to her, as is the way +Of masters. Then she kissed it, and she said, +"Thanks for benevolence," and turned herself, +Adding, "I rest, sir, on your gracious words"; +Then stepped into the twilight and was gone. + +And Japhet, having found his father, said, +"Sir, let me also journey when ye go." +Who answered, "Hath thy mother done her part?" + +He said, "Yea, truly, and my damsel sits +Before her in the house; and also, sir, +She said to me, 'I have not worked, as yet, +The garment of betrothal.'" And he said, +"'Tis not the manner of our kin to speak +Concerning matters that a woman rules; +But hath thy mother brought a damsel home, +And let her see thy face, then all is one +As ye were wed." He answered, "Even so, +It matters nothing; therefore hear me, sir: +The damsel being mine, I am content +To let her do according to her will; +And when we shall return, so surely, sir, +As I shall find her by my mother's side, +Then will I take her"; and he left to speak; +His father answering, "Son, thy words are good." + + +BOOK VI. + +Night. Now a tent was pitched, and Japhet sat +In the door and watched, for on a litter lay +The father of his love. And he was sick +To death; but daily he would rouse him up, +And stare upon the light, and ever say, +"On, let us journey"; but it came to pass +That night, across their path a river ran, +And they who served the father and the son +Had pitched the tents beside it, and had made +A fire, to scare away the savagery +That roamed in that great forest, for their way +Had led among the trees of God. + The moon +Shone on the river, like a silver road +To lead them over; but when Japhet looked, +He said, "We shall not cross it. I shall lay +This well-belovéd head low in the leaves,-- +Not on the farther side." From time to time, +The water-snakes would stir its glassy flow +With curling undulations, and would lay +Their heads along the bank, and, subtle-eyed, +Consider those long spirting flames, that danced, +When some red log would break and crumble down; +And show his dark despondent eyes, that watched, +Wearily, even Japhet's. But he cared +Little; and in the dark, that was not dark, +But dimness of confused incertitude, +Would move a-near all silently, and gaze +And breathe, and shape itself, a manéd thing +With eyes; and still he cared not, and the form +Would falter, then recede, and melt again +Into the farther shade. And Japhet said: +"How long? The moon hath grown again in heaven, +After her caving twice, since we did leave +The threshold of our home; and now what 'vails +That far on tumbled mountain snow we toiled, +Hungry, and weary, all the day; by night +Waked with a dreadful trembling underneath, +To look, while every cone smoked, and there ran +Red brooks adown, that licked the forest up, +While in the pale white ashes wading on +We saw no stars?--what 'vails if afterward, +Astonished with great silence, we did move +Over the measureless, unknown desert mead; +While all the day, in rents and crevices, +Would lie the lizard and the serpent kind, +Drowsy; and in the night take fearsome shapes, +And oft-times woman-faced and woman-haired +Would trail their snaky length, and curse and mourn; +Or there would wander up, when we were tired, +Dark troops of evil ones, with eyes morose, +Withstanding us, and staring;--O! what 'vails +That in the dread deep forest we have fought +With following packs of wolves? These men of might, +Even the giants, shall not hear the doom +My father came to tell them of. Ah, me! +If God indeed had sent him, would he lie +(For he is stricken with a sore disease) +Helpless outside their city?" + Then he rose, +And put aside the curtains of the tent, +To look upon his father's face; and lo! +The tent being dark, he thought that somewhat sat +Beside the litter; and he set his eyes +To see it, and saw not; but only marked +Where, fallen away from manhood and from power, +His father lay. Then he came forth again, +Trembling, and crouched beside the dull red fire, +And murmured, "Now it is the second time: +An old man, as I think (but scarcely saw). +Dreadful of might. Its hair was white as wool: +I dared not look; perhaps I saw not aught, +But only knew that it was there: the same +Which walked beside us once when he did pray." +And Japhet hid his face between his hands +For fear, and grief of heart, and weariness +Of watching; and he slumbered not, but mourned +To himself, a little moment, as it seemed, +For sake of his loved father: then he lift +His eyes, and day had dawned. Right suddenly +The moon withheld her silver, and she hung +Frail as a cloud. The ruddy flame that played, +By night on dim, dusk trees, and on the flood, +Crept red amongst the logs, and all the world +And all the water blushed and bloomed. The stars +Were gone, and golden shafts came up, and touched +The feathered heads of palms, and green was born +Under the rosy cloud, and purples flew +Like veils across the mountains; and he saw, +Winding athwart them, bathed in blissful peace, +And the sacredness of morn, the battlements +And out-posts of the giants; and there ran +On the other side the river, as it were, +White mounds of marble, tabernacles fair, +And towers below a line of inland cliff: +These were their fastnesses, and here their homes. + +In valleys and the forest, all that night, +There had been woe; in every hollow place, +And under walls, like drifted flowers, or snow, +Women lay mourning; for the serpent lodged +That night within the gates, and had decreed, +"I will (or ever I come) that ye drive out +The women, the abhorred of my soul." +Therefore, more beauteous than all climbing bloom, +Purple and scarlet, cumbering of the boughs, +Or flights of azure doves that lit to drink +The water of the river; or, new born, +The quivering butterflies in companies, +That slowly crept adown the sandy marge, +Like living crocus beds, and also drank, +And rose an orange cloud; their hollowed hands +They dipped between the lilies, or with robes +Full of ripe fruitage, sat and peeled and ate, +Weeping; or comforting their little ones, +And lulling them with sorrowful long hymns +Among the palms. + So went the earlier morn. +Then came a messenger, while Japhet sat +Mournfully, and he said, "The men of might +Are willing; let thy master, youth, appear." +And Japhet said, "So be it"; and he thought, +"Now will I trust in God"; and he went in +And stood before his father, and he said, +"My father"; but the Master answered not, +But gazed upon the curtains of his tent, +Nor knew that one had called him. He was clad +As ready for the journey, and his feet +Were sandalled, and his staff was at his side; +And Japhet took the gown of sacrifice +And spread it on him, and he laid his crown +Upon his knees, and he went forth, and lift +His hand to heaven, and cried, "My father's God!" +But neither whisper came nor echo fell +When he did listen. Therefore he went on: +"Behold, I have a thing to say to thee. +My father charged thy servant, 'Let not ruth +Prevail with thee, to turn and bear me hence, +For God appointed me my task, to preach +Before the mighty.' I must do my part +(O! let it not displease thee), for he said +But yesternight, 'When they shall send for me, +Take me before them.' And I sware to him. +I pray thee, therefore, count his life and mine +Precious; for I that sware, I will perform." + +Then cried he to his people, "Let us hence: +Take up the litter." And they set their feet +Toward the raft whereby men crossed that flood. +And while they journeyed, lo, the giants sat +Within the fairest hall where all were fair, +Each on his carven throne, o'er-canopied +With work of women. And the dragon lay +In a place of honor; and with subtlety +He counselled them, for they did speak by turns; +And they being proud, might nothing master them, +But guile alone: and he did fawn on them; +And when the younger taunted him, submiss +He testified great humbleness, and cried, +"A cruel God, forsooth! but nay, O nay, +I will not think it of Him, that He meant +To threaten these. O, when I look on them, +How doth my soul admire." + + And one stood forth, +The youngest; of his brethren, named "the Rock." +"Speak out," quoth he, "thou toothless slavering thing, +What is it? thinkest thou that such as we +Should be afraid? What is this goodly doom?" +And Satan laughed upon him. "Lo," said he, +"Thou art not fully grown, and every one +I look on, standeth higher by the head, +Yea, and the shoulders, than do other men; +Forsooth, thy servant thought not thou wouldst fear, +Thou and thy fellows." Then with one accord, +"Speak," cried they; and with mild persuasive eyes, +And flattering tongue, he spoke. + + "Ye mighty ones, +It hath been known to you these many days +How that for piety I am much famed. +I am exceeding pious: if I lie, +As hath been whispered, it is but for sake +Of God, and that ye should not think Him hard, +For I am all for God. Now some have thought +that He hath also (and it, may be so +Or yet may not be so) on me been hard; +Be not ye therefore wroth, for my poor sake; +I am contented to have earned your weal, +Though I must therefore suffer. + + "Now to-day +One cometh, yea, an harmless man, a fool, +Who boasts he hath a message from our God, +And lest that you, for bravery of heart +And stoutness, being angered with his prate, +Should lift a hand, and kill him, I am here." + +Then spoke the Leader, "How now, snake? Thy words +Ring false. Why ever liest thou, snake, to us? +Thou coward! none of us will see thee harmed. +I say thou liest. The land is strewed with slain; +Myself have hewn down companies, and blood +Makes fertile all the field. Thou knowest it well; +And hast thou, driveller, panting sore for age, +Come with a force to bid us spare one fool?" + +And Satan answered, "Nay you! be not wroth; +Yet true it is, and yet not all the truth. +Your servant would have told the rest, if now +(For fulness of your life being fretted sore +At mine infirmities, which God in vain +I supplicate to heal) ye had not caused +My speech to stop." And he they called "the Oak" +Made answer, "'Tis a good snake; let him be. +Why would ye fright the poor old craven beast? +Look how his lolling tongue doth foam for fear. +Ye should have mercy, brethren, on the weak. +Speak, dragon, thou hast leave; make stout thy heart. +What! hast thou lied to this great company? +It was, we know it was, for humbleness; +Thou wert not willing to offend with truth." + +"Yea, majesties," quoth Satan, "thus it was," +And lifted up appealing eyes, and groaned; +"O, can it be, compassionate as brave, +And housed in cunning works themselves have reared, +And served in gold, and warmed with minivere, +And ruling nobly,--that He, not content +Unless alone He reigneth, looks to bend +O break them in, like slaves to cry to Him, +'What is Thy will with us, O Master dear?' +Or else to eat of death? + + "For my part, lords, +I cannot think it: for my piety +And reason, which I also share with you, +Are my best lights, and ever counsel me, +'Believe not aught against thy God; believe, +Since thou canst never reach to do Him wrong, +That He will never stoop to do thee wrong. +Is He not just and equal, yea, and kind?' +Therefore, O majesties, it is my mind +Concerning him ye wot of, thus to think +The message is not like what I have learned +By reason and experience, of the God. +Therefore no message 'tis. The man is mad." +Thereat the great Leader laughed for scorn. "Hold, snake; +If God be just, there SHALL be reckoning days. +We rather would He were a partial God, +And being strong, He sided with the strong. +Turn now thy reason to the other side, +And speak for that; for as to justice, snake, +We would have none of it." + + And Satan fawned: +"My lord is pleased to mock at my poor wit; +Yet in my pious fashion I must talk: +For say that God was wroth with man, and came +And slew him, that should make an empty world, +But not a bettor nation." + + This replied, +"Truth, dragon, yet He is not bound to mean +A better nation; may be, He designs, +If none will turn again, a punishment +Upon an evil one." + And Satan cried, +"Alas! my heart being full of love for men, +I cannot choose but think of God as like +To me; and yet my piety concludes, +Since He will have your fear, that love alone +Sufficeth not, and I admire, and say, +'Give me, O friends, your love, and give to God +Your fear.'" But they cried out in wrath and rage, +"We are not strong that any we will fear, +Nor specially a foe that means us ill." + + +BOOK VII. + +And while he spoke there was a noise without; +The curtains of the door were flung aside, +And some with heavy feet bare in, and set +A litter on the floor. + The Master lay +Upon it, but his eyes were dimmed and set; +And Japhet, in despairing weariness, +Leaned it beside. He marked the mighty ones, +Silent for pride of heart, and in his place +The jewelled dragon; and the dragon laughed, +And subtly peered at him, till Japhet shook +With rage and fear. The snaky wonder cried, +Hissing, "Thou brown-haired youth, come up to me; +I fain would have thee for my shrine afar, +To serve among an host as beautiful +As thou: draw near." It hissed, and Japhet felt +Horrible drawings, and cried out in fear, +"Father! O help, the serpent draweth me!" +And struggled and grew faint, as in the toils +A netted bird. But still his father lay +Unconscious, and the mighty did not speak, +But half in fear and half for wonderment +Beheld. And yet again the dragon laughed, +And leered at him and hissed; and Japhet strove +Vainly to take away his spell-set eyes, +And moved to go to him, till piercingly +Crying out, "God! forbid it, God in heaven!" +The dragon lowered his head, and shut his eyes +As feigning sleep; and, suddenly released, +He fell back staggering; and at noise of it, +And clash of Japhet's weapons on the floor, +And Japhet's voice crying out, "I loathe thee, snake! +I hate thee! O, I hate thee!" came again, +The senses of the shipwright; and he, moved, +And looking, as one 'mazed, distressfully +Upon the mighty, said, "One called on God: +Where is my God? If God have need of me, +Let Him come down and touch my lips with strength, +Or dying I shall die." + + It came to pass, +While he was speaking, that the curtains swayed; +A rushing wind did move throughout the place, +And all the pillars shook, and on the head +Of Noah the hair was lifted, and there played +A somewhat, as it were a light, upon +His breast; then fell a darkness, and men heard +A whisper as of one that spake. With that, +The daunted mighty ones kept silent watch +Until the wind had ceased and darkness fled. +When it grew light, there curled a cloud of smoke +From many censers where the dragon lay. +It hid him. He had called his ministrants, +And bid them veil him thus, that none might look; +Also the folk who came with Noah had fled. + +But Noah was seen, for he stood up erect, +And leaned on Japhet's hand. Then, after pause, +The Leader said, "My brethren, it were well +(For naught we fear) to let this sorcerer speak." +And they did reach toward the man their staves, +And cry with loud accord, "Hail, sorcerer, hail!" + +And he made answer, "Hail! I am a man +That is a shipwright. I was born afar +To Lamech, him that reigns a king, to wit, +Over the land of Jalal. Majesties, +I bring a message,--lay you it to heart; +For there is wrath in heaven: my God is wroth. +'Prepare your houses, or I come,' saith He, +'A Judge.' Now, therefore, say not in your hearts, +'What have we done?' Your dogs may answer that, +To make whom fiercer for the chase, ye feed +With captives whom ye slew not in the war, +But saved alive, and living throw to them +Daily. Your wives may answer that, whose babes +Their firstborn ye do take and offer up +To this abhorred snake, while yet the milk +Is in their innocent mouths,--your maiden babes +Tender. Your slaves may answer that,--the gangs +Whose eyes ye did put out to make them work +By night unwitting (yea, by multitudes +They work upon the wheel in chains). Your friends +May answer that,--(their bleachéd bones cry out.) +For ye did, wickedly, to eat their lands, +Turn on their valleys, in a time of peace, +The rivers, and they, choking in the night, +Died unavenged. But rather (for I leave +To tell of more, the time would be so long +To do it, and your time, O mighty ones, +Is short),--but rather say, 'We sinners know +Why the Judge standeth at the door,' and turn +While yet there may be respite, and repent. + +"'Or else,' saith He that forméd you, 'I swear, +By all the silence of the times to come, +By the solemnities of death,--yea, more,. +By Mine own power and love which ye have scorned, +That I will come. I will command the clouds, +And raining they shall rain; yea, I will stir +With all my storms the ocean for your sake, +And break for you the boundary of the deep. + +"'Then shall the mighty mourn. + Should I forbear, +That have been patient? I will not forbear! +For yet,' saith He, 'the weak cry out; for yet +The little ones do languish; and the slave +Lifts up to Me his chain. I therefore, I +Will hear them. I by death will scatter you; +Yea, and by death will draw them to My breast, +And gather them to peace. + "'But yet,' saith He, +'Repent, and turn you. Wherefore will ye die?' + +"Turn then, O turn, while yet the enemy +Untamed of man fatefully moans afar; +For if ye will not turn, the doom is near. +Then shall the crested wave make sport, and beat +You mighty at your doors. Will ye be wroth? +Will ye forbid it? Monsters of the deep +Shall suckle in your palaces their young, +And swim atween your hangings, all of them +Costly with broidered work, and rare with gold +And white and scarlet (there did ye oppress,-- +There did ye make you vile); but ye shall lie +Meekly, and storm and wind shall rage above, +And urge the weltering wave. + + "'Yet,' saith thy God, +'Son,' ay, to each of you He saith, 'O son, +Made in My image, beautiful and strong, +Why wilt thou die? Thy Father loves thee well. +Repent and turn thee from thine evil ways, +O son! and no more dare the wrath of love. +Live for thy Father's sake that formed thee. +Why wilt thou die?' Here will I make an end." + +Now ever on his dais the dragon lay, +Feigning to sleep; and all the mighty ones +Were wroth, and chided, some against the woe, +And some at whom the sorcerer they had named,-- +Some at their fellows, for the younger sort,-- +As men the less acquaint with deeds of blood, +And given to learning and the arts of peace +(Their fathers having crushed rebellion out +Before their time)--lent favorable ears. +They said, "A man, or false or fanatic, +May claim good audience if he fill our ears +With what is strange: and we would hear again." + +The Leader said, "An audience hath been given. +The man hath spoken, and his words are naught; +A feeble threatener, with a foolish threat, +And it is not our manner that we sit +Beyond the noonday"; then they grandly rose, +A stalwart crowd, and with their Leader moved +To the tones of harping, and the beat of shawms, +And the noise of pipes, away. But some were left +About the Master; and the feigning snake +Couched on his dais. + Then one to Japhet said, +One called "the Cedar-Tree," "Dost thou, too, think +To reign upon our lands when we lie drowned?" +And Japhet said, "I think not, nor desire, +Nor in my heart consent, but that ye swear +Allegiance to the God, and live." He cried, +To one surnamed "the Pine,"--"Brother, behooves +That deep we cut our names in yonder crag. +Else when this youth returns, his sons may ask +Our names, and he may answer, 'Matters not, +For my part I forget them.'" + Japhet said, +"They might do worse than that, they might deny +That such as you have ever been." With that +They answered, "No, thou dost not think it, no!" +And Japhet, being chafed, replied in heat, +"And wherefore? if ye say of what is sworn, +'He will not do it,' shall it be more hard +For future men, if any talk on it, +To say, 'He did not do it'?" They replied, +With laughter, "Lo you! he is stout with us. +And yet he cowered before the poor old snake. +Sirrah, when you are saved, we pray you now +To bear our might in mind,--do, sirrah, do; +And likewise tell your sons, '"The Cedar Tree" +Was a good giant, for he struck me not, +Though he was young and full of sport, and though +I taunted him.'" + With that they also passed. +But there remained who with the shipwright spoke: +"How wilt thou certify to us thy truth?" +And he related to them all his ways +From the beginning: of the Voice that called; +Moreover, how the ship of doom was built. + +And one made answer, "Shall the mighty God +Talk with a man of wooden beams and bars? +No, thou mad preacher, no. If He, Eterne, +Be ordering of His far infinitudes, +And darkness cloud a world, it is but chance, +As if the shadow of His hand had fallen +On one that He forgot, and troubled it." +Then said the Master, "Yet,--who told thee so?" + +And from his daïs the feigning serpent hissed: +"Preacher, the light within, it was that shined, +And told him so. The pious will have dread +Him to declare such as ye rashly told. +The course of God is one. It likes not us +To think of Him as being acquaint with change: +It were beneath Him. Nay, the finished earth +Is left to her great masters. They must rule; +They do; and I have set myself between,-- +A visible thing for worship, sith His face +(For He is hard) He showeth not to men. +Yea, I have set myself 'twixt God and man, +To be interpreter, and teach mankind +A pious lesson by my piety, +He loveth not, nor hateth, nor desires,-- +It were beneath Him." + And the Master said, +"Thou liest. Thou wouldst lie away the world, +If He, whom thou hast dared speak against, +Would suffer it." "I may not chide with thee," +It answered, "NOW; but if there come such time +As thou hast prophesied, as I now reign +In all men's sight, shall my dominion then +Reach to be mighty in their souls. Thou too +Shalt feel it, prophet." And he lowered his head. + +Then quoth the Leader of the young men: "Sir, +We scorn you not; speak further; yet our thought +First answer. Not but by a miracle +Can this thing be. The fashion of the world +We heretofore have never known to change; +And will God change it now?" + He then replied: +"What is thy thought? THERE is NO MIRACLE? +There is a great one, which thou hast not read. +And never shalt escape. Thyself, O man, +Thou art the miracle. Lo, if thou sayest, +'I am one, and fashioned like the gracious world, +Red clay is all my make, myself, my whole, +And not my habitation,' then thy sleep +Shall give thee wings to play among the rays +O' the morning. If thy thought be, 'I am one,-- +A spirit among spirits,--and the world +A dream my spirit dreameth of, my dream +Being all,' the dominating mountains strong +Shall not for that forbear to take thy breath, +And rage with all their winds, and beat thee back, +And beat thee down when thou wouldst set thy feet +Upon their awful crests. Ay, thou thyself, +Being in the world and of the world, thyself +Hast breathed in breath from Him that made the world. +Thou dost inherit, as thy Maker's son, +That which He is, and that which He hath made: +Thou art thy Father's copy of Himself,-- +THOU art thy FATHER'S MIRACLE. + Behold +He buildeth up the stars in companies; +He made for them a law. To man He said, +'Freely I give thee freedom.' What remains? +O, it remains, if thou, the image of God, +Wilt reason well, that thou shalt know His ways; +But first thou must be loyal,--love, O man, +Thy Father,--hearken when He pleads with thee, +For there is something left of Him e'en now,-- +A witness for thy Father in thy soul, +Albeit thy better state thou hast foregone. + +"Now, then, be still, and think not in thy soul, +'The rivers in their course forever run, +And turn not from it. He is like to them +Who made them,' Think the rather, 'With my foot +I have turned the rivers from their ancient way, +To water grasses that were fading. What! +Is God my Father as the river wave, +That yet descendeth, like the lesser thing +He made, and not like me, a living son, +That changed the watercourse to suit his will?' + +"Man is the miracle in nature. God +Is the ONE MIRACLE to man. Behold, +'There is a God,' thou sayest. Thou sayest well: +In that thou sayest all. To Be is more +Of wonderful, than being, to have wrought, +Or reigned, or rested. +Hold then there, content; +Learn that to love is the one way to know, +Or God or man: it is not love received +That maketh man to know the inner life +Of them that love him; his own love bestowed +Shall do it. Love thy Father, and no more +His doings shall be strange. Thou shalt not fret +At any counsel, then, that He will send,-- +No, nor rebel, albeit He have with thee +Great reservations. Know, to Be is more +Than to have acted; yea, or after rest +And patience, to have risen and been wroth, +Broken the sequence of an ordered earth, +And troubled nations." + Then the dragon sighed. +"Poor fanatic," quoth he, "thou speakest well. +Would I were like thee, for thy faith is strong, +Albeit thy senses wander. Yea, good sooth, +My masters, let us not despise, but learn +Fresh loyalty from this poor loyal soul. +Let us go forth--(myself will also go +To head you)--and do sacrifice; for that, +We know, is pleasing to the mighty God: +But as for building many arks of wood, +O majesties! when He shall counsel you +HIMSELF, then build. What say you, shall it be +An hundred oxen,--fat, well liking, white? +An hundred? why, a thousand were not much +To such as you." Then Noah lift up his arms +To heaven, and cried, "Thou aged shape of sin, +The Lord rebuke thee." + + +BOOK VIII. + +Then one ran, crying, while Niloiya wrought, +"The Master cometh!" and she went within +To adorn herself for meeting him. And Shem +Went forth and talked with Japhet in the field, +And said, "Is it well, my brother?" He replied, +"Well! and, I pray you, is it well at home?" + +But Shem made answer, "Can a house be well, +If he that should command it bides afar? +Yet well is thee, because a fair free maid +Is found to wed thee; and they bring her in +This day at sundown. Therefore is much haste +To cover thick with costly webs the floor, +And pluck and cover thick the same with leaves +Of all sweet herbs,--I warrant, ye shall hear +No footfall where she treadeth; and the seats +Are ready, spread with robes; the tables set +With golden baskets, red pomegranates shred +To fill them; and the rubied censers smoke, +Heaped up with ambergris and cinnamon, +And frankincense and cedar." + Japhet said, +"I will betroth her to me straight"; and went +(Yet labored he with sore disquietude) +To gather grapes, and reap and bind the sheaf +For his betrothal. And his brother spake, +"Where is our father? doth he preach to-day?" +And Japhet answered, "Yea. He said to me, +'Go forward; I will follow when the folk +By yonder mountain-hold I shall have warned.'" + +And Shem replied, "How thinkest thou?--thine ears +Have heard him oft." He answered, "I do think +These be the last days of this old fair world." + +Then he did tell him of the giant folk: +How they, than he, were taller by the head; +How one must stride that will ascend the steps +That lead to their wide halls; and how they drave, +With manful shouts, the mammoth to the north; +And how the talking dragon lied and fawned, +They seated proudly on their ivory thrones, +And scorning him: and of their peakéd hoods, +And garments wrought upon, each with the tale +Of him that wore it,--all his manful deeds +(Yea, and about their skirts were effigies +Of kings that they had slain; and some, whose swords +Many had pierced, wore vestures all of red, +To signify much blood): and of their pride +He told, but of the vision in the tent +He told him not. + And when they reached the house, +Niloiya met them, and to Japhet cried, +"All hail, right fortunate! Lo, I have found +A maid. And now thou hast done well to reap +The late ripe corn." So he went in with her, +And she did talk with him right motherly: +"It hath been fully told me how ye loathed +To wed thy father's slave; yea, she herself, +Did she not all declare to me?" + He said, +"Yet is thy damsel fair, and wise of heart." +"Yea," quoth his mother; "she made clear to me +How ye did weep, my son, and ye did vow, +'I will not take her!' Now it was not I +That wrought to have it so." And he replied, +"I know it." Quoth the mother, "It is well; +For that same cause is laughter in my heart." +"But she is sweet of language," Japhet said. +"Ay," quoth Niloiya, "and thy wife no less +Whom thou shalt wed anon,--forsooth, anon,-- +It is a lucky hour. Thou wilt?" He said, +"I will." And Japhet laid the slender sheaf +From off his shoulder, and he said, "Behold, +My father!" Then Niloiya turned herself, +And lo! the shipwright stood. "All hail!" quoth she. +And bowed herself, and kissed him on the mouth; +But while she spake with him, sorely he sighed; +And she did hang about his neck the robe +Of feasting, and she poured upon his hands +Clear water, and anointed him, and set +Before him bread. + And Japhet said to him, +"My father, my belovéd, wilt thou yet +Be sad because of scorning? Eat this day; +For as an angel in their eyes thou art +Who stand before thee." But he answered, "Peace! +Thy words are wide." + And when Niloiya heard, +She said, "Is this a time for mirth of heart +And wine? Behold, I thought to wed my son, +Even this Japhet; but is this a time, +When sad is he to whom is my desire, +And lying under sorrow as from God?" + +He answered, "Yea, it is a time of times; +Bring in the maid." Niloiya said, "The maid +That first I spoke on, shall not Japhet wed; +It likes not her, nor yet it likes not me. +But I have found another; yea, good sooth, +The damsel will not tarry, she will come +With all her slaves by sundown." + And she said, +"Comfort thy heart, and eat: moreover, know +How that thy great work even to-day is done. +Sir, thy great ship is finished, and the folk +(For I, according to thy will, have paid +All that was left us to them for their wage,) +Have brought, as to a storehouse, flour of wheat, +Honey and oil,--much victual; yea, and fruits, +Curtains and household gear. And, sir, they say +It is thy will to take it for thy hold +Our fastness and abode." He answered, "Yea, +Else wherefore was it built?" She said, "Good sir, +I pray you make us not the whole earth's scorn. +And now, to-morrow in thy father's house +Is a great feast, and weddings are toward; +Let be the ship, till after, for thy words +Have ever been, 'If God shall send a flood, +There will I dwell'; I pray you therefore wait +At least till He DOTH send it." + And he turned, +And answered nothing. Now the sun was low +While yet she spake; and Japhet came to them +In goodly raiment, and upon his arm +The garment of betrothal. And with that +A noise, and then brake in a woman slave +And Amarant. This, with folding of her hands, +Did say full meekly, "If I do offend, +Yet have not I been willing to offend; +For now this woman will not be denied +Herself to tell her errand." + And they sat. +Then spoke the woman, "If I do offend, +Pray you forgive the bondslave, for her tongue +Is for her mistress. 'Lo!' my mistress saith, +'Put off thy bravery, bridegroom; fold away, +Mother, thy webs of pride, thy costly robes +Woven of many colors. We have heard +Thy master. Lo, to-day right evil things +He prophesied to us, that were his friends; +Therefore, my answer:--God do so to me; +Yea, God do so to me, more also, more +Than He did threaten, if my damsel's foot +Ever draw nigh thy door.'" + And when she heard, +Niloiya sat amazed, in grief of soul. +But Japhet came unto the slave, where low +She bowed herself for fear. He said, "Depart; +Say to thy mistress, 'It is well.'" With that +She turned herself, and she made haste to flee, +Lest any, for those evil words she brought, +Would smite her. But the bondmaid of the house +Lift up her hand and said, "If I offend, +It was not of my heart: thy damsel knew +Naught of this matter." And he held to her +His hand and touched her, and said, "Amarant!" +And when she looked upon him, she did take +And spread before her face her radiant locks, +Trembling. And Japhet said, "Lift up thy face, +O fairest of the daughters, thy fair face; +For, lo! the bridegroom standeth with the robe +Of thy betrothal! "--and he took her locks +In his two hands to part them from her brow, +And laid them on her shoulders; and he said, +"Sweet are the blushes of thy face," and put +The robe upon her, having said, "Behold, +I have repented me; and oft by night, +In the waste wilderness, while all things slept, +I thought upon thy words, for they were sweet. + +"For this I make thee free. And now thyself +Art loveliest in mine eyes; I look, and lo! +Thou art of beauty more than any thought +I had concerning thee. Let, then, this robe, +Wrought on with imagery of fruitful bough, +And graceful leaf, and birds with tender eyes, +Cover the ripples of thy tawny hair." +So when she held her peace, he brought her nigh +To hear the speech of wedlock; ay, he took +The golden cup of wine to drink with her, +And laid the sheaf upon her arms. He said, +"Like as my fathers in the older days +Led home the daughters whom they chose, do I; +Like as they said, 'Mine honor have I set +Upon thy head!' do I. Eat of my bread, +Rule in my house, be mistress of my slaves, +And mother of my children." + And he brought +The damsel to his father, saying, "Behold +My wife! I have betrothed her to myself; +I pray you, kiss her." And the Master did: +He said, "Be mother of a multitude, +And let them to their father even so +Be found, as he is found to me." + With that +She answered, "Let this woman, sir, find grace +And favor in your sight." + And Japhet said, +"Sweet mother, I have wed the maid ye chose +And brought me first. I leave her in thy hand; +Have care on her, till I shall come again +And ask her of thee." So they went apart, +He and his father to the marriage feast. + + +BOOK IX. + +The prayer of Noah. The man went forth by night +And listened; and the earth was dark and still, +And he was driven of his great distress +Into the forest; but the birds of night +Sang sweetly; and he fell upon his face, +And cried, "God, God! Thy billows and Thy waves +Have swallowed up my soul. + + "Where is my God? +For I have somewhat yet to plead with Thee; +For I have walked the strands of Thy great deep, +Heard the dull thunder of its rage afar, +And its dread moaning. O, the field is sweet,-- +Spare it. The delicate woods make white their trees +With blossom,--spare them. Life is sweet; behold +There is much cattle, and the wild and tame, +Father, do feed in quiet,--spare them. + + "God! +Where is my God? The long wave doth not rear +Her ghostly crest to lick the forest up, +And like a chief in battle fall,--not yet. +The lightnings pour not down, from ragged holes +In heaven, the torment of their forkéd tongues, +And, like fell serpents, dart and sting,--not yet. +The winds awake not, with their awful wings +To winnow, even as chaff, from out their track, +All that withstandeth, and bring down the pride +Of all things strong and all things high-- + + "Not yet. +O, let it not be yet. Where is my God? +How am I saved, if I and mine be saved +Alone? I am not saved, for I have loved +My country and my kin. Must I, Thy thrall, +Over their lands be lord when they are gone? +I would not: spare them. Mighty. Spare Thyself, +For Thou dost love them greatly,--and if not ..." + +Another praying unremote, a Voice +Calm as the solitude between wide stars. + +"Where is my God, who loveth this lost world,-- +Lost from its place and name, but won for Thee? +Where is my multitude, my multitude, +That I shall gather?" And white smoke went up +From incense that was burning, but there gleamed +No light of fire, save dimly to reveal +The whiteness rising, as the prayer of him +That mourned. "My God, appear for me, appear; +Give me my multitude, for it is mine. +The bitterness of death I have not feared, +To-morrow shall Thy courts, O God, be full. +Then shall the captive from his bonds go free, +Then shall the thrall find rest, that knew not rest +From labor and from blows. The sorrowful-- +That said of joy, 'What is it?' and of songs, +'We have not heard them'--shall be glad and sing; +Then shall the little ones that knew not Thee, +And such as heard not of Thee, see Thy face, +And seeing, dwell content." + The prayer of Noah. +He cried out in the darkness, "Hear, O God, +Hear HIM: hear this one; through the gates of death, +If life be all past praying for, O give +To Thy great multitude a way to peace; +Give them to HIM. + + "But yet," said he, "O yet, +If there be respite for the terrible, +The proud, yea, such as scorn Thee,--and if not.... +Let not mine eyes behold their fall." + He cried, +"Forgive. I have not done Thy work, Great Judge, +With a perfect heart; I have but half believed, +While in accustomed language I have warned; +And now there is no more to do, no place +For my repentance, yea, no hour remains +For doing of that work again. O, lost, +Lost world!" And while he prayed, the daylight dawned. + +And Noah went up into the ship, and sat +Before the Lord. And all was still; and now +In that great quietness the sun came up, +And there were marks across it, as it were +The shadow of a Hand upon the sun,-- +Three fingers dark and dread, and afterward +There rose a white, thick mist, that peacefully +Folded the fair earth in her funeral shroud, +The earth that gave no token, save that now +There fell a little trembling under foot. + +And Noah went down, and took and hid his face +Behind his mantle, saying, "I have made +Great preparation, and it may be yet, +Beside my house, whom I did charge to come +This day to meet me, there may enter in +Many that yesternight thought scorn of all +My bidding." And because the fog was thick, +He said, "Forbid it, Heaven, if such there be, +That they should miss the way." And even then +There was a noise of weeping and lament; +The words of them that were affrighted, yea, +And cried for grief of heart. There came to him +The mother and her children, and they cried, +"Speak, father, what is this? What hast thou done?" +And when he lifted up his face, he saw +Japhet, his well-belovéd, where he stood +Apart; and Amarant leaned upon his breast, +And hid her face, for she was sore afraid; +And lo! the robes of her betrothal gleamed +White in the deadly gloom. + And at his feet +The wives of his two other sons did kneel, +And wring their hands. + + One cried, "O, speak to us; +We are affrighted; we have dreamed a dream, +Each to herself. For me, I saw in mine +The grave old angels, like to shepherds, walk, +Much cattle following them. Thy daughter looked, +And they did enter here." + The other lay +And moaned, "Alas! O father, for my dream +Was evil: lo, I heard when it was dark, +I heard two wicked ones contend for me. +One said, 'And wherefore should this woman live, +When only for her children, and for her, +Is woe and degradation?' Then he laughed, +The other crying, 'Let alone, O prince; +Hinder her not to live and bear much seed, +Because I hate her.'" + But he said, "Rise up, +Daughters of Noah, for I have learned no words +To comfort you." Then spake her lord to her, +"Peace! or I swear that for thy dream, myself +Will hate thee also." + And Niloiya said, +"My sons, if one of you will hear my words, +Go now, look out, and tell me of the day, +How fares it?" + And the fateful darkness grew. +But Shem went up to do his mother's will; +And all was one as though the frighted earth +Quivered and fell a-trembling; then they hid +Their faces every one, till he returned, +And spake not. "Nay," they cried, "what hast thou seen? +O, is it come to this?" He answered them, +"The door is shut." + + +NOTES TO "A STORY OF DOOM." + + +PAGE 358. + +The name of the patriarch's wife is intended to be pronounced +Nigh-loi-ya. + +Of the three sons of Noah,--Shem, Ham, and Japhet,--I have called +Japhet the youngest (because he is always named last), and have supposed +that, in the genealogies where he is called "Japhet the elder," +he may have received the epithet because by that time there were +younger Japhets. + + +PAGE 425. + + The quivering butterflies in companies, + That slowly crept adown the sandy marge, + Like _living crocus beds_. + +This beautiful comparison is taken from "The Naturalist on the +River Amazons." "Vast numbers of orange-colored butterflies congregated +on the moist sands. They assembled in densely-packed masses, +sometimes two or three yards in circumference, their wings +all held in an upright position, so that the sands looked as though +variegated with _beds of crocuses_." + + + + +THE END. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, +Volume II., by Jean Ingelow + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS BY JEAN INGELOW, II *** + +***** This file should be named 13224-8.txt or 13224-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/2/2/13224/ + +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. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. 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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/13224-8.zip b/old/13224-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c5735ac --- /dev/null +++ b/old/13224-8.zip diff --git a/old/13224.txt b/old/13224.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7fc8d4b --- /dev/null +++ b/old/13224.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14983 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, +Volume II., by Jean Ingelow + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. 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 II. + +Author: Jean Ingelow + +Release Date: August 19, 2004 [EBook #13224] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS BY JEAN INGELOW, II *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland and PG Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + +[Illustration: MISS INGELOW'S FORMER HOME. + +BOSTON, LINCOLNSHIRE, ENG. + +ST. BOTOLPH'S CHURCH IN THE DISTANCE.] + + + + + +POEMS BY JEAN INGELOW + +VOLUME II. + + + + +_TO JEAN INGELOW. + + +When youth was high, and life was new +And days sped musical and fleet, +She stood amid the morning dew, +And sang her earliest measures sweet,-- +Sang as the lark sings, speeding fair +To touch and taste the purer air, +To gain a nearer view of Heaven; +'Twas then she sang "The Songs of Seven." + +Now, farther on in womanhood, +With trained voice and ripened art, +She gently stands where once she stood, +And sings from out her deeper heart. +Sing on, dear Singer! sing again; +And we will listen to the strain, +Till soaring earth greets bending Heaven, +And seven-fold songs grow seventy-seven. + +SUSAN COOLIDGE_ + + + + +POEMS + +BY + +JEAN INGELOW + +_IN TWO VOLUMES_ + +VOL. II. + + + + +BOSTON + +ROBERTS BROTHERS + +1896 + +AUTHOR'S COMPLETE EDITION. + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. II. + + +ROSAMUND +ECHO AND THE FERRY +PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING +KISMET +DORA +SPERANZA +THE BEGINNING +IN THE NURSERY +THE AUSTRALIAN BELL-BIRD +LOSS AND WASTE +ON A PICTURE +THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND +A MAID-MARTYR +A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST +LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE +THE WHITE MOON +AN ARROW-SLIT +WENDOVER +THE LOVER PLEADS +SONG IN THREE PARTS +'IF I FORGET THEE, O JERUSALEM' +NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE +PERDITA + + +SERIOUS POEMS, AND SONGS AND POEMS OF LOVE AND CHILDHOOD. + +LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING +THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN +THE SHEPHERD LADY + +POEMS ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. + HENRY + SAMUEL + KATIE + +THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT (IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL) + +HYMNS. + THE MEASURELESS GULFS OF AIR ARE FULL OF THEE + THOU WERT FAR OFF AND IN THE SIGHT OF HEAVEN + THICK ORCHARDS ALL IN WHITE + SWEET ARE HIS WAYS WHO RULES ABOVE + O NIGHT OF NIGHTS + DEAR IS THE LOST WIFE TO A LONE MAN'S HEART + WEEPING AND WAILING NEEDS MUST BE + JESUS, THE LAMB OF GOD + THOU HAST BEEN ALWAY GOOD TO ME + THOU THAT SLEEPEST NOT AFRAID + NOW WINTER PAST, THE WHITE-THORN BOWER + SUCH AS HAVE NOT GOLD TO BRING THEE + A MORN OF GUILT, AN HOUR OF DOOM + MARY OF MAGDALA + WOULD I, TO SAVE MY DEAR CHILD? + +AT ONE AGAIN + +SONNETS. + FANCY + COMPENSATION + LOOKING DOWN + WORK + WISHING + TO ---- + ON THE BORDERS OF CANNOCK CHASE + AN ANCIENT CHESS KING + COMFORT IN THE NIGHT + THOUGH ALL GREAT DEEDS + A SNOW MOUNTAIN + SLEEP + PROMISING + LOVE + FAILURE + +A BIRTHDAY WALK +NOT IN VAIN I WAITED +A GLEANING SONG +WITH A DIAMOND +MARRIED LOVERS +A WINTER SONG +BINDING SHEAVES +THE MARINER'S CAVE +A REVERIE +DEFTON WOOD +THE LONG WHITE SEAM +AN OLD WIFE'S SONG +COLD AND QUIET +SLEDGE BELLS +MIDSUMMER NIGHT, NOT DARK, NOT LIGHT +THE BRIDEGROOM TO HIS BRIDE +THE FAIRY WOMAN'S SONG +ABOVE THE CLOUDS +SLEEP AND TIME +BEES AND OTHER-FELLOW-CREATURES +THE GYPSY'S SELLING SONG +A WOOING SONG +A COURTING SONG +LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD +THE LEAVES OF LIGN ALOES +THE DAYS WITHOUT ALLOY +FEATHERS AND MOSS +ON THE ROCKS BY ABERDEEN +LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT +SONG FOR A BABE +GIVE US LOVE AND GIVE US PEACE + +THE TWO MARGARETS + MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE + MARGARET IN THE XEBEC + +A STORY OF DOOM + + + + +POEMS + + + + +ROSAMUND. + + +_His blew His winds, and they were scattered._ + +'One soweth and another reapeth.' + Ay, +Too true, too true. One soweth--unaware +Cometh a reaper stealthily while he dreams-- +Bindeth the golden sheaf, and in his bosom +As 't were between the dewfall and the dawn +Bears it away. Who other was to blame? +Is it I? Is it I?--No verily, not I, +'T was a good action, and I smart therefore; +Oblivion of a righteous enmity +Wrought me this wrong. I pay with my self ruth +That I had ruth toward mine enemy; +It needed not to slay mine enemy, +Only to let him lie and succourless +Drift to the foot o' the Everlasting Throne; +Being mine enemy, he had not accused +One of my nation there of unkind deeds +Or ought the way of war forbids. + Let be! +I will not think upon it. Yet she was-- +O, she was dear; my dutiful, dear child. +One soweth--Nay, but I will tell this out, +The first fyte was the best, I call it such +For now as some old song men think on it. + +I dwell where England narrows running north; +And while our hay was cut came rumours up +Humming and swarming round our heads like bees: + +'Drake from the bay of Cadiz hath come home, +And they are forth, the Spaniards with a force +Invincible.' + 'The Prince of Parma, couched +At Dunkirk, e'en by torchlight makes to toil +His shipwright thousands--thousands in the ports +Of Flanders and Brabant. An hundred hendes +Transports to his great squadron adding, all +For our confusion.' + 'England's great ally +Henry of France, by insurrection fallen, +Of him the said Prince Parma mocking cries, +He shall not help the Queen of England now +Not even with his tears, more needing them +To weep his own misfortune.' + Was that all +The truth? Not half, and yet it was enough +(Albeit not half that half was well believed), +For all the land stirred in the half belief +As dreamers stir about to wake; and now +Comes the Queen's message, all her lieges bid +To rise, 'lieftenants, and the better sort +Of gentlemen' whereby the Queen's grace meant, +As it may seem the sort that willed to rise +And arm, and come to aid her. + Distance wrought +Safety for us, my neighbours and near friends, +The peril lay along our channel coast +And marked the city, undefended fair +Rich London. O to think of Spanish mail +Ringing--of riotous conquerors in her street, +Chasing and frighting (would there were no more +To think on) her fair wives and her fair maids. +--But hope is fain to deem them forth of her. + +Then Spain to the sacking; then they tear away +Arras and carved work. O then they break +And toss, and mar her quaint orfeverie +Priceless--then split the wine kegs, spill the mead, +Trail out the pride of ages in the dust; +Turn over with pikes her silken merchandise, +Strip off the pictures of her kings, and spoil +Their palaces that nigh five hundred years +Have rued no alien footsteps on the floor, +And work--for the days of miracle are gone-- +All unimaginable waste and woe. + +Some cried, 'But England hath the better cause; +We think not those good days indeed are done; +We look to Heaven for aid on England's side.' +Then other, 'Nay, the harvest is above, +God comforts there His own, and ill men leaves +To run long scores up in this present world, +And pay in another. + Look not here for aid. +Latimer, poor old saint, died in the street +With nigh, men say, three hundred of his kind, +All bid to look for worse death after death, +Succourless, comfortless, unfriended, curst. +Mary, and Gardiner, and the Pope's man Pole +Died upon down, lulled in a silken shade, +Soothed with assurance of a waiting heaven, +And Peter peering through the golden gate, +With his gold key in 's hand to let them in.' + +'Nay, leave,' quoth I, 'the martyrs to their heaven, +And all who live the better that they died. +But look you now, a nation hath no heaven, +A nation's life and work and wickedness +And punishment--or otherwise, I say +A nation's life and goodness and reward +Are here. And in my nation's righteous cause +I look for aid, and cry, SO HELP ME GOD +As I will help my righteous nation now +With all the best I have, and know, and am, +I trust Thou wilt not let her light be quenched; +I go to aid, and if I fall--I fall, +And, God of nations, leave my soul to Thee.' + +Many did say like words, and all would give +Of gold, of weapons, and of horses that +They had to hand or on the spur o' the time +Could gather. My fair dame did sell her rings, +So others. And they sent us well equipped +Who minded to be in the coming fray +Whether by land or sea; my hope the last, +For I of old therewith was conversant. + +Then as we rode down southward all the land +Was at her harvesting. The oats were cut +Ere we were three days down, and then the wheat, +And the wide country spite of loathed threat +Was busy. There was news to hearten us: +The Hollanders were coming roundly in +With sixty ships of war, all fierce, and full +Of spleen, for not alone our sake but theirs +Willing to brave encounter where they might. + +So after five days we did sight the Sound, +And look on Plymouth harbour from the hill. +Then I full glad drew bridle, lighted straight, +Ran down and mingled with a waiting crowd. + +Many stood gazing on the level deep +That scarce did tremble; 't was in hue as sloes +That hang till winter on a leafless bough, +So black bulged down upon it a great cloud +And probed it through and through with forked stabs +Incessant, and rolled on it thunder bursts +Till the dark water lowered as one afraid. + +That was afar. The land and nearer sea +Lay sweltering in hot sunshine. The brown beach +Scarce whispered, for a soft incoming tide +Was gentle with it. Green the water lapped +And sparkled at all edges. The night-heavens +Are not more thickly speckled o'er with stars +Than that fair harbour with its fishing craft. +And crowds of galleys shooting to and fro +Did feed the ships of war with their stout crews, +And bear aboard fresh water, furniture +Of war, much lesser victual, sallets, fruit, +All manner equipment for the squadron, sails, +Long spars. + Also was chaffering on the Hoe, +Buying and bargaining, taking of leave +With tears and kisses, while on all hands pushed +Tall lusty men with baskets on their heads +Piled of fresh bread, and biscuit newly drawn. + +Then shouts, 'The captains!' + Raleigh, Hawkins, Drake, +Old Martin Frobisher, and many more; +Howard, the Lord High Admiral, headed them-- +They coming leisurely from the bowling green, +Elbowed their way. For in their stoutness loth +To hurry when ill news first brake on them, +They playing a match ashore--ill news I say, +'The Spaniards are toward'--while panic-struck +The people ran about them, Drake cries out, +Knowing their fear should make the danger worse, +'Spaniards, my masters! Let the Spaniards wait. +Fall not a-shouting for the boats; is time +To play the match out, ay to win, and then +To beat the Spaniards.' + So the rest gave way +At his insistance, playing that afternoon +The bravest match (one saith) was ever scored. + +'T was no time lost; nay, not a moment lost; +For look you, when the winning cast was made, +The town was calm, the anchors were all up, +The boats were manned to row them each to his ship, +The lowering cloud in the offing had gone south +Against the wind, and all was work, stir, heed, +Nothing forgot, nor grudged, nor slurred, and most +Men easy at heart as those brave sailors seemed. + +And specially the women had put by +On a sudden their deep dread; yon Cornish coast +Neared of his insolency by the foe, +With his high seacastles numerous, seaforts +Many, his galleys out of number, manned +Each by three hundred slaves chained to the oar; +All his strong fleet of lesser ships, but great +As any of ours--why that same Cornish coast +Might have lain farther than the far west land, +So had a few stout-hearted looks and words +Wasted the meaning, chilled the menace of +That frightful danger, imminent, hard at hand. + +'The captains come, the captains!' and I turned +As they drew on. I marked the urgency +Flashing in each man's eye: fain to be forth +But willing to be held at leisure. Then +Cried a fair woman of the better sort +To Howard, passing by her pannier'd ass, +'Apples, Lord Admiral, good captains all, +Look you, red apples sharp and sweet are these,' + +Quoth he a little chafed, 'Let be, let be, +No time is this for bargaining, good dame. +Let be;' and pushing past, 'Beshrew thy heart +(And mine that I should say it), bargain! nay. +I meant not bargaining,' she falters; crying, +'I brought them my poor gift. Pray you now take, +Pray you.' + He stops, and with a childlike smile +That makes the dame amend, stoops down to choose, +While I step up that love not many words, +'What should he do,' quoth I, 'to help this need +That hath a bag of money, and good will?' +'Charter a ship,' he saith, nor e'er looks up, +'And put aboard her victual, tackle, shot, +Ought he can lay his hand on--look he give +Wide sea room to the Spanish hounds, make sail +For ships of ours, to ease of wounded men, +And succour with that freight he brings withal.' + +His foot, yet speaking, was aboard his boat, +His comrades, each red apples in the hand, +Come after, and with blessings manifold +Cheering, and cries, 'Good luck, good luck!' they speed. + +'T was three years three months past. + O yet methinks +I hear that thunder crash i' the offing; hear +Their words who when the crowd melted away +Gathered together. Comrades we of old, +About to adventure us at Howard's best +On the unsafe sea. For he, a Catholic, +As is my wife, and therefore my one child, +Detested and defied th' most Catholic King +Philip. He, trusted of her grace--and cause +She had, the nation following suit--he deemed, +'T was whisper'd, ay and Raleigh, and Francis Drake +No less, the event of battle doubtfuller +Than English tongue might own; the peril dread +As ought in this world ever can be deemed +That is not yet past praying for. + So far +So good. As birds awaked do stretch their wings +The ships did stretch forth sail, full clad they towered +And right into the sunset went, hull down +E'en with the sun. + To us in twilight left, +Glory being over, came despondent thought +That mocked men's eager act. From many a hill, +As if the land complained to Heaven, they sent +A towering shaft of murky incense high, +Livid with black despair in lieu of praise. +The green wood hissed at every beacon's edge +That widen'd fear. The smell of pitchpots fled +Far over the field, and tongues of fire leaped up, +Ay, till all England woke, and knew, and wailed. + +But we i' the night through that detested reek +Rode eastward. Every mariner's voice was given +'Gainst any fear for the western shires. The cry +Was all, 'They sail for Calais roads, and thence, +The goal is London.' + Nought slept, man nor beast. +Ravens and rooks flew forth, and with black wings, +Affrighted, swept our eyes. Pale eddying moths +Came by in crowds and whirled them on the flames. + +We rode till pierced those beacon fires the shafts +O' the sun, and their red smouldering ashes dulled. +Beside them, scorched, smoke-blackened, weary, leaned +Men that had fed them, dropped their tired arms +And dozed. + And also through that day we rode, +Till reapers at their nooning sat awhile +On the shady side of corn-shocks: all the talk +Of high, of low, or them that went or stayed +Determined but unhopeful; desperate +To strike a blow for England ere she fell. + +And ever loomed the Spaniard to our thought, +Still waxed the fame of that great Armament-- +New horsemen joining, swelled it more and more-- +Their bulky ship galleons having five decks, +Zabraes, pataches, galleys of Portugal, +Caravels rowed with oars, their galliasses +Vast, and complete with chapels, chambers, towers. +And in the said ships of free mariners +Eight thousand, and of slaves two thousand more, +An army twenty thousand strong. O then +Of culverin, of double culverin, +Ordnance and arms, all furniture of war, +Victual, and last their fierceness and great spleen, +Willing to founder, burn, split, wreck themselves, +But they would land, fight, overcome, and reign. + +Then would we count up England. Set by theirs, +Her fleet as walnut shells. And a few pikes +Stored in the belfries, and a few brave men +For wielding them. But as the morning wore, +And we went ever eastward, ever on, +Poured forth, poured down, a marching multitude +With stir about the towns; and waggons rolled +With offerings for the army and the fleet. +Then to our hearts valour crept home again, +The loathed name of Alva fanning it; +Alva who did convert from our old faith +With many a black deed done for a white cause +(So spake they erewhile to it dedicate) +Them whom not death could change, nor fire, nor sword, +To thirst for his undoing. + +Ay, as I am a Christian man, our thirst +Was comparable with Queen Mary's. All +The talk was of confounding heretics, +The heretics the Spaniards. Yet methought, +'O their great multitude! Not harbour room +On our long coast for that great multitude. +They land--for who can let them--give us battle, +And after give us burial. Who but they, +For he that liveth shall be flying north +To bear off wife and child. Our very graves +Shall Spaniards dig, and in the daisied grass +Trample them down.' + Ay, whoso will be brave, +Let him be brave beforehand. After th' event +If by good pleasure of God it go as then +He shall be brave an' liketh him. I say +Was no man but that deadly peril feared. + +Nights riding two. Scant rest. Days riding three, +Then Foulkstone. Need is none to tell all forth +The gathering stores and men, the charter'd ship +That I, with two, my friends, got ready for sea. +Ready she was, so many another, small +But nimble; and we sailing hugged the shore, +Scarce venturing out, so Drake had willed, a league, +And running westward aye as best we might, +When suddenly--behold them! + On they rocked, +Majestical, slow, sailing with the wind. +O such a sight! O such a sight, mine eyes, +Never shall you see more! + In crescent form, +A vasty crescent nigh two leagues across +From horn to horn, the lesser ships within, +The great without, they did bestride as 't were +And make a township on the narrow seas. + +It was about the point of dawn: and light. +All grey the sea, and ghostly grey the ships; +And after in the offing rocked our fleet, +Having lain quiet in the summer dark. + +O then methought, 'Flash, blessed gold of dawn, +And touch the topsails of our Admiral, +That he may after guide an emulous flock, +Old England's innocent white bleating lambs. +Let Spain within a pike's length hear them bleat, +Delivering of their pretty talk in a tongue +Whose meaning cries not for interpreter.' + +And while I spoke, their topsails, friend and foe, +Glittered--and there was noise of guns; pale smoke +Lagged after, curdling on the sun-fleck'd main. +And after that? What after that, my soul? +Who ever saw weakling white butterflies +Chasing of gallant swans, and charging them, +And spitting at them long red streaks of flame? +We saw the ships of England even so +As in my vaunting wish that mocked itself +With 'Fool, O fool, to brag at the edge of loss.' +We saw the ships of England even so +Run at the Spaniards on a wind, lay to, +Bespatter them with hail of battle, then +Take their prerogative of nimble steerage, +Fly off, and ere the enemy, heavy in hand, +Delivered his reply to the wasteful wave +That made its grave of foam, race out of range, +Then tack and crowd all sail, and after them +Again. + So harassed they that mighty foe, +Moving in all its bravery to the east. +And some were fine with pictures of the saints, +Angels with flying hair and peaked wings, +And high red crosses wrought upon their sails; +From every mast brave flag or ensign flew, +And their long silken pennons serpented +Loose to the morning. And the galley slaves, +Albeit their chains did clink, sang at the oar. + +The sea was striped e'en like a tiger skin +With wide ship wakes. + And many cried, amazed, +'What means their patience?' + 'Lo you,' others said, +'They pay with fear for their great costliness. +Some of their costliest needs must other guard; +Once guarded and in port look to yourselves, +They count one hundred and fifty. It behoves +Better they suffer this long running fight-- +Better for them than that they give us battle, +And so delay the shelter of their roads. + +'Two of their caravels we sank, and one +(Fouled with her consort in the rigging) took +Ere she could catch the wind when she rode free. +And we have riddled many a sail, and split +Of spars a score or two. What then? To-morrow +They look to straddle across the strait, and hold +Having aye Calais for a shelter--hold +Our ships in fight. To-morrow shall give account +For our to-day. They will not we pass north +To meddle with Parma's flotilla; their hope +Being Parma, and a convoy they would be +For his flat boats that bode invasion to us; +And if he reach to London--ruin, defeat.' + +Three fleets the sun went down on, theirs of fame +Th' Armada. After space old England's few; +And after that our dancing cockle-shells, +The volunteers. They took some pride in us, +For we were nimble, and we brought them powder, +Shot, weapons. They were short of these. Ill found, +Ill found. The bitter fruit of evil thrift. +But while obsequious, darting here and there, +We took their messages from ship to ship, +From ship to shore, the moving majesties +Made Calais Roads, cast anchor, all their less +In the middle ward; their greater ships outside +Impregnable castles fearing not assault. + +So did we read their thought, and read it wrong, +While after the running fight we rode at ease, +For many (as is the way of Englishmen) +Having made light of our stout deeds, and light +O' the effects proceeding, saw these spread +To view. The Spanish Admiral's mighty host, +Albeit not broken, harass'd. + Some did tow +Others that we had plagued, disabled, rent; +Many full heavily damaged made their berths. + +Then did the English anchor out of range. +To close was not their wisdom with such foe, +Rather to chase him, following in the rear. +Ay, truly they were giants in our eyes +And in our own. They took scant heed of us, +And we looked on, and knew not what to think, +Only that we were lost men, a lost Isle, +In every Spaniard's mind, both great and small. + +But no such thought had place in Howard's soul, +And when 't was dark, and all their sails were furled, +When the wind veered a few points to the west, +And the tide turned ruffling along the roads, +He sent eight fireships forging down to them. + +Terrible! Terrible! + Blood-red pillars of reek +They looked on that vast host and troubled it, +As on th' Egyptian host One looked of old. + +Then all the heavens were rent with a great cry, +The red avengers went right on, right on, +For none could let them; then was ruin, reek, flame; +Against th' unwieldy huge leviathans +They drave, they fell upon them as wild beasts, +And all together they did plunge and grind, +Their reefed sails set a-blazing, these flew loose +And forth like banners of destruction sped. +It was to look on as the body of hell +Seething; and some, their cables cut, ran foul +Of one the other, while the ruddy fire +Sped on aloft. One ship was stranded. One +Foundered, and went down burning; all the sea +Red as an angry sunset was made fell +With smoke and blazing spars that rode upright, +For as the fireships burst they scattered forth +Full dangerous wreckage. All the sky they scored +With flying sails and rocking masts, and yards +Licked of long flames. And flitting tinder sank +In eddies on the plagued mixed mob of ships +That cared no more for harbour, and were fain +At any hazard to be forth, and leave +Their berths in the blood-red haze. + + It was at twelve +O' the clock when this fell out, for as the eight +Were towed, and left upon the friendly tide +To stalk like evil angels over the deep +And stare upon the Spaniards, we did hear +Their midnight bells. It was at morning dawn +After our mariners thus had harried them +I looked my last upon their fleet,--and all, +That night had cut their cables, put to sea, +And scattering wide towards the Flemish coast +Did seem to make for Greveline. + + As for us, +The captains told us off to wait on them, +Bearers of wounded enemies and friends, +Bearers of messages, bearers of store. + +We saw not ought, but heard enough: we heard +(And God be thanked) of that long scattering chase +And driving of Sidonia from his hope, +Parma, who could not ought without his ships +And looked for them to break the Dutch blockade, +He meanwhile chafing lion-like in his lair. +We heard--and he--for all one summer day, +Fenning and Drake and Raynor, Fenton, Cross, +And more, by Greveline, where they once again +Did get the wind o' the Spaniards, noise of guns. +For coming with the wind, wielding themselves +Which way they listed (while in close array +The Spaniards stood but on defence), our own +Went at them, charged them high and charged them sore, +And gave them broadside after broadside. Ay, +Till all the shot was spent both great and small. +It failed; and in regard of that same want +They thought it not convenient to pursue +Their vessels farther. + They were huge withal, +And might not be encountered one to one, +But close conjoined they fought, and poured great store +Of ordnance at our ships, though many of theirs, +Shot thorow and thorow, scarce might keep afloat. + +Many were captured fighting, many sank. +This news they brought returned perforce, and left +The Spaniards forging north. Themselves did watch +The river mouth, till Howard, his new store +Gathered, encounter coveting, once more +Made after them with Drake. + And lo! the wind +Got up to help us. He yet flying north +(Their doughty Admiral) made all his wake +To smoke, and would not end to fight, but strewed +The ocean with his wreckage. And the wind +Drave him before it, and the storm was fell, +And he went up to th' uncouth northern sea. +There did our mariners leave him. Then did joy +Run like a sunbeam over the land, and joy +Rule in the stout heart of a regnant Queen. + +But now the counsel came, 'Every man home, +For after Scotland rounded, when he curves +Southward, and all the batter'd armament, +What hinders on our undefended coast +To land where'er he listeth? Every man +Home.' + And we mounted and did open forth +Like a great fan, to east, to north, to west, +And rumour met us flying, filtering +Down through the border. News of wicked joy, +The wreckers rich in the Faroes, and the Isles +Orkney, and all the clansmen full of gear +Gathered from helpless mariners tempted in +To their undoing; while a treacherous crew +Let the storm work upon their lives its will, +Spoiled them and gathered all their riches up. +Then did they meet like fate from Irish kernes, +Who dealt with them according to their wont. + +In a great storm of wind that tore green leaves +And dashed them wet upon me, came I home. +Then greeted me my dame, and Rosamund, +Our one dear child, the heir of these my fields-- +That I should sigh to think it! There, no more. + +Being right weary I betook me straight +To longed-for sleep, and I did dream and dream +Through all that dolourous storm; though noise of guns +Daunted the country in the moonless night, +Yet sank I deep and deeper in the dream +And took my fill of rest. + A voice, a touch, +'Wake.' Lo! my wife beside me, her wet hair +She wrung with her wet hands, and cried, 'A ship! +I have been down the beach. O pitiful! +A Spanish ship ashore between the rocks, +And none to guide our people. Wake.' + Then I +Raised on mine elbow looked; it was high day; +In the windy pother seas came in like smoke +That blew among the trees as fine small rain, +And then the broken water sun-besprent +Glitter'd, fell back and showed her high and fast +A caravel, a pinnace that methought +To some great ship had longed; her hap alone +Of all that multitude it was to drive +Between this land of England her right foe, +And that most cruel, where (for all their faith +Was one) no drop of water mote they drink +For love of God nor love of gold. + I rose +And hasted; I was soon among the folk, +But late for work. The crew, spent, faint, and bruised +Saved for the most part of our men, lay prone +In grass, and women served them bread and mead, +Other the sea laid decently alone +Ready for burial. And a litter stood +In shade. Upon it lying a goodly man, +The govourner or the captain as it seemed, +Dead in his stiff gold-broider'd bravery, +And epaulet and sword. They must have loved +That man, for many had died to bring him in, +Their boats stove in were stranded here and there. +In one--but how I know not--brought they him, +And he was laid upon a folded flag, +Many times doubled for his greater ease, +That was our thought--and we made signs to them +He should have sepulture. But when they knew +They must needs leave him, for some marched them off +For more safe custody, they made great moan. + +After, with two my neighbours drawing nigh, +One of them touched the Spaniard's hand and said, +'Dead is he but not cold;' the other then, +'Nay in good truth methinks he be not dead.' +Again the first, 'An' if he breatheth yet +He lies at his last gasp.' And this went off, +And left us two, that by the litter stayed, +Looking on one another, and we looked +(For neither willed to speak), and yet looked on. +Then would he have me know the meet was fixed +For nine o' the clock, and to be brief with you +He left me. And I had the Spaniard home. +What other could be done? I had him home. +Men on his litter bare him, set him down +In a fair chamber that was nigh the hall. + +And yet he waked not from his deathly swoon, +Albeit my wife did try her skill, and now +Bad lay him on a bed, when lo the folds +Of that great ensign covered store of gold, +Rich Spanish ducats, raiment, Moorish blades +Chased in right goodly wise, and missals rare, +And other gear. I locked it for my part +Into an armoury, and that fair flag +(While we did talk full low till he should end) +Spread over him. Methought, the man shall die +Under his country's colours; he was brave, +His deadly wound to that doth testify. + +And when 't was seemly order'd, Rosamund, +My daughter, who had looked not yet on death, +Came in, a face all marvel, pity, and dread-- +Lying against her shoulder sword-long flowers, +White hollyhocks to cross upon his breast. +Slowly she turned as of that sight afeard, +But while with daunted heart she moved anigh, +His eyelids quiver'd, quiver'd then the lip, +And he, reviving, with a sob looked up +And set on her the midnight of his eyes. + +Then she, in act to place the burial gift +Bending above him, and her flaxen hair +Fall'n to her hand, drew back and stood upright +Comely and tall, her innocent fair face +Cover'd with blushes more of joy than shame. +'Father,' she cried, 'O father, I am glad. +Look you! the enemy liveth.' ''T is enough, +My maiden,' quoth her mother, 'thou may'st forth, +But say an Ave first for him with me.' + +Then they with hands upright at foot o' his bed +Knelt, his dark dying eyes at gaze on them, +Till as I think for wonder at them, more +Than for his proper strength, he could not die. + +So in obedient wise my daughter risen, +And going, let a smile of comforting cheer +Lift her sweet lip, and that was all of her +For many a night and day that he beheld. + +And then withal my dame, a leech of skill, +Tended the Spaniard fain to heal his wound, +Her women aiding at their best. And he +'Twixt life and death awaken'd in the night +Full oft in his own tongue would make his moan, +And when he whisper'd any word I knew, +If I was present, for to pleasure him, +Then made I repetition of the same. +'Cordova,' quoth he faintly, 'Cordova,' +'T was the first word he mutter'd. 'Ay, we know,' +Quoth I, 'the stoutness of that fight ye made +Against the Moors and their Mahometry, +And dispossess'd the men of fame, the fierce +Khalifs of Cordova--thy home belike, +Thy city. A fair city Cordova.' + +Then after many days, while his wound healed, +He with abundant seemly sign set forth +His thanks, but as for language had we none, +And oft he strove and failed to let us know +Some wish he had, but could not, so a week, +Two weeks went by. Then Rosamund my girl, +Hearing her mother plain on this, she saith, +'So please you, madam, show the enemy +A Psalter in our English tongue, and fetch +And give him that same book my father found +Wrapped in the ensign. Are they not the same +Those holy words? The Spaniard being devout, +He needs must know them.' + 'Peace, thou pretty fool! +Is this a time to teach an alien tongue?' +Her mother made for answer. 'He is sick, +The Spaniard.' 'Cry you mercy,' quoth my girl, +'But I did think 't were easy to let show +How both the Psalters are of meaning like; +If he know Latin, and 't is like he doth, +So might he choose a verse to tell his thought.' + +Then said I (ay, I did!) 'The girl shall try,' +And straight I took her to the Spaniard's side, +And he, admiring at her, all his face +Changed to a joy that almost showed as fear, +So innocent holy she did look, so grave +Her pitiful eyes. + She sat beside his bed, +He covered with the ensign yet; and took +And showed the Psalters both, and she did speak +Her English words, but gazing was enough +For him at her sweet dimple, her blue eyes +That shone, her English blushes. Rosamund, +My beautiful dear child. He did but gaze, +And not perceive her meaning till she touched +His hand, and in her Psalter showed the word. + +Then was all light to him; he laughed for joy, +And took the Latin Missal. O full soon, +Alas, how soon, one read the other's thought! +Before she left him, she had learned his name +Alonzo, told him hers, and found the care +Made night and day uneasy--Cordova, +There dwelt his father, there his kin, nor knew +Whether he lived or died, whether in thrall +To the Islanders for lack of ransom pined +Or rued the galling yoke of slavery. + +So did he cast him on our kindness. I-- +And care not who may know it--I was kind, +And for that our stout Queen did think foul scorn +To kill the Spanish prisoners, and to guard +So many could not, liefer being to rid +Our country of them than to spite their own, +I made him as I might that matter learn, +Eking scant Latin with my daughter's wit, +And told him men let forth and driven forth +Did crowd our harbours for the ports of Spain, +By one of whom, he, with good aid of mine, +Should let his tidings go, and I plucked forth +His ducats that a meet reward might be. +Then he, the water standing in his eyes, +Made old King David's words due thanks convey. + +Then Rosamund, this all made plain, arose +And curtsey'd to the Spaniard. Ah, methinks +I yet behold her, gracious, innocent, +And flaxen-haired, and blushing maidenly, +When turning she retired, and his black eyes, +That hunger'd after her, did follow on; +And I bethought me, 'Thou shalt see no more, +Thou goodly enemy, my one ewe lamb.' + +O, I would make short work of this. The wound +Healed, and the Spaniard rose, then could he stand, +And then about his chamber walk at ease. + +Now we had counsell'd how to have him home, +And that same trading vessel beating up +The Irish Channel at my will, that same +I charter'd for to serve me in the war, +Next was I minded should mine enemy +Deliver to his father, and his land. +Daily we looked for her, till in our cove, +Upon that morn when first the Spaniard walked, +Behold her rocking; and I hasted down +And left him waiting in the house. + Woe 's me! +All being ready speed I home, and lo +My Rosamund, that by the Spaniard sat +Upon a cushion'd settle, book in hand. +I needs must think how in the deep alcove +Thick chequer'd shadows of the window-glass +Did fall across her kirtle and her locks, +For I did see her thus no more. + She held +Her Psalter, and he his, and slowly read +Till he would stop her at the needed word. +'O well is thee,' she read, my Rosamund, +'O well is thee, and happy shalt thou be. +Thy wife--' and there he stopped her, and he took +And kissed her hand, and show'd in 's own a ring, +Taking no heed of me, no heed at all. + +Then I burst forth, the choler red i' my face +When I did see her blush, and put it on. +'Give me,' quoth I, and Rosamund, afraid, +Gave me the ring. I set my heel on it, +Crushed it, and sent the rubies scattering forth, +And did in righteous anger storm at him. +'What! what!' quoth I, 'before her father's eyes, +Thou universal villain, thou ingrate, +Thou enemy whom I shelter'd, fed, restored, +Most basest of mankind!' And Rosamund, +Arisen, her forehead pressed against mine arm, +And 'Father,' cries she, 'father.' + And I stormed +At him, while in his Spanish he replied +As one would speak me fair. 'Thou Spanish hound!' +'Father,' she pleaded. 'Alien vile,' quoth I, +'Plucked from the death, wilt thou repay me thus? +It is but three times thou hast set thine eyes +On this my daughter.' 'Father,' moans my girl; +And I, not willing to be so withstood, +Spoke roughly to her. Then the Spaniard's eyes +Blazed--then he stormed at me in his own tongue, +And all his Spanish arrogance and pride +Broke witless on my wrathful English. Then +He let me know, for I perceived it well, +He reckon'd him mine equal, thought foul scorn +Of my displeasure, and was wroth with me +As I with him. 'Father,' sighed Rosamund. +'Go, get thee to thy mother, girl,' quoth I. +And slowly, slowly, she betook herself +Down the long hall; in lowly wise she went +And made her moans. + But when my girl was gone +I stood at fault, th' occasion master'd me; +Belike it master'd him, for both felt mute. +I calmed me, and he calmed him as he might. +For I bethought me I was yet an host, +And he bethought him on the worthiness +Of my first deeds. + So made I sign to him. +The tide was up, and soon I had him forth, +Delivered him his goods, commended him +To the captain o' the vessel, then plucked off +My hat, in seemly fashion taking leave, +And he was not outdone, but every way +Gave me respect, and on the deck we two +Parted, as I did hope, to meet no more. + +Alas! my Rosamund, my Rosamund! +She did not weep, no. Plain upon me, no. +Her eyes mote well have lost the trick of tears: +As new-washed flowers shake off the down-dropt rain, +And make denial of it, yet more blue +And fair of favour afterward, so they. +The wild woodrose was not more fresh of blee +Than her soft dimpled cheek: but I beheld, +Come home, a token hung about her neck, +Sparkling upon her bosom for his sake, +Her love, the Spaniard, she denied it not, +All unaware, good sooth, such love was bale. + +And all that day went like another day, +Ay, all the next; then was I glad at heart; +Methought, 'I am glad thou wilt not waste thy youth +Upon an alien man, mine enemy, +Thy nation's enemy. In truth, in truth, +This likes me very well. My most dear child, +Forget yon grave dark mariner. The Lord +Everlasting,' I besought, 'bring it to pass.' + +Stealeth a darker day within my hall, +A winter day of wind and driving foam. +They tell me that my girl is sick--and yet +Not very sick. I may not hour by hour, +More than one watching of a moon that wanes, +Make chronicle of change. A parlous change +When he looks back to that same moon at full. + +Ah! ah! methought, 't will pass. It did not pass, +Though never she made moan. I saw the rings +Drop from her small white wasted hand. And I, +Her father, tamed of grief, I would have given +My land, my name to have her as of old. +Ay, Rosamund I speak of with the small +White face. Ay, Rosamund. O near as white, +And mournfuller by much, her mother dear +Drooped by her couch; and while of hope and fear +Lifted or left, as by a changeful tide, +We thought 'The girl is better,' or we thought +'The girl will die,' that jewel from her neck +She drew, and prayed me send it to her love; +A token she was true e'en to the end. +What matter'd now? But whom to send, and how +To reach the man? I found an old poor priest, +Some peril 't was for him and me, she writ +My pretty Rosamund her heart's farewell, +She kissed the letter, and that old poor priest, +Who had eaten of my bread, and shelter'd him +Under my roof in troublous times, he took, +And to content her on this errand went, +While she as done with earth did wait the end. + +Mankind bemoan them on the bitterness +Of death. Nay, rather let them chide the grief +Of living, chide the waste of mother-love +For babes that joy to get away to God; +The waste of work and moil and thought and thrift +And father-love for sons that heed it not, +And daughters lost and gone. Ay, let them chide +These. Yet I chide not. That which I have done +Was rightly done; and what thereon befell +Could make no right a wrong, e'en were 't to do +Again. + I will be brief. The days drag on, +My soul forebodes her death, my lonely age. +Once I despondent in the moaning wood +Look out, and lo a caravel at sea, +A man that climbs the rock, and presently +The Spaniard! + I did greet him, proud no more. +He had braved durance, as I knew, ay death, +To land on th' Island soil. In broken words +Of English he did ask me how she fared. +Quoth I, 'She is dying, Spaniard; Rosamund +My girl will die;' but he is fain, saith he, +To talk with her, and all his mind to speak; +I answer, 'Ay, my whilome enemy, +But she is dying.' 'Nay, now nay,' quoth he, +'So be she liveth,' and he moved me yet +For answer; then quoth I, 'Come life, come death, +What thou wilt, say.' + Soon made we Rosamund +Aware, she lying on the settle, wan +As a lily in the shade, and while she not +Believed for marvelling, comes he roundly in, +The tall grave Spaniard, and with but one smile, +One look of ruth upon her small pale face, +All slowly as with unaccustom'd mouth, +Betakes him to that English he hath conned, +Setting the words out plain: + 'Child! Rosamund! +Love! An so please thee, I would be thy man. +By all the saints will I be good to thee. +Come.' + Come! what think you, would she come? Ay, ay. +They love us, but our love is not their life. +For the dark mariner's love lived Rosamund. +Soon for his kiss she bloomed, smiled for his smile. +(The Spaniard reaped e'en as th' Evangel saith, +And bore in 's bosom forth my golden sheaf.) +She loved her father and her mother well, +But loved the Spaniard better. It was sad +To part, but she did part; and it was far +To go, but she did go. The priest was brought, +The ring was bless'd that bound my Rosamund, +She sailed, and I shall never see her more. + +One soweth and another reapeth. Ay, +Too true! too true! + + + + +ECHO AND THE FERRY. + + +Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven; +He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood. +They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven! +A small guest at the farm); but he said, 'Oh, a girl was no good!' +So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood. +It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl--only seven! +At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out. +The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue birds flash'd about, +And they too were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven? +I thought so. Yes, everyone else was eleven--eleven! + +So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet, +And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was litter'd; +And under and over the branches those little birds twitter'd, +While hanging head downwards they scolded because I was seven. +A pity. A very great pity. One should be eleven. + +But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet, +And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old. +Then I knew! for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold! +Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter; +And then some one else--oh, how softly!--came after, came after +With laughter--with laughter came after. + +And no one was near us to utter that sweet mocking call, +That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall. +But this was the country--perhaps it was close under heaven; +Oh, nothing so likely; the voice might have come from it even. +I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of this +Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings not at all. +Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver: +She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small, +Then flashed down her hole like a dart--like a dart from the quiver. +And I waded atween the long grasses and felt it was bliss. + +--So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiver +And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall +White branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall-- +A little low wall--and looked over, and there was the river, +The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river +Clear shining and slow, she had far far to go from her snow; +But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow, +And she murmur'd, methought, with a speech very soft--very low. +'The ways will be long, but the days will be long,' quoth the river, +'To me a long liver, long, long!' quoth the river--the river. + +I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky, +The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under. +But at last--in a day or two namely--Eleven and I +Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder. +He said that was Echo. 'Was Echo a wise kind of bee +That had learned how to laugh: could it laugh in one's ear and then fly +And laugh again yonder?' 'No; Echo'--he whispered it low-- +'Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see +And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he, +But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder. +Yet I that had money--a shilling, a whole silver shilling-- +We might cross if I thought I would spend it.' 'Oh yes, I was willing'-- +And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry, +And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merry +When they called for the ferry; but oh! she was very--was very +Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when Oliver cried, +'Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry--the ferry!' +By the still water's side she was heard far and wide--she replied +And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, 'You man of the ferry, +You man of--you man of the ferry!' + +'Hie over!' he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling, +Across the clear reed-border'd river he ferried us fast;-- +Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpass'd +All measure her doubling--so close, then so far away falling, +Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware, +And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was there!), +Nor behold her wild eyes and her mystical countenance fair. + +We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead; +In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead; +By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow deep-nested, in brown-- +Not Echo, fair Echo! for Echo, sweet Echo! was flown. +So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call. +The church was among them, grey moss over roof, over wall. +Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green grassy mound +And looked in at a window, for Echo, perhaps, in her round +Might have come in to hide there. But no; every oak-carven seat +Was empty. We saw the great Bible--old, old, very old, +And the parson's great Prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beat +Of the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear gold +Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle and then waver and play +On the low chancel step and the railing, and Oliver said, +'Look, Katie! look, Katie! when Lettice came here to be wed +She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown; +And she stepped upon flowers they strew'd for her.' Then quoth small Seven: +'Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?' +All doubtful: 'It takes a long time to grow up,' quoth Eleven; +'You're so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never +Last on till you're tall.' And in whispers--because it was old +And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told, +Full of old parsons' prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk, +Neither heard nor beheld, but about us, in whispers we spoke. +Then we went from it softly and ran hand in hand to the strand, +While bleating of flocks and birds' piping made sweeter the land. +And Echo came back e'en as Oliver drew to the ferry, +'O Katie!' 'O Katie!' 'Come on, then!' 'Come on, then!' 'For, see, +The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree'--'by the tree.' +'By the tree.' Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and merry: +'Hie over!' 'Hie over!' 'You man of the ferry'--'the ferry.' + 'You man of the ferry-- + You man of--you man of--the ferry.' + +Ay, here--it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old; +All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told. +Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white +To that little low church? and will Oliver meet me anon? +Will it all seem an echo from childhood pass'd over--pass'd on? +Will the grave parson bless us? Hark, hark! in the dim failing light +I hear her! As then the child's voice clear and high, sweet and merry +Now she mocks the man's tone with 'Hie over! Hie over the ferry!' +'And, Katie.' 'And, Katie.' 'Art out with the glow-worms to-night, +My Katie?' 'My Katie?' For gladness I break into laughter +And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years; +Again, some one else--oh, how softly!--with laughter comes after, + Comes after--with laughter comes after. + + + + +PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. + + +_A Schoolroom._ + +_SCHOOLMASTER (_not certificated_), VICAR, _and_ CHILD. + + _VICAR_. Why did you send for me? I hope all's +right? + + _Schoolmaster_. Well, sir, we thought this end o' the room +was dark. + + _V_. Indeed! So 't is. There's my new study lamp-- + + _S_. 'T would stand, sir, well beside yon laurel wreath. +Shall I go fetch it? + + _V._ Do, we must not fail. +Bring candles also. + +[_Exit Schoolmaster. Vicar arranges chairs._ + + Now, small six years old, +And why may you be here? + + _Child._ I'm helping father; +But, father, why d'you take such pains? + + _V._ Sweet soul, +That's what I'm for! + + _C._ What, and for nothing else? + + _V._ Yes! I'm to bring thee up to be a man. + + _C._ And what am I for? + + _V._ There, I'm busy now. + + _C._ Am I to bring you up to be a child? + + _V._ Perhaps! Indeed, I have heard it said thou art. + + _C._ Then when may I begin? + + _V._ I'm busy, I say. +Begin to-morrow an thou canst, my son, +And mind to do it well. + +[_Exit Vicar and Child._ + +_Enter a group of women, and some children._ + + _Mrs. Thorpe._ Fine lot o' lights! + + _Mrs. Jillifer._ Should be! Would folk put on their Sunday best +I' the week unless they looked to have it seen? +What, you here, neighbour! + + _Mrs. Smith._ Ay, you may say that. +Old Madam called; said she, 'My son would feel +So sorry if you did not come,' and slipped +The penny in my hand, she did; said I, +'Ma'am, that's not it. In short, some say your last +Was worth the penny and more. I know a man, +A sober man, who said, and stuck to it, +_Worth a good twopence_. But I'm strange, I'm shy.' +'We hope you'll come for once,' said she. In short, +I said I would to oblige 'em. + + _Mrs. Green_. Ah, 't was well. + + _Mrs. S_. But I feel strange, and music gets i' my throat, +It always did. And singers be so smart, +Ladies and folk from other parishes, +Candles and cheering, greens and flowers and all +I was not used to such in my young day; +We kept ourselves at home. + + _Mrs. J_. Never say 'used,' +The most of us have many a thing to do +We were not used to. If you come to that, +Why none of us are used to growing old, +It takes us by surprise, as one may say, +That work, when we begin 't, and yet 't is work +That all of us must do. + + _Mrs. G_. Nay, nay, not all. + + _Mrs. J_. I ask your pardon, neighbour; you be right. Not all. + + _Mrs. G_. And my sweet maid scarce three months dead. + + _Mrs. J_. I ask your pardon truly. + + _Mrs. G_. No, my dear, +Thou'lt never see old days. I cannot stint +To fret, the maiden was but twelve years old, +So toward, such a scholar. + + _Mrs. S._ Ay, when God, +That knows, comes down to choose, He'll take the best. + + _Mrs. T._ But I'm right glad you came, it pleases _them_. +My son, that loves his book, 'Mother,' said he, +'Go to the Reading when you have a chance, +For there you get a change, and you see life.' +But Reading or no Reading, I am slow +To learn. When parson after comes his rounds, +'Did it,' to ask with a persuading smile, +'Open your mind?' the woman doth not live +Feels more a fool. + + _Mrs. J._ I always tell him 'Yes,' +For he means well. Ay, and I like the songs. +Have you heard say what they shall read to-night? + + _Mrs. S._. Neighbour, I hear 'tis something of the East. +But what, I ask you, is the East to us, +And where d'ye think it lies? + + _Mrs. J._ The children know, +At least they say they do; there's nothing deep +Nor nothing strange but they get hold on it. + +_Enter Schoolmaster and a dozen children._ + + _S._ Now ladies, ladies, you must please to sit +More close; the room fills fast, and all these lads +And maidens either have to sing before +The Reading, or else after. By your leave +I'll have them in the front, I want them here. + +[_The women make room._ + +_Enter ploughmen, villagers, servants, and children._ + +And mark me, boys, if I hear cracking o' nuts, +Or see you flicking acorns and what not +While folks from other parishes observe, +You'll hear on it when you don't look to. Tom +And Jemmy and Roger, sing as loud's ye can, +Sing as the maidens do, are they afraid? +And now I'm stationed handy facing you, +Friends all, I'll drop a word by your good leave. + + _Young ploughman._ Do, master, do, we like your words a vast. +Though there be nought to back 'em up, ye see, +As when we were smaller. + + _S._ Mark me, then, my lads. +When Lady Laura sang, 'I don't think much,' +Says her fine coachman, 'of your manners here. +We drove eleven miles in the dark, it rained, +And ruts in your cross roads are deep. We're here, +My lady sings, they sit all open-mouthed, +And when she's done they never give one cheer.' + + _Old man._ Be folks to clap if they don't like the song? + + _S._ Certain, for manners. + +_Enter_ VICAR, _wife, various friends with violins and a flute. +They come to a piano, and one begins softly to tune his +violin, while the Vicar speaks_. + +_V_. Friends, since there is a place where you must hear +When I stand up to speak, I would not now +If there were any other found to bid +You welcome. Welcome, then; these with me ask +No better than to please, and in good sooth +I ever find you willing to be pleased. +When I demand not more, but when we fain +Would lead you to some knowledge fresh, and ask +Your careful heed, I hear that some of you +Have said, 'What good to know, what good to us? +He puts us all to school, and our school days +Should be at end. Nay, if they needs must teach, +Then let them teach us what shall mend our lot; +The laws are strict on us, the world is hard.' +You friends and neighbours, may I dare to speak? +I know the laws are strict, and the world hard, +For ever will the world help that man up +That is already coming up, and still +And ever help him down that's going down. +Yet say, 'I will take the words out of thy mouth, +O world, being yet more strict with mine own life. +Thou law, to gaze shall not be worth thy while +On whom beyond thy power doth rule himself.' +Yet seek to know, for whoso seek to know +They seek to rise, and best they mend their lot. +Methinks, if Adam and Eve in their garden days +Had scorned the serpent, and obediently +Continued God's good children, He Himself +Had led them to the Tree of Knowledge soon +And bid them eat the fruit thereof, and yet +Not find it apples of death. + + _Vicar's wife (aside)._ Now, dearest John, +We're ready. Lucky too! you always go +Above the people's heads. + +_Young farmer stands forward. Vicar presenting him._ + + +SONG. + + I. + + Sparkle of snow and of frost, + Blythe air and the joy of cold, + Their grace and good they have lost, + As print o' her foot by the fold. + Let me back to yon desert sand, + Rose-lipped love--from the fold, + Flower-fair girl--from the fold, + Let me back to the sultry land. + The world is empty of cheer, + Forlorn, forlorn, and forlorn, + As the night-owl's sob of fear, + As Memnon moaning at morn. + For love of thee, my dear, + I have lived a better man, + O my Mary Anne, + My Mary Anne. + + II. + + Away, away, and away, + To an old palm-land of tombs, + Washed clear of our yesterday + And where never a snowdrop blooms, + Nor wild becks talk as they go + Of tender hope we had known, + Nor mosses of memory grow + All over the wayside stone. + + III. + + Farewell, farewell, and farewell, + As voice of a lover's sigh + In the wind let yon willow wave + 'Farewell, farewell, and farewell.' + The sparkling frost-stars brave + On thy shrouded bosom lie; + Thou art gone apart to dwell, + But I fain would have said good-bye. + For love of thee in thy grave + I have lived a better man, + O my Mary Anne, + My Mary Anne. + + + _Mrs. Thorpe (aside)._ O hearts! why, what a song! +To think on it, and he a married man! + + _Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ Bless you, that makes for nothing, nothing at + all, +They take no heed upon the words. His wife, +Look you, as pleased as may be, smiles on him. + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ Neighbours, there's one thing beats me. We've enough +O' trouble in the world; I've cried my fill +Many and many a time by my own fire: +Now why, I'll ask you, should it comfort me +And ease my heart when, pitiful and sweet, +One sings of other souls and how they mourned? +A body would have thought that did not know +Songs must be merry, full of feast and mirth. +Or else would all folk flee away from them. + + _Mrs. S. (aside)._ 'Tis strange, and I too love the sad ones best. + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ Ay, how they clap him! +'Tis as who should say, +Sing! we were pleased; sing us another song; +As if they did not know he loves to sing. +Well may he, not an organ pipe they blow +On Sunday in the church is half so sweet; +But he's a hard man. + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Mark me, neighbours all, +Hard though he be--ay, and the mistress hard-- +If he do sing 'twill be a sorrowful +Sad tale of sweethearts, that shall make you wish +Your own time would come over again, although +Were partings in 't and tears. Hist! now he sings. + +_Young farmer sings again._ + + +'Come hither, come hither.' The broom was in blossom all over yon rise; + There went a wide murmur of brown bees about it with songs from the wood. +'We shall never be younger! O love, let us forth, for the world 'neath our + eyes, + Ay, the world is made young e'en as we, and right fair is her youth and + right good.' + +Then there fell the great yearning upon me, that never yet went into words; + While lovesome and moansome thereon spake and falter'd the dove to the + dove. +And I came at her calling, 'Inherit, inherit, and sing with the birds;' + I went up to the wood with the child of my heart and the wife of my love. + +O pure! O pathetic! Wild hyacinths drank it, the dream light, apace + Not a leaf moved at all 'neath the blue, they hung waiting for messages + kind; +Tall cherry-trees dropped their white blossom that drifted no whit from + its place, + For the south very far out to sea had the lulling low voice of the + wind. + +And the child's dancing foot gave us part in the ravishment almost a pain, + An infinite tremor of life, a fond murmur that cried out on time, +Ah short! must all end in the doing and spend itself sweetly in vain, + And the promise be only fulfilment to lean from the height of its prime? + +'We shall never be younger;' nay, mock me not, fancy, none call from yon + tree; + They have thrown me the world they went over, went up, and, alas! For + my part +I am left to grow old, and to grieve, and to change; but they change not + with me; + They will never be older, the child of my love, and the wife of my + heart. + + + _Mrs. J. I_ told you so! + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ That did you, neighbour. Ay, +Partings, said you, and tears: I liked the song. + + _Mrs. G_. Who be these coming to the front to sing? + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Why, neighbour, these be sweethearts, so 'tis said, +And there was much ado to make her sing; +She would, and would not; and he wanted her, +And, mayhap, wanted to be seen with her. +'Tis Tomlin's pretty maid, his only one. + + _Mrs. G. (aside)._ I did not know the maid, so fair she looks. + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ He's a right proper man she has at last; +Walks over many a mile (and counts them nought) +To court her after work hours, that he doth, +Not like her other--why, he'd let his work +Go all to wrack, and lay it to his love, +While he would sit and look, and look and sigh. +Her father sent him to the right-about. +'If love,' said he, 'won't make a man of you, +Why, nothing will! 'Tis mainly that love's for. +The right sort makes,' said he, 'a lad a man; +The wrong sort makes,' said he, 'a man a fool.' + + _Vicar presents a young man and a girl._ + + +DUET. + + _She_. While he dreams, mine old grand sire, + And yon red logs glow, + Honey, whisper by the fire, + Whisper, honey low. + + _He_. Honey, high's yon weary hill, + Stiff's yon weary loam; + Lacks the work o' my goodwill, + Fain I'd take thee home. + O how much longer, and longer, and longer, + An' how much longer shall the waiting last? + Berries red are grown, April birds are flown, + Martinmas gone over, ay, and harvest past. + + _She_. Honey, bide, the time's awry, + Bide awhile, let be. + _He_. Take my wage then, lay it by, + Till 't come back with thee. + The red money, the white money, + Both to thee I bring-- + _She_. Bring ye ought beside, honey? + _He_. Honey, ay, the ring. + + _Duet_. But how much longer, and longer, and longer, + O how much longer shall the waiting last? + Berries red are grown, April birds are flown, + Martinmas gone over, and the harvest past. + + + [_Applause._ + + _Mrs. S. (aside)._ O she's a pretty maid, and sings so small + And high, 'tis like a flute. And she must blush + Till all her face is roses newly blown. + How folks do clap. She knows not where to look. +There now she's off; he standing like a man +To face them. + + _Mrs. G. (aside)._ Makes his bow, and after her; +But what's the good of clapping when they're gone? + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ Why 'tis a London fashion as I'm told, +And means they'd have 'em back to sing again. + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Neighbours, look where her father, red as fire, +Sits pleased and 'shamed, smoothing his Sunday hat; +And Parson bustles out. Clap on, clap on. +Coming? Not she! There comes her sweetheart though. + +_Vicar presents the young man again_. + + +SONG. + +I. + +Rain clouds flew beyond the fell, + No more did thunders lower, +Patter, patter, on the beck + Dropt a clearing shower. +Eddying floats of creamy foam + Flecked the waters brown, +As we rode up to cross the ford, + Rode up from yonder town. + Waiting on the weather, + She and I together, + Waiting on the weather, + Till the flood went down. + +II. + +The sun came out, the wet leaf shone, + Dripped the wild wood vine. +Betide me well, betide me woe, + That hour's for ever mine. +With thee Mary, with thee Mary, + Full oft I pace again, +Asleep, awake, up yonder glen, + And hold thy bridle rein. + Waiting on the weather, + Thou and I together, + Waiting on the weather, + Till the flood shall wane. + +III. + +And who, though hope did come to nought, + Would memory give away? +I lighted down, she leaned full low, + Nor chid that hour's delay. +With thee Mary, with thee Mary, + Methought my life to crown, +But we ride up, but we ride up, + No more from yonder town. + Waiting on the weather, + Thou and I together, + Waiting on the weather, + Till the flood go down. + + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Well, very well; but what of fiddler Sam? +I ask you, neighbours, if't be not his turn. +An honest man, and ever pays his score; +Born in the parish, old, blind as a bat, +And strangers sing before him; 't is a shame! + + _Mrs. S. (aside)._ Ay, but his daughter-- + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Why, the maid's a maid +One would not set to guide the chant in church, +But when she sings to earn her father's bread, +The mildest mother's son may cry 'Amen.' + + _Mrs. S. (aside)._ They say he plays not always true. + + _Mrs. J. (aside)_ What then? + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ Here comes my lady. She's too fat by half +For love songs. O! the lace upon her gown, +I wish I had the getting of it up, +'T would be a pretty penny in my pouch. + + _Mrs. J. (aside)._ Be quiet now for manners. + +_Vicar presents a lady, who sings_. + + +I + +Dark flocks of wildfowl riding out the storm + Upon a pitching sea, +Beyond grey rollers vex'd that rear and form, +When piping winds urge on their destiny, +To fall back ruined in white continually. +And I at our trysting stone, +Whereto I came down alone, +Was fain o' the wind's wild moan. +O, welcome were wrack and were rain +And beat of the battling main, +For the sake of love's sweet pain, +For the smile in two brown eyes, +For the love in any wise, +To bide though the last day dies; +For a hand on my wet hair, +For a kiss e'en yet I wear, +For--bonny Jock was there. + +II. + +Pale precipices while the sun lay low + Tinct faintly of the rose, +And mountain islands mirror'd in a flow, +Forgotten of all winds (their manifold +Peaks, reared into the glory and the glow), + Floated in purple and gold. + And I, o'er the rocks alone, + Of a shore all silent grown, + Came down to our trysting stone, + And sighed when the solemn ray + Paled in the wake o' the day. + 'Wellaway, wellaway,-- + Comfort is not by the shore, + Going the gold that it wore, + Purple and rose are no more, + World and waters are wan, + And night will be here anon, + And--bonny Jock's gone.' + + + _[Moderate applause, and calls for fiddler Sam_. + + _Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ Now, neighbours, call again and be not shamed; +Stand by the parish, and the parish folk, +Them that are poor. I told you! here he comes. +Parson looks glum, but brings him and his girl. + +_The fiddler Sam plays, and his daughter sings_. + + + Touch the sweet string. Fly forth, my heart, + Upon the music like a bird; + The silvery notes shall add their part, + And haply yet thou shalt be heard. + Touch the sweet string. + + The youngest wren of nine + Dimpled, dark, and merry, + Brown her locks, and her two eyne + Browner than a berry. + + When I was not in love + Maidens met I many; + Under sun now walks but one, + Nor others mark I any. + +Twin lambs, a mild-eyed ewe, + That would her follow bleating, +A heifer white as snow + I'll give to my sweet sweeting. + +Touch the sweet string. If yet too young, + O love of loves, for this my song, +I'll pray thee count it all unsung, + And wait thy leisure, wait it long. + Touch the sweet string. + + + [_Much applause_. + + _Vicar_. You hear them, Sam. You needs must play + again, +Your neighbours ask it. + + _Fiddler_. Thank ye, neighbours all, +I have my feelings though I be but poor; +I've tanged the fiddle here this forty year, +And I should know the trick on 't. + +_The fiddler plays, and his daughter sings_. + + +For Exmoor-- +For Exmoor, where the red deer run, my weary heart + doth cry. +She that will a rover wed, far her foot shall his. +Narrow, narrow, shows the street, dull the narrow sky. +_(Buy my cherries, whiteheart cherries, good my masters_, + _buy_.) + +For Exmoor-- +O he left me, left alone, aye to think and sigh, +'Lambs feed down yon sunny coombe, hind and yearling + shy, +Mid the shrouding vapours walk now like ghosts on high.' +(_Buy my cherries, blackheart cherries, lads and lassies, buy_.) + +For Exmoor-- +Dear my dear, why did ye so? Evil days have I, +Mark no more the antler'd stag, hear the curlew cry. +Milking at my father's gate while he leans anigh. +(_Buy my cherries, whiteheart, blackheart, golden girls, O buy._) + + + _Mrs. T. (aside)._ I've known him play that Exmoor + song afore. +'Ah me! and I'm from Exmoor. I could wish +To hear 't no more. + + _Mrs. S. (aside)._ Neighbours, 't is mighty hot. +Ay, now they throw the window up, that's well, +A body could not breathe. + + [_The fiddler and his daughter go away._ + + _Mrs. Jillifer (aside)._ They'll hear no parson's preaching, + no not they! +But innocenter songs, I do allow, +They could not well have sung than these to-night. +That man knows just so well as if he saw +They were not welcome. + +_The Vicar stands up, on the point of beginning to read, when the tuning +and twang of the fiddle is heard close outside the open window, and the +daughter sings in a clear cheerful voice. A little tittering is heard +in the room, and the Vicar pauses discomfited_. + + +I. + +O my heart! what a coil is here! +Laurie, why will ye hold me dear? +Laurie, Laurie, lad, make not wail, +With a wiser lass ye'll sure prevail, +For ye sing like a woodland nightingale. +And there's no sense in it under the sun; +For of three that woo I can take but one, +So what's to be done--what's to be done? + And +There's no sense in it under the sun. + +II. + +Hal, brave Hal, from your foreign parts +Come home you'll choose among kinder hearts. +Forget, forget, you're too good to hold +A fancy 't were best should faint, grow cold, +And fade like an August marigold; +For of three that woo I can take but one, +And what's to be done--what's to be done? +There's no sense in it under the sun, + And +Of three that woo I can take but one. + +III. + +Geordie, Geordie, I count you true, +Though language sweet I have none for you. +Nay, but take me home to the churning mill +When cherry boughs white on yon mounting hill +Hang over the tufts o' the daffodil. +For what's to be done--what's to be done? +Of three that woo I must e'en take one, +Or there's no sense in it under the sun, + And +What's to be done--what's to be done? + + _V_. (_aside_). What's to be done, indeed! + + _Wife_ (_aside_). Done! nothing, love. +Either the thing has done itself, or _they_ +Must undo. Did they call for fiddler Sam? +Well, now they have him. + + + [_More tuning heard outside_. + + _Mrs. J_. (_aside_). Live and let live's my motto. + + _Mrs. T_. So 't is mine. +Who's Sam, that he must fly in Parson's face? +He's had his turn. He never gave these lights, +Cut his best flowers-- + + _Mrs. S_. (_aside_). He takes no pride in us. +Speak up, good neighbour, get the window shut. + + _Mrs. J_. (_rising_). I ask your pardon truly, that I do-- +La! but the window--there's a parlous draught; +The window punishes rheumatic folk-- +We'd have it shut, sir. + + _Others_. Truly, that we would. + + _V_. Certainly, certainly, my friends, you shall. + + [_The window is shut, and the Reading begins amid marked + attention_. + + + + +KISMET. + + +Into the rock the road is cut full deep, + At its low ledges village children play, +From its high rifts fountains of leafage weep, + And silvery birches sway. + +The boldest climbers have its face forsworn, + Sheer as a wall it doth all daring flout; +But benchlike at its base, and weather-worn, + A narrow ledge leans out. + +There do they set forth feasts in dishes rude + Wrought of the rush--wild strawberries on the bed +Left into August, apples brown and crude, + Cress from the cold well-head. + +Shy gamesome girls, small daring imps of boys, + But gentle, almost silent at their play-- +Their fledgling daws, for food, make far more noise + Ranged on the ledge than they. + +The children and the purple martins share + (Loveliest of birds) possession of the place; +They veer and dart cream-breasted round the fair + Faces with wild sweet grace. + +Fresh haply from Palmyra desolate, + Palmyra pale in light and storyless-- +From perching in old Tadmor mate by mate + In the waste wilderness. + +These know the world; what do the children know? + They know the woods, their groaning noises weird, +They climb in trees that overhang the slow + Deep mill-stream, loved and feared. + +Where shaken water-wheels go creak and clack, + List while a lorn thrush calls and almost speaks; +See willow-wrens with elderberries black + Staining their slender beaks. + +They know full well how squirrels spend the day; + They peeped when field-mice stole and stored the seed, +And voles along their under-water way + Donned collars of bright beads. + +Still from the deep-cut road they love to mark + Where set, as in a frame, the nearer shapes +Rise out of hill and wood; then long downs dark + As purple bloom on grapes. + +But farms whereon the tall wheat musters gold, + High barley whitening, creases in bare hills, +Reed-feathered, castle-like brown churches old, + Nor churning water-mills, + +Shall make ought seem so fair as that beyond-- + Beyond the down, which draws their fealty; +Blow high, blow low, some hearts do aye respond + The wind is from the sea. + +Above the steep-cut steps as they did grow, + The children's cottage homes embowered are seen; +Were this a world unfallen, they scarce could show + More beauteous red and green. + +Milk-white and vestal-chaste the hollyhock + Grows tall, clove, sweetgale nightly shed forth spice, +Long woodbines leaning over scent the rock + With airs of Paradise. + +Here comforted of pilot stars they lie + In charmed dreams, but not of wold nor lea. +Behold a ship! her wide yards score the sky; + She sails a steel-blue sea. + +As turns the great amassment of the tide, + Drawn of the silver despot to her throne, +So turn the destined souls, so far and wide + The strong deep claims its own. + +Still the old tale; these dreaming islanders, + Each with hot Sunderbunds a somewhat owns +That calls, the grandsire's blood within them stirs + Dutch Java guards his bones. + +And these were orphan'd when a leak was sprung + Far out from land when all the air was balm; +The shipmen saw their faces as they hung, + And sank in the glassy calm. + +These, in an orange-sloop their father plied, + Deck-laden deep she sailed from Cadiz town, +A black squall rose, she turned upon her side, + Drank water and went down. + +They too shall sail. High names of alien lands + Are in the dream, great names their fathers knew; +Madras, the white surf rearing on her sands, + E'en they shall breast it too. + +See threads of scarlet down fell Roa creep, + When moaning winds rend back her vapourous veil; +Wild Orinoco wedge-like split the deep, + Raging forth passion-pale; + +Or a blue berg at sunrise glittering tall, + Great as a town adrift come shining on +With sharp spires, gemlike as the mystical + Clear city of Saint John. + +Still the old tale; but they are children yet; + O let their mothers have them while they may! +Soon it shall work, the strange mysterious fret + That mars both toil and play. + +The sea will claim its own; and some shall mourn; + They also, they, but yet will surely go; +So surely as the planet to its bourne, + The chamois to his snow. + +'Father, dear father, bid us now God-speed; + We cannot choose but sail, it thus befell.' +'Mother, dear mother--' 'Nay, 't is all decreed. +Dear hearts, farewell, farewell!' + + + + +DORA. + + +A waxing moon that, crescent yet, +In all its silver beauty set, +And rose no more in the lonesome night +To shed full-orbed its longed-for light. +Then was it dark; on wold and lea, + In home, in heart, the hours were drear. +Father and mother could no light see, + And the hearts trembled and there was fear. +--So on the mount, Christ's chosen three, +Unware that glory it did shroud, +Feared when they entered into the cloud. + +She was the best part of love's fair +Adornment, life's God-given care, +As if He bade them guard His own, +Who should be soon anear His throne. +Dutiful, happy, and who say +When childhood smiles itself away, +'More fair than morn shall prove the day.' +Sweet souls so nigh to God that rest, +How shall be bettering of your best! +That promise heaven alone shall view, +That hope can ne'er with us come true, +That prophecy life hath not skill, +No, nor time leave that it fulfil. + +There is but heaven, for childhood never +Can yield the all it meant, for ever. +Or is there earth, must wane to less +What dawned so close by perfectness. + +How guileless, sweet, by gift divine, +How beautiful, dear child, was thine-- +Spared all their grief of thee bereaven. +Winner, who had not greatly striven, +Hurts of sin shall not thee soil, +Carking care thy beauty spoil. +So early blest, so young forgiven. + +Among the meadows fresh to view, +And in the woodland ways she grew, +On either side a hand to hold, +Nor the world's worst of evil knew, +Nor rued its miseries manifold, +Nor made discovery of its cold. +What more, like one with morn content. +Or of the morrow diffident, +Unconscious, beautiful she stood, +Calm, in young stainless maidenhood. +Then, with the last steps childhood trod, +Took up her fifteen years to God. + +Farewell, sweet hope, not long to last, +All life is better for thy past. +Farewell till love with sorrow meet, +To learn that tears are obsolete. + + + + +SPERANZA. + + +_Her younger sister, that Speranza hight_. + +England puts on her purple, and pale, pale + With too much light, the primrose doth but wait +To meet the hyacinth; then bower and dale + Shall lose her and each fairy woodland mate. +April forgets them, for their utmost sum +Of gift was silent, and the birds are come. + +The world is stirring, many voices blend, + The English are at work in field and way; +All the good finches on their wives attend, + And emmets their new towns lay out in clay; +Only the cuckoo-bird only doth say +Her beautiful name, and float at large all day. + +Everywhere ring sweet clamours, chirrupping, + Chirping, that comes before the grasshopper; +The wide woods, flurried with the pulse of spring, + Shake out their wrinkled buds with tremor and stir; +Small noises, little cries, the ear receives +Light as a rustling foot on last year's leaves. + +All in deep dew the satisfied deep grass + Looking straight upward stars itself with white, +Like ships in heaven full-sailed do long clouds pass + Slowly o'er this great peace, and wide sweet light. +While through moist meads draws down yon rushy mere + Influent waters, sobbing, shining, clear. + +Almost is rapture poignant; somewhat ails + The heart and mocks the morning; somewhat sighs, +And those sweet foreigners, the nightingales, + Made restless with their love, pay down its price, +Even the pain; then all the story unfold +Over and over again--yet 't is not told. + +The mystery of the world whose name is life + (One of the names of God) all-conquering wends +And works for aye with rest and cold at strife. + Its pedigree goes up to Him and ends. +For it the lucent heavens are clear o'erhead, +And all the meads are made its natal bed. + +Dear is the light, and eye-sight ever sweet, + What see they all fair lower things that nurse, +No wonder, and no doubt? Truly their meat, +Their kind, their field, their foes; man's eyes are more; + Sight is man's having of the universe, +His pass to the majestical far shore. + +But it is not enough, ah! not enough + To look upon it and be held away, +And to be sure that, while we tread the rough, + Remote, dull paths of this dull world, no ray +Shall pierce to us from the inner soul of things, +Nor voice thrill out from its deep master-strings. + +'To show the skies, and tether to the sod! + A daunting gift!' we mourn in our long strife. +And God is more than all our thought of God; + E'en life itself more than our thought of life, +And that is all we know--and it is noon, +Our little day will soon be done--how soon! + +O let us to ourselves be dutiful: + We are not satisfied, we have wanted all, +Not alone beauty, but that Beautiful; + A lifted veil, an answering mystical. +Ever men plead, and plain, admire, implore, +'Why gavest Thou so much--and yet--not more? + +We are but let to look, and Hope is weighed.' + Yet, say the Indian words of sweet renown, +'The doomed tree withholdeth not her shade + From him that bears the axe to cut her down;' +Is hope cut down, dead, doomed, all is vain: +The third day dawns, she too has risen again + +(For Faith is ours by gift, but Hope by right), + And walks among us whispering as of yore: +'Glory and grace are thrown thee with the light; + Search, if not yet thou touch the mystic shore; +Immanent beauty and good are nigh at hand, +For infants laugh and snowdrops bloom in the land. + +Thou shalt have more anon.' What more? in sooth, + The mother of to-morrow is to-day, +And brings forth after her kind. There is no ruth +On the heart's sigh, that 'more' is hidden away, +And man's to-morrow yet shall pine and yearn; +He shall surmise, and he shall not discern, + +But list the lark, and want the rapturous cries + And passioning of morning stars that sing +Together; mark the meadow-orchis rise + And think it freckled after an angel's wing; +Absent desire his land, and feel this, one +With the great drawing of the central sun. + +But not to all such dower, for there be eyes + Are colour-blind, and souls are spirit-blind. +Those never saw the blush in sunset skies, +Nor the others caught a sense not made of words + As if were spirits about, that sailed the wind +And sank and settled on the boughs like birds. + +Yet such for aye divided from us are + As other galaxies that seem no more +Than a little golden millet-seed afar. + Divided; swarming down some flat lee shore, +Then risen, while all the air that takes no word +Tingles, and trembles as with cries not heard. + +For they can come no nearer. There is found + No meeting point. We have pierced the lodging-place +Of stars that cluster'd with their peers lie bound, + Embedded thick, sunk in the seas of space, +Fortunate orbs that know not night, for all +Are suns;--but we have never heard that call, + +Nor learned it in our world, our citadel + With outworks of a Power about it traced; +Nor why we needs must sin who would do well, + Nor why the want of love, nor why its waste, +Nor how by dying of One should all be sped, +Nor where, O Lord, thou hast laid up our dead. + +But Hope is ours by right, and Faith by gift. + Though Time be as a moon upon the wane, +Who walk with Faith far up the azure lift + Oft hear her talk of lights to wax again. +'If man be lost,' she cries, 'in this vast sea +Of being,--lost--he would be lost with Thee + +Who for his sake once, as he hears, lost all. + For Thou wilt find him at the end of the days: +Then shall the flocking souls that thicker fall + Than snowflakes on the everlasting ways +Be counted, gathered, claimed.--Will it be long? +Earth has begun already her swan-song. + +Who, even that might, would dwell for ever pent + In this fair frame that doth the spirit inhearse, +Nor at the last grow weary and content, + Die, and break forth into the universe, +And yet man would not all things--all--were new.' +Then saith the other, that one robed in blue: + +'What if with subtle change God touch their eyes + When he awakes them,--not far off, but here +In a new earth, this: not in any wise + Strange, but more homely sweet, more heavenly dear, +Or if He roll away, as clouds disperse +Somewhat, and lo, that other universe. + +O how 't were sweet new waked in some good hour, + Long time to sit on a hillside green and high +There like a honeybee domed in a flower + To feed unneath the azure bell o' the sky, +Feed in the midmost home and fount of light +Sown thick with stars at noonday as by night + +To watch the flying faultless ones wheel down, + Alight, and run along some ridged peak, +Their feet adust from orbs of old renown, + Procyon or Mazzaroth, haply;--when they speak +Other-world errands wondrous, all discern +That would be strange, there would be much to learn. + +Ay, and it would be sweet to share unblamed + Love's shining truths that tell themselves in tears, +Or to confess and be no more ashamed + The wrongs that none can right through earthly years; +And seldom laugh, because the tenderness +Calm, perfect, would be more than joy--would bless. + +I tell you it were sweet to have enough, + And be enough. Among the souls forgiven +In presence of all worlds, without rebuff + To move, and feel the excellent safety leaven +With peace that awe must loss and the grave survive-- +But palpitating moons that are alive + +Nor shining fogs swept up together afar, + Vast as a thought of God, in the firmament; +No, and to dart as light from star to star + Would not long time man's yearning soul content: +Albeit were no more ships and no more sea, +He would desire his new earth presently. + +Leisure to learn it. Peoples would be here; + They would come on in troops, and take at will +The forms, the faces they did use to wear + With life's first splendours--raiment rich with skill +Of broidery, carved adornments, crowns of gold; +Still would be sweet to them the life of old. + +Then might be gatherings under golden shade, + Where dust of water drifts from some sheer fall, +Cooling day's ardour. There be utterance made + Of comforted love, dear freedom after thrall, +Large longings of the Seer, through earthly years +An everlasting burden, but no tears. + +Egypt's adopted child might tell of lore + They taught him underground in shrines all dim, +And of the live tame reptile gods that wore + Gold anklets on their feet. And after him, +With fairest eyes ere met of mortal ken, +Glorious, forgiven, might speak the mother of men. + +Talk of her apples gather'd by the marge + Of lapsing Gihon. 'Thus one spoke, I stood, +I ate.' Or next the mariner-saint enlarge + Right quaintly on his ark of gopher wood +To wandering men through high grass meads that ran +Or sailed the sea Mediterranean. + +It might be common--earth afforested + Newly, to follow her great ones to the sun, +When from transcendent aisles of gloom they sped + Some work august (there would be work) now done. +And list, and their high matters strive to scan + The seekers after God, and lovers of man, + +Sitting together in amity on a hill, + The Saint of Visions from Greek Patmos come-- +Aurelius, lordly, calm-eyed, as of will + Austere, yet having rue on lost, lost Rome, +And with them One who drank a fateful bowl, +And to the unknown God trusted his soul. + +The mitred Cranmer pitied even there + (But could it be?) for that false hand which signed +O, all pathetic--no. But it might bear + To soothe him marks of fire--and gladsome kind +The man, as all of joy him well beseemed +Who 'lighted on a certain place and dreamed.' + +And fair with the meaning of life their divine brows, + The daughters of well-doing famed in song; +But what! could old-world love for child, for spouse, + For land, content through lapsing eons long? +Oh for a watchword strong to bridge the deep +And satisfy of fulness after sleep. + +What know we? Whispers fall, '_And the last first, + And the first last._' The child before the king? +The slave before that man a master erst? + The woman before her lord? Shall glory fling +The rolls aside--time raze out triumphs past? +They sigh, '_And the last first, and the first last._' + +Answers that other, 'Lady, sister, friend, + It is enough, for I have worshipped Life; +With Him that is the Life man's life shall blend, + E'en now the sacred heavens do help his strife. +There do they knead his bread and mix his cup, +And all the stars have leave to bear him up. + +Yet must he sink and fall away to a sleep, + As did his Lord. This Life his worshipped +Religion, Life. The silence may be deep, + Life listening, watching, waiting by His dead, +Till at the end of days they wake full fain +Because their King, the Life, doth love and reign. + +I know the King shall come to that new earth, + And His feet stand again as once they stood, +In His man's eyes will shine Time's end and worth + The chiefest beauty and the chiefest good, +And all shall have the all and in it bide, +And every soul of man be satisfied. + + + + +THE BEGINNING. + + +They tell strange things of the primeval earth, +But things that be are never strange to those +Among them. And we know what it was like, +Many are sure they walked in it; the proof +This, the all gracious, all admired whole +Called life, called world, called thought, was all as one. +Nor yet divided more than that old earth +Among the tribes. Self was not fully come-- +Self was asleep, embedded in the whole. + +I too dwelt once in a primeval world, +Such as they tell of, all things wonderful; +Voices, ay visions, people grand and tall +Thronged in it, but their talk was overhead +And bore scant meaning, that one wanted not +Whose thought was sight as yet unbound of words, +This kingdom of heaven having entered through +Being a little child. + + Such as can see, +Why should they doubt? The childhood of a race. +The childhood of a soul, hath neither doubt +Nor fear. Where all is super-natural +The guileless heart doth feed on it, no more +Afraid than angels are of heaven. + + Who saith +Another life, the next one shall not have +Another childhood growing gently thus, +Able to bear the poignant sweetness, take +The rich long awful measure of its peace, +Endure the presence sublime. + + I saw +Once in that earth primeval, once--a face, +A little face that yet I dream upon.' + +'Of this world was it?' + 'Not of this world--no, +In the beginning--for methinks it was +In the beginning but an if you ask +How long ago, time was not then, nor date +For marking. It was always long ago, +E'en from the first recalling of it, long +And long ago. + + And I could walk, and went, +Led by the hand through a long mead at morn, +Bathed in a ravishing excess of light. +It throbbed, and as it were fresh fallen from heaven, +Sank deep into the meadow grass. The sun +Gave every blade a bright and a dark side, +Glitter'd on buttercups that topped them, slipped +To soft red puffs, by some called holy-hay. +The wide oaks in their early green stood still +And took delight in it. Brown specks that made +Very sweet noises quivered in the blue; +Then they came down and ran along the brink +Of a long pool, and they were birds. + + The pool +Pranked at the edges with pale peppermint, +A rare amassment of veined cuckoo flowers +And flags blue-green was lying below. This all +Was sight it condescended not to words +Till memory kissed the charmed dream. + + The mead +Hollowing and heaving, in the hollows fair +With dropping roses fell away to it, +A strange sweet place; upon its further side +Some people gently walking took their way +Up to a wood beyond; and also bells +Sang, floated in the air, hummed--what you will.' + +'Then it was Sunday?' + 'Sunday was not yet; +It was a holiday, for all the days +Were holy. It was not our day of rest +(The earth for all her rolling asks not rest, +For she was never weary). + + It was sweet, +Full of dear leisure and perennial peace, +As very old days when life went easily, +Before mankind had lost the wise, the good +Habit of being happy. + + For the pool +A beauteous place it was as might be seen, +That led one down to other meads, and had +Clouds and another sky. I thought to go +Deep down in it, and walk that steep clear slope. + +Then she who led me reached the brink, her foot +Staying to talk with one who met her there. +Here were fresh marvels, sailing things whose vans +Floated them on above the flowering flags. +We moved a little onward, paused again, +And here there was a break in these, and here +There came the vision; for I stooped to gaze +So far as my small height would let me--gaze +Into that pool to see the fishes dart, +And in a moment from her under hills +Came forth a little child who lived down there, +Looked up at me and smiled. We could not talk, +But looked and loved each other. I a hand +Held out to her, so she to me, but ah, +She would not come. Her home, her little bed, +Was doubtless under that soft shining thing +The water, and she wanted not to run +Among red sorrel spires, and fill her hand +In the dry warmed grass with cowslip buds. +Awhile our feeding hearts all satisfied, +Took in the blue of one another's eyes, +Two dimpled creatures, rose-lipped innocent. +But when we fain had kissed--O! the end came, +For snatched aloft, held in the nurse's arms, +She parting with her lover I was borne +Far from that little child. + + And no one knew +She lived down there, but only I; and none +Sought for her, but I yearned for her and left +Part of myself behind, as the lambs leave +Their wool upon a thorn.' + + 'And was she seen +Never again, nor known for what she was?' + +'Never again, for we did leave anon +The pasture and the pool. I know not where +They lie, and sleep a heaven on earth, but know +From thenceforth yearnings for a lost delight; +On certain days I dream about her still.' + + + + +IN THE NURSERY. + + +Where do you go, Bob, when you 're fast asleep?' +'Where? O well, once I went into a deep +Mine, father told of, and a cross man said +He'd make me help to dig, and eat black bread. +I saw the Queen once, in her room, quite near. +She said, "You rude boy, Bob, how came you here?"' + +'Was it like mother's boudoir?' + + 'Grander far, +Gold chairs and things--all over diamonds--Ah!' + +'You're sure it was the Queen?' + 'Of course, a crown +Was on her, and a spangly purple gown.' + +'I went to heaven last night.' + + 'O Lily, no, +How could you?' + + 'Yes I did, they told me so, +And my best doll, my favourite, with the blue +Frock, Jasmine, I took her to heaven too.' +'What was it like?' + + 'A kind of--I can't tell-- +A sort of orchard place in a long dell, +With trees all over flowers. And there were birds +Who could do talking, say soft pretty words; +They let me stroke them, and I showed it all +To Jasmine. And I heard a blue dove call, +"Child, this is heaven." I was not frightened when +It spoke, I said "Where are the angels then?"' + +'Well.' + + 'So it said, "Look up and you shall see." +There were two angels sitting in the tree, +As tall as mother; they had long gold hair. +They let drop down the fruit they gather'd there +And little angels came for it--so sweet. +Here they were beggar children in the street, +And the dove said they had the prettiest things, +And wore their best frocks every day.' + + 'And wings, +Had they no wings?' + + 'O yes, and lined with white +Like swallow wings, so soft--so very light +Fluttering about.' + + 'Well.' + + 'Well, I did not stay, +So that was all.' + + 'They made you go away?' + + +'I did not go--but--I was gone.' + + 'I know.' + +'But it's a pity, Bob, we never go +Together.' + + 'Yes, and have no dreams to tell, +But the next day both know it all quite well.' + +'And, Bob, if I could dream you came with me +You would be there perhaps.' + + 'Perhaps--we'll see.' + + + + +THE AUSTRALIAN BELL-BIRD. + + +Toll-- + Toll.' 'The bell-bird sounding far away, + Hid in a myall grove.' He raised his head, +The bush glowed scarlet in descending day, + A masterless wild country--and he said, +My father ('Toll.') 'Full oft by her to stray, + As if a spirit called, have I been led; +Oft seems she as an echo in my soul +('Toll.') from my native towers by Avon ('Toll'). + +('Toll.') Oft as in a dream I see full fain + The bell-tower beautiful that I love well, +A seemly cluster with her churches twain. + I hear adown the river faint and swell +And lift upon the air that sound again, + It is, it is--how sweet no tongue can tell, +For all the world-wide breadth of shining foam, +The bells of Evesham chiming "Home, sweet home." + +The mind hath mastery thus--it can defy + The sense, and make all one as it DID HEAR-- +Nay, I mean more; the wraiths of sound gone by + Rise; they are present 'neath this dome all clear. +ONE, sounds the bird--a pause--then doth supply + Some ghost of chimes the void expectant ear; +Do they ring bells in heaven? The learnedest soul +Shall not resolve me such a question. ('Toll.') + +('Toll.') Say I am a boy, and fishing stand + By Avon ('Toll.') on line and rod intent, +How glitters deep in dew the meadow land-- + What, dost thou flit, thy ministry all spent, +Not many days we hail such visits bland, + Why steal so soon the rare enravishment? +Ay gone! the soft deceptive echoes roll +Away, and faint into remoteness.' ('Toll.') + +While thus he spoke the doom'd sun touched his bed + In scarlet, all the palpitating air +Still loyal waited on. He dipped his head, + Then all was over, and the dark was there; +And northward, lo! a star, one likewise red + But lurid, starts from out her day-long lair, +Her fellows trail behind; she bears her part, +The balefullest star that shines, the Scorpion's heart + +Or thus of old men feigned, and then did fear, + Then straight crowd forth the great ones of the sky +In flashing flame at strife to reach more near. + The little children of Infinity, +They next look down as to report them 'Here,' + From deeps all thoughts despair and heights past high, +Speeding, not sped, no rest, no goal, no shore, +Still to rush on till time shall be no more. + +'Loved vale of Evesham, 'tis a long farewell, + Not laden orchards nor their April snow +These eyes shall light upon again; the swell + And whisper of thy storied river know, +Nor climb the hill where great old Montfort fell + In a good cause hundreds of years ago; +So fall'n, elect to live till life's ally, +The river of recorded deeds, runs dry. + +This land is very well, this air,' saith he, + 'Is very well, but we want echoes here. +Man's past to feed the air and move the sea; + Ages of toil make English furrows dear, +Enriched by blood shed for his liberty, + Sacred by love's first sigh and life's last fear, +We come of a good nest, for it shall yearn +Poor birds of passage, but may not return, + +Spread younger wings, and beat the winds afar. + There sing more poets in that one small isle +Than all isles else can show--of such you are; + Remote things come to you unsought erewhile, +Near things a long way round as by a star. + Wild dreams!' He laughed, 'A sage right infantile; +With sacred fear behold life's waste deplored, +Undaunted by the leisure of the Lord. + +Ay go, the island dream with eyes make good, + Where Freedom rose, a lodestar to your race; +And Hope that leaning on her anchor stood + Did smile it to her feet: a right small place. +Call her a mother, high such motherhood, + Home in her name and duty in her face; +Call her a ship, her wide arms rake the clouds, +And every wind of God pipes in her shrouds. + +Ay, all the more go you. But some have cried + "The ship is breaking up;" they watch amazed +While urged toward the rocks by some that guide; + Bad steering, reckless steering, she all dazed +Tempteth her doom; yet this have none denied + Ships men have wrecked and palaces have razed, +But never was it known beneath the sun, +They of such wreckage built a goodlier one. + +God help old England an't be thus, nor less + God help the world.' Therewith my mother spake, +'Perhaps He will! by time, by faithlessness, + By the world's want long in the dark awake, +I think He must be almost due: the stress + Of the great tide of life, sharp misery's ache, +In a recluseness of the soul we rue +Far off, but yet--He must be almost due. + +God manifest again, the coming King.' + Then said my father, 'I beheld erewhile, +Sitting up dog-like to the sunrising, + The giant doll in ruins by the Nile, +With hints of red that yet to it doth cling, + Fell, battered, and bewigged its cheeks were vile, +A body of evil with its angel fled, +Whom and his fellow fiends men worshipped. + +The gods die not, long shrouded on their biers, + Somewhere they live, and live in memory yet; +Were not the Israelites for forty years + Hid from them in the desert to forget-- +Did they forget? no more than their lost feres + Sons of to-day with faces southward set, +Who dig for buried lore long ages fled, +And sift for it the sand and search the dead. + +Brown Egypt gave not one great poet birth, + But man was better than his gods, with lay +He soothed them restless, and they zoned the earth, + And crossed the sea; there drank immortal praise; +Then from his own best self with glory and worth + And beauty dowered he them for dateless days. +Ever "their sound goes forth" from shore to shore, +When was there known an hour that they lived more. + +Because they are beloved and not believed, + Admired not feared, they draw men to their feet; +All once, rejected, nothing now, received + Where once found wanting, now the most complete; +Man knows to-day, though manhood stand achieved, + His cradle-rockers made a rustling sweet; +That king reigns longest which did lose his crown, +Stars that by poets shine are stars gone down. + +Still drawn obedient to an unseen hand, + From purer heights comes down the yearning west, +Like to that eagle in the morning land, + That swooping on her predatory quest, +Did from the altar steal a smouldering brand, + The which she bearing home it burned her nest, +And her wide pinions of their plumes bereaven. +Spoiled for glad spiring up the steeps of heaven. + +I say the gods live, and that reign abhor, + And will the nations it should dawn? Will they +Who ride upon the perilous edge of war? + Will such as delve for gold in this our day? +Neither the world will, nor the age will, nor + The soul--and what, it cometh now? Nay, nay, +The weighty sphere, unready for release, +Rolls far in front of that o'ermastering peace. + +Wait and desire it; life waits not, free there + To good, to evil, thy right perilous-- +All shall be fair, and yet it is not fair. + I thank my God He takes th'advantage thus; +He doth not greatly hide, but still declare + Which side He is on and which He loves, to us, +While life impartial aid to both doth lend, +And heed not which the choice nor what the end. + +Among the few upright, O to be found, + And ever search the nobler path, my son, +Nor say 'tis sweet to find me common ground + Too high, too good, shall leave the hours alone-- +Nay, though but one stood on the height renowned, + Deny not hope or will, to be that one. +Is it the many fall'n shall lift the land, +The race, the age!--Nay, 't is the few that stand.' + +While in the lamplight hearkening I sat mute, + Methought 'How soon this fire must needs burn out' +Among the passion flowers and passion fruit + That from the wide verandah hung, misdoubt +Was mine. 'And wherefore made I thus long suit + To leave this old white head? His words devout, +His blessing not to hear who loves me so-- +He that is old, right old--I will not go.' + +But ere the dawn their counsels wrought with me, + And I went forth; alas that I so went +Under the great gum-forest canopy, + The light on every silken filament +Of every flower, a quivering ecstasy + Of perfect paleness made it; sunbeams sent +Up to the leaves with sword-like flash endued +Each turn of that grey drooping multitude. + +I sought to look as in the light of one + Returned. 'Will this be strange to me that day? +Flocks of green parrots clamorous in the sun + Tearing out milky maize--stiff cacti grey +As old men's beards--here stony ranges lone, + Their dust of mighty flocks upon their way +To water, cloudlike on the bush afar, +Like smoke that hangs where old-world cities are. + +Is it not made man's last endowment here + To find a beauty in the wilderness; +Feel the lorn moor above his pastures dear, + Mountains that may not house and will not bless +To draw him even to death? He must insphere + His spirit in the open, so doth less +Desire his feres, and more that unvex'd wold +And fine afforested hills, his dower of old. + +But shall we lose again that new-found sense + Which sees the earth less for our tillage fair? +Oh, let her speak with her best eloquence + To me, but not her first and her right rare +Can equal what I may not take from hence. + The gems are left: it is not otherwhere +The wild Nepean cleaves her matchless way, +Nor Sydney harbour shall outdo the day. + +Adding to day this--that she lighteth it.' + But I beheld again, and as must be +With a world-record by a spirit writ, + It was more beautiful than memory, +Than hope was more complete. + Tall brigs did sit + Each in her berth the pure flood placidly, +Their topsails drooping 'neath the vast blue dome +Listless, as waiting to be sheeted home. + +And the great ships with pulse-like throbbing clear, + Majestical of mien did take their way +Like living creatures from some grander sphere, + That having boarded ours thought good to stay, +Albeit enslaved. They most divided here + From God's great art and all his works in clay, +In that their beauty lacks, though fair it shows +That divine waste of beauty only He bestows. + +The day was young, scarce out the harbour lights + That morn I sailed: low sun-rays tremulous +On golden loops sped outward. Yachts in flights + Flutter'd the water air-like clear, while thus +It crept for shade among brown rocky bights + With cassia crowned and palms diaphanous, +And boughs ripe fruitage dropping fitfully, +That on the shining ebb went out to sea. + +'Home,' saith the man self-banished, 'my son + Shall now go home.' Therewith he sendeth him +Abroad, and knows it not, but thence is won, + Rescued, the son's true home. His mind doth limn +Beautiful pictures of it, there is none + So dear, a new thought shines erewhile but dim, +'That was my home, a land past all compare, +Life, and the poetry of life, are there.' + +But no such thought drew near to me that day; + All the new worlds flock forth to greet the old, +All the young souls bow down to own its sway, + Enamoured of strange richness manifold; +Not to be stored, albeit they seek for aye, + Besieging it for its own life to hold, +E'en as Al Mamoun fain for treasures hid, +Stormed with an host th' inviolate pyramid. + +And went back foiled but wise to walled Bagdad. + So I, so all. The treasure sought not found, +But some divine tears found to superadd + Themselves to a long story. The great round +Of yesterdays, their pathos sweet as sad, + Found to be only as to-day, close bound +With us, we hope some good thing yet to know, +But God is not in haste, while the lambs grow + +The Shepherd leadeth softly. It is great + The journey, and the flock forgets at last +(Earth ever working to obliterate + The landmarks) when it halted, where it passed; +And words confuse, and time doth ruinate, + And memory fail to hold a theme so vast; +There is request for light, but the flock feeds, +And slowly ever on the Shepherd leads. + +'Home,' quoth my father, and a glassy sea + Made for the stars a mirror of its breast, +While southing, pennon-like, in bravery + Of long drawn gold they trembled to their rest. +Strange the first night and morn, when Destiny + Spread out to float on, all the mind oppressed; +Strange on their outer roof to speed forth thus, +And know th' uncouth sea-beasts stared up at us. + +But yet more strange the nights of falling rain, + That splashed without--a sea-coal fire within; +Life's old things gone astern, the mind's disdain, + For murmurous London makes soft rhythmic din. +All courtier thoughts that wait on words would fain + Express that sound. The words are not to win +Till poet made, but mighty, yet so mild +Shall be as cooing of a cradle-child. + +Sensation like a piercing arrow flies, + Daily out-going thought. This Adamhood, +This weltering river of mankind that hies + Adown the street; it cannot be withstood. +The richest mundane miles not otherwise + Than by a symbol keep possession good, +Mere symbol of division, and they hold +The clear pane sacred, the unminted gold + +And wild outpouring of all wealth not less. + Why this? A million strong the multitude, +And safe, far safer than our wilderness + The walls; for them it daunts with right at feud, +Itself declares for law; yet sore the stress + On steeps of life: what power to ban and bless, +Saintly denial, waste inglorious, +Desperate want, and riches fabulous. + +Of souls what beautiful embodiment + For some; for some what homely housing writ; +What keen-eyed men who beggared of content + Eat bread well earned as they had stolen it; +What flutterers after joy that forward went, + And left them in the rear unqueened, unfit +For joy, with light that faints in strugglings drear +Of all things good the most awanting here. + +Some in the welter of this surging tide + Move like the mystic lamps, the Spirits Seven, +Their burning love runs kindling far and wide, + That fire they needed not to steal from heaven, +'Twas a free gift flung down with them to bide, + And be a comfort for the hearts bereaven, +A warmth, a glow, to make the failing store +And parsimony of emotion more. + +What glorious dreams in that find harbourage, + The phantom of a crime stalks this beside, +And those might well have writ on some past page, + In such an hour, of such a year, we--died, +Put out our souls, took the mean way, false wage, + Course cowardly; and if we be denied +The life once loved, we cannot alway rue +The loss; let be: what vails so sore ado. + +And faces pass of such as give consent + To live because 'tis not worth while to die; +This never knew the awful tremblement + When some great fear sprang forward suddenly, +Its other name being hope--and there forthwent + As both confronted him a rueful cry +From the heart's core, one urging him to dare, +'Now! now! Leap now.' The other, 'Stand, forbear.' + +A nation reared in brick. How shall this be? + Nor by excess of life death overtake. +To die in brick of brick her destiny, + And as the hamadryad eats the snake +His wife, and then the snake his son, so she + Air not enough, 'though everyone doth take +A little,' water scant, a plague of gold, +Light out of date--a multitude born old. + +And then a three-day siege might be the end; + E'en now the rays get muddied struggling down +Through heaven's vasty lofts, and still extend + The miles of brick and none forbid, and none +Forbode; a great world-wonder that doth send + High fame abroad, and fear no setting sun, +But helpless she through wealth that flouts the day +And through her little children, even as they. + +But forth of London, and all visions dear + To eastern poets of a watered land +Are made the commonplace of nature here, + Sweet rivers always full, and always bland. +Beautiful, beautiful! What runlets clear + Twinkle among the grass. On every hand +Fall in the common talk from lips around +The old names of old towns and famous ground. + +It is not likeness only charms the sense, + Not difference only sets the mind aglow, +It is the likeness in the difference, + Familiar language spoken on the snow, +To have the Perfect in the Present tense, + To hear the ploughboy whistling, and to know, +It smacks of the wild bush, that tune--'Tis ours, +And look! the bank is pale with primrose flowers, + +What veils of tender mist make soft the lea, + What bloom of air the height; no veils confer +On warring thought or softness or degree + Or rest. Still falling, conquering, strife and stir. +For this religion pays indemnity. + She pays her enemies for conquering her. +And then her friends; while ever, and in vain +Lots for a seamless coat are cast again. + +Whose it shall be; unless it shall endow + Thousands of thousands it can fall to none, +But faith and hope are not so simple now, + As in the year of our redemption--One. +The pencil of pure light must disallow + Its name and scattering, many hues put on, +And faith and hope low in the valley feel, +There it is well with them, 'tis very well. + +The land is full of vision, voices call. + Can spirits cast a shadow? Ay, I trow +Past is not done, and over is not all, + Opinion dies to live and wanes to grow, +The gossamer of thought doth filmlike fall, + On fallows after dawn make shimmering show, +And with old arrow-heads, her earliest prize, +Mix learning's latest guess and last surmise. + +There heard I pipes of fame, saw wrens 'about + That time when kings go forth to battle' dart, +Full valorous atoms pierced with song, and stout + To dare, and down yclad; I shared the smart +Of grieved cushats, bloom of love, devout + Beyond man's thought of it. Old song my heart +Rejoiced, but O mine own forelders' ways +To look on, and their fashions of past days. + +The ponderous craft of arms I craved to see, + Knights, burghers, filtering through those gates ajar, +Their age of serfdom with my spirit free; + We cannot all have wisdom; some there are +Believe a star doth rule their destiny, + And yet they think to overreach the star, +For thought can weld together things apart, +And contraries find meeting in the heart. + +In the deep dust at Suez without sound + I saw the Arab children walk at eve, +Their dark untroubled eyes upon the ground, + A part of Time's grave quiet. I receive +Since then a sense, as nature might have found + Love kin to man's that with the past doth grieve; +And lets on waste and dust of ages fall +Her tender silences that mean it all. + +We have it of her, with her; it were ill + For men, if thought were widowed of the world, +Or the world beggared of her sons, for still + A crowned sphere with many gems impearled +She rolls because of them. We lend her will + And she yields love. The past shall not be hurled +In the abhorred limbo while the twain, +Mother and son, hold partnership and reign. + +She hangs out omens, and doth burdens dree. + Is she in league with heaven? That knows but One. +For man is not, and yet his work we see + Full of unconscious omen darkly done. +I saw the ring-stone wrought at Avebury + To frame the face of the midwinter sun, +Good luck that hour they thought from him forth smiled +At midwinter the Sun did rise--the Child. + +Still would the world divine though man forbore, + And what is beauty but an omen?--what +But life's deep divination cast before, + Omen of coming love? Hard were man's lot, +With love and toil together at his door, + But all-convincing eyes hath beauty got; +His love is beautiful, and he shall sue. +Toil for her sake is sweet, the omen true. + +Love, love, and come it must, then life is found + Beforehand that was whole and fronting care, +A torn and broken half in durance bound + That mourns and makes request for its right fair +Remainder, with forlorn eyes cast around + To search for what is lost, that unaware +With not an hour's forebodement makes the day +From henceforth less or more for ever and aye. + +Her name--my love's--I knew it not; who says + Of vagrant doubt for such a cause that stirs +His fancy shall not pay arrearages + To all sweet names that might perhaps be hers? +The doubts of love are powers. His heart obeys, + The world is in them, still to love defers, +Will play with him for love, but when 't begins +The play is high, and the world always wins. + +For 'tis the maiden's world, and his no more. + Now thus it was: with new found kin flew by +The temperate summer; every wheatfield wore + Its gold, from house to house in ardency +Of heart for what they showed I westward bore-- + My mother's land, her native hills drew nigh; +I was--how green, how good old earth can be-- +Beholden to that land for teaching me. + +And parted from my fellows, and went on + To feel the spiritual sadness spread +Adown long pastoral hollows. And anon + Did words recur in far remoteness said: +'See the deep vale ere dews are dried and gone, + Where my so happy life in peace I led, +And the great shadow of the Beacon lies-- +See little Ledbury trending up the rise. + +With peaked houses and high market hall-- + An oak each pillar--reared in the old days. +And here was little Ledbury, quaint withal, + The forest felled, her lair and sheltering place +She long time left in age pathetical. + 'Great oaks' methought, as I drew near to gaze, +'Were but of small account when these came down, +Drawn rough-hewn in to serve the tree-girt town. + +And thus and thus of it will question be + The other side the world.' I paused awhile +To mark. 'The old hall standeth utterly + Without or floor or side, a comely pile, +A house on pillars, and by destiny + Drawn under its deep roof I saw a file +Of children slowly through their way make good, +And lifted up mine eyes--and there--SHE STOOD. + +She was so stately that her youthful grace + Drew out, it seemed, my soul unto the air, +Astonished out of breathing by her face + So fain to nest itself in nut-brown hair +Lying loose about her throat. But that old place + Proved sacred, she just fully grown too fair +For such a thought. The dimples that she had! +She was so truly sweet that it was sad. + +I was all hers. That moment gave her power-- + And whom, nay what she was, I scarce might know, +But felt I had been born for that good hour. + The perfect creature did not move, but so +As if ordained to claim all grace for dower. + She leaned against the pillar, and below +Three almost babes, her care, she watched the while +With downcast lashes and a musing smile. + +I had been 'ware without a rustic treat, + Waggons bedecked with greenery stood anigh, +A swarm of children in the cheerful street + With girls to marshal them; but all went by +And none I noted save this only sweet: + Too young her charge more venturous sport to try, +With whirling baubles still they play content, +And softly rose their lisping babblement. + +'O what a pause! to be so near, to mark + The locket rise and sink upon her breast; +The shadow of the lashes lieth dark + Upon her cheek. O fleeting time, O rest! +A slant ray finds the gold, and with a spark + And flash it answers, now shall be the best. +Her eyes she raises, sets their light on mine, +They do not flash nor sparkle--no--but shine.' + +As I for very hopelessness made bold + Did off my hat ere time there was for thought, +She with a gracious sweetness, calm, not cold, + Acknowledged me, but brought my chance to nought +'This vale of imperfection doth not hold + A lovelier bud among its loveliest wrought! +She turns,' methought 'O do not quite forget +To me remains for ever--that we met.' + +And straightway I went forth, I could no less, + Another light unwot of fall'n on me, +And rare elation and high happiness + Some mighty power set hands of mastery +Among my heartstrings, and they did confess + With wild throbs inly sweet, that minstrelsy +A nightingale might dream so rich a strain, +And pine to change her song for sleep again. + +The harp thrilled ever: O with what a round + And series of rich pangs fled forth each note +Oracular, that I had found, had found + (Head waters of old Nile held less remote) +Golden Dorado, dearest, most renowned; + But when as 't were a sigh did overfloat, +Shaping 'how long, not long shall this endure, +_Au jour le jour'_ methought, _'Aujour le jour'_. + +The minutes of that hour my heart knew well + Were like the fabled pint of golden grain, +Each to be counted, paid for, till one fell, + Grew, shot up to another world amain, +And he who dropped might climb it, there to dwell. + I too, I clomb another world full fain, +But was she there? O what would be the end, + Might she nor there appear, nor I descend? + +All graceful as a palm the maiden stood; + Men say the palm of palms in tropic Isles +Doth languish in her deep primeval wood, + And want the voice of man, his home, his smiles, +Nor flourish but in his dear neighborhood; + She too shall want a voice that reconciles, +A smile that charms--how sweet would heaven so please-- +To plant her at my door over far seas. + +I paced without, nor ever liege in truth + His sovran lady watched with more grave eyes +Of reverence, and she nothing ware forsooth, + Did standing charm the soul with new surprise. +Moving flow on a dimpled dream of youth. + Look! look! a sunbeam on her. Ay, but lies +The shade more sweetly now she passeth through +To join her fellow maids returned anew. + +I saw (myself to bide unmarked intent) + Their youthful ease and pretty airs sedate, +They are so good, they are so innocent, + Those Islanders, they learn their part so late, +Of life's demand right careless, dwell content + Till the first love's first kiss shall consecrate +Their future to a world that can but be +By their sweet martyrdom and ministry. + +Most happy of God's creatures. Afterward + More than all women married thou wilt be, +E'en to the soul. One glance desired afford, + More than knight's service might'st thou ask of me. +Not any chance is mine, not the best word, + No, nor the salt of life withouten thee. +Must this all end, is my day so soon o'er? + Untroubled violet eyes, look once,--once more. + +No, not a glance: the low sun lay and burned, + Now din of drum and cry of fife withal, +Blithe teachers mustering frolic swarms returned, + And new-world ways in that old market hall, +Sweet girls, fair women, how my whole heart yearned + Her to draw near who made my festival. +With others closing round, time speeding on, +How soon she would be gone, she would be gone! + +Ay, but I thought to track the rustic wains, + Their goal desired to note, but not anigh, +They creaking down long hop ycrested lanes + 'Neath the abiding flush of that north sky. +I ran, my horse I fetched, but fate ordains + Love shall breed laughter when th' unloving spy. +As I drew rein to watch the gathered crowd, +With sudden mirth an old wife laughed aloud. + +Her cheeks like winter apples red of hue, + Her glance aside. To whom her speech--to me? +'I know the thing you go about to do-- + The lady--' 'What! the lady--' 'Sir,' saith she, +('I thank you kindly, sir), I tell you true + She's gone,' and 'here's a coil' methought 'will be.' +'Gone--where?' ''Tis past my wit forsooth to say +If they went Malvern way or Hereford way. + +A carriage took her up--where three roads meet + They needs must pass; you may o'ertake it yet.' +And 'Oyez, Oyez' peals adown the street, + 'Lost, lost, a golden heart with pearls beset.' +'I know her, sir?--not I. To help this treat, + Many strange ladies from the country met.' +'O heart beset with pearls! my hope was crost. +Farewell, good dame. Lost! oh my lady lost.' + +And 'Oyez, Oyez' following after me + On my great errand to the sundown went. +Lost, lost, and lost, whenas the cross road flee + Up tumbled hills, on each for eyes attent +A carriage creepeth. + + 'Though in neither she, + I ne'er shall know life's worst impoverishment, +An empty heart. No time, I stake my all, +To right! and chase the rose-red evenfall. + +Fly up, good steed, fly on. Take the sharp rise + As't were a plain. A lady sits; but one. +So fast the pace she turns in startled wise, + She sets her gaze on mine and all is done. +"Persian Roxana" might have raised such eyes + When Alexander sought her. Now the sun +Dips, and my day is over; turn and fleet +The world fast flies, again do three roads meet.' + +I took the left, and for some cause unknown + Full fraught of hope and joy the way pursued, +Yet chose strong reasons speeding up alone + To fortify me 'gainst a shock more rude. +E'en so the diver carrieth down a stone + In hand, lest he float up before he would, +And end his walk upon the rich sea-floor, +Those pearls he failed to grasp never to look on more. + +Then as the low moon heaveth, waxen white, + The carriage, and it turns into a gate. +Within sit three in pale pathetic light. + O surely one of these my love, my fate. +But ere I pass they wind away from sight. + Then cottage casements glimmer. All elate +I cross a green, there yawns with opened latch +A village hostel capped in comely thatch. + +'The same world made for all is made for each. + To match a heart's magnificence of hope. +How shall good reason best high action teach + To win of custom, and with home to cope +How warrantably may he hope to win + A star, that wants it? Shall he lie and grope, +No, truly.--I will see her; tell my tale, +See her this once,--and if I fail--I fail.' + +Thus with myself I spoke. A rough brick floor + Made the place homely; I would rest me there. +But how to sleep? Forth of the unlocked door + I passed at midnight, lustreless white air +Made strange the hour, that ecstasy not o'er + I moved among the shadows, all my care-- +Counted a shadow--her drawn near to bless, +Impassioned out of fear, rapt, motionless. + +Now a long pool and water-hens at rest + (As doughty seafolk dusk, at Malabar) +A few pale stars lie trembling on its breast. + Hath the Most High of all His host afar +One most supremely beautiful, one best, + Dearest of all the flock, one favourite star? +His Image given, in part the children know +They love one first and best. It may be so. + +Now a long hedge; here dream the woolly folk; + A majesty of silence is about. +Transparent mist rolls off the pool like smoke, + And Time is in his trance and night devout. +Now the still house. O an I knew she woke + I could not look, the sacred moon sheds out +So many blessings on her rooftree low, +Each more pathetic that she nought doth know. + +I would not love a little, nor my start + Make with the multitude that love and cease. +He gives too much that giveth half a heart, + Too much for liberty, too much for peace. +Let me the first and best and highest impart, + The whole of it, and heaven the whole increase! +For _that_ were not too much. + + (In the moon's wake +How the grass glitters, for her sweetest sake.) + +I would toward her walk the silver floors. + Love loathes an average--all extreme things deal +To love--sea-deep and dazzling height for stores. + There are on Fortune's errant foot can steal, +Can guide her blindfold in at their own doors, + Or dance elate upon her slippery wheel. +Courage! there are 'gainst hope can still advance, +Dowered with a sane, a wise extravagance. + +A song + To one a dreaming: when the dew +Falls, 'tis a time for rest; and when the bird + Calls, 'tis a time to wake, to wake for you. +A long-waking, aye, waking till a word + Come from her coral mouth to be the true +Sum of all good heart wanted, ear hath heard. + + Yet if alas! might love thy dolour be, +Dream, dear heart dear, and do not dream of me. + +I sing + To one awakened, when the heart + Cries 'tis a day for thought, and when the soul +Sighs choose thy part, O choose thy part, thy part. + I bring to one beloved, bring my whole +Store, make in loving, make O make mine art + More. Yet I ask no, ask no wished goal + +But this--if loving might thy dolour be, +Wake, O my lady loved, and love not me. + +'That which the many win, love's niggard sum, + I will not, if love's all be left behind. +That which I am I cannot unbecome, + My past not unpossess, nor future blind. +Let me all risk, and leave the deep heart dumb + For ever, if that maiden sits enshrined +The saint of one more happy. She is she. +There is none other. Give her then to me. + +Or else to be the better for her face + Beholding it no more.' Then all night through +The shadow moves with infinite dark grace. + The light is on her windows, and the dew +Comforts the world and me, till in my place + At moonsetting, when stars flash out to view, +Comes 'neath the cedar boughs a great repose, +The peace of one renouncing, and then a doze. + +There was no dream, yet waxed a sense in me + Asleep that patience was the better way, +Appeasement for a want that needs must be, + Grew as the dominant mind forbore its sway, +Till whistling sweet stirred in the cedar tree-- + I started--woke--it was the dawn of day. +That was the end. 'Slow solemn growth of light, +Come what come will, remains to me this night.' + +It was the end, with dew ordained to melt, + How easily was learned, how all too soon +Not there, not thereabout such maiden dwelt. + What was it promised me so fair a boon? +Heart-hope is not less vain because heart-felt, + Gone forth once more in search of her at noon +Through the sweet country side on hill, on plain, +I sought and sought many long days in vain. + +To Malvern next, with feathery woodland hung, + Whereto old Piers the Plowman came to teach, +On her green vasty hills the lay was sung, + He too, it may be, lisping in his speech, +'To make the English sweet upon his tongue.' + How many maidens beautiful, and each +Might him delight, that loved no other fair; +But Malvern blessed not me,--she was not there. + +Then to that town, but still my fate the same. + Crowned with old works that her right well beseem, +To gaze upon her field of ancient fame + And muse on the sad thrall's most piteous dream, +By whom a 'shadow like an angel came,' + Crying out on Clarence, its wild eyes agleam, +Accusing echoes here still falter and flee, +'That stabbed me on the field by Tewkesbury.' + +It nothing 'vailed that yet I sought and sought, + Part of my very self was left behind, +Till risen in wrath against th' o'ermastering thought, + 'Let me be thankful,' quoth the better mind, +Thankful for her, though utterly to nought + She brings my heart's cry, and I live to find +A new self of the old self exigent +In the light of my divining discontent. + +The picture of a maiden bidding 'Arise, + I am the Art of God. He shows by me +His great idea, so well as sin-stained eyes + Love aidant can behold it.' + Is this she? +Or is it mine own love for her supplies + The meaning and the power? Howe'er this be, +She is the interpreter by whom most near +Man's soul is drawn to beauty and pureness here. + +The sweet idea, invisible hitherto, + Is in her face, unconscious delegate; +That thing she wots not of ordained to do: + But also it shall be her votary's fate, +Through her his early days of ease to eschew, + Struggle with life and prove its weary weight. +All the great storms that rising rend the soul, +Are life in little, imaging the whole. + +Ay, so as life is, love is, in their ken + Stars, infant yet, both thought to grasp, to keep, +Then came the morn of passionate splendour, when + So sweet the light, none but for bliss could weep, +And then the strife, the toil; but we are men, + Strong, brave to battle with the stormy deep; +Then fear--and then renunciation--then +Appeals unto the Infinite Pity--and sleep. + +But after life the sleep is long. Not so + With love. Love buried lieth not straight, not still, +Love starts, and after lull awakes to know + All the deep things again. And next his will, +That dearest pang is, never to forego. + He would all service, hardship, fret fulfill. +Unhappy love! and I of that great host +Unhappy love who cry, unhappy most. + +Because renunciation was so short, + The starved heart so easily awaked; +A dream could do it, a bud, a bird, a thought, + But I betook me with that want which ached +To neighbour lands where strangeness with me wrought. + The old work was so hale, its fitness slaked +Soul-thirst for truth. 'I knew not doubt nor fear,' +Its language, 'war or worship, sure sincere.' + +Then where by Art the high did best translate + Life's infinite pathos to the soul, set down +Beauty and mystery, that imperious hate + On its best braveness doth and sainthood frown, +Nay more the MASTER'S manifest pity--'wait, + Behold the palmgrove and the promised crown. +He suffers with thee, for thee.--Lo the Child! +Comfort thy heart; he certainly so smiled.' + +Thus love and I wore through the winter time. + Then saw her demon blush Vesuvius try, +Then evil ghosts white from the awful prime, + Thrust up sharp peaks to tear the tender sky. +'No more to do but hear that English chime' + I to a kinsman wrote. He made reply, +'As home I bring my girl and boy full soon, +I pass through Evesham,--meet me there at noon. + +'The bells your father loved you needs must hear, + Seek Oxford next with me,' and told the day. +'Upon the bridge I'll meet you. What! how dear + Soever was a dream, shall it bear sway +To mar the waking?' + I set forth, drew near, + Beheld a goodly tower, twin churches grey, +Evesham. The bridge, and noon. I nothing knew +What to my heart that fateful chime would do. + +For suddenly the sweet bells overcame + A world unsouled; did all with man endow; +His yearning almost tell that passeth name + And said they were full old, and they were now +And should be; and their sighing upon the same + For our poor sake that pass they did avow, +While on clear Avon flowed like man's short day +The shining river of life lapsing away. + +The stroke of noon. The bell-bird! yes and no. + Winds of remembrance swept as over the foam +Of anti-natal shores. At home is it so, + My country folk? Ay, 'neath this pale blue dome, +Many of you in the moss lie low--lie low. + Ah! since I have not HER, give me too, home. +A footstep near! I turned; past likelihood, +Past hope, before me on the bridge--SHE STOOD. + +A rosy urchin had her hand; this cried, + 'We think you are our cousin--yes, you are; +I said so to Estelle.' The violet-eyed, + 'If this be Geoffrey?' asked; and as from far +A doubt came floating up; but she denied + Her thought, yet blushed. O beautiful! my Star! +Then, with the lifting of my hat, each wore +That look which owned to each, 'We have met before.' + +Then was the strangest bliss in life made mine; + I saw the almost worshipped--all remote; +The Star so high above that used to shine, + Translated from the void where it did float, +And brought into relation with the fine + Charities earth hath grown. A great joy smote +Me silent, and the child atween us tway, +We watched the lucent river stealing away. + +While her deep eyes down on the ripple fell, + Quoth the small imp, '"How fast you go and go, +You Avon. Does it wish to stop, Estelle, + And hear the clock, and see the orchards blow? +_It does not care!_ Not when the old big bell + Makes a great buzzing noise?--Who told you so?" +And then to me, "I like to hear it hum. +Why do you think that father could not come?" + +Estelle forgot her violin. And he, + O then he said: "How careless, child, of you; +I must send on for it. 'T would pity be + If that were lost. + I want to learn it too; +And when I'm nine I shall." + Then turning, she + Let her sweet eyes unveil them to my view; +Her stately grace outmatched my dream of old, +But ah! the smile dull memory had not told. + +My kinsman next, with care-worn kindly brow. + 'Well, father,' quoth the imp, 'we've done our part. +We found him.' + And she, wholly girlish now, + Laid her young hand on his with lovely art +And sweet excuses. O! I made my vow + I would all dare, such life did warm my heart; +We journeyed, all the air with scents of price +Was laden, and the goal was Paradise. + +When that the Moors betook them to their sand, + Their domination over in fair Spain, +Each locked, men say, his door in that loved land, + And took the key in hope to come again. +On Moorish walls yet hung, long dust each hand, + The keys, but not the might to use, remain; +Is there such house in some blest land for me? +I can, I will, I do reach down the key. + +A country conquered oft, and long before, + Of generations aye ordained to win; +If mine the power, I will unlock the door. + Enter, O light, I bear a sunbeam in. +What, did the crescent wane! Yet man is more, + And love achieves because to heaven akin. +O life! to hear again that wandering bell, +And hear it at thy feet, Estelle, Estelle. + +Full oft I want the sacred throated bird, + Over our limitless waste of light which spoke +The spirit of the call my fathers heard, + Saying 'Let us pray,' and old world echoes woke +Ethereal minster bells that still averr'd, + And with their phantom notes th' all silence broke. +'The fanes are far, but whom they shrined is near. +Thy God, the Island God, is here, is here.' + +To serve; to serve a thought, and serve apart + To meet; a few short days, a maiden won. +'Ah, sweet, sweet home, I must divide my heart, + Betaking me to countries of the sun.' +'What straight-hung leaves, what rays that twinkle and dart, + Make me to like them.' + 'Love, it shall be done,' +'What weird dawn-fire across the wide hill flies.' +'It is the flame-tree's challenge to yon scarlet skies.' + +'Hark, hark, O hark! the spirit of a bell! + What would it? ('Toll.') An air-hung sacred call, +Athwart the forest shade it strangely fell'-- + 'Toll'--'Toll.' + The longed-for voice, but ah, withal +I felt, I knew, it was my father's knell + That touched and could the over-sense enthrall. +Perfect his peace, a whispering pure and deep +As theirs who 'neath his native towers by Avon sleep. + +If love and death are ever reconciled, + 'T is when the old lie down for the great rest. +We rode across the bush, a sylvan wild + That was an almost world, whose calm oppressed +With audible silence; and great hills inisled + Rose out as from a sea. Consoling, blest +And blessing spoke she, and the reedflower spread, +And tall rock lilies towered above her head. + + * * * * * + +Sweet is the light aneath our matchless blue, + The shade below yon passion plant that lies, +And very sweet is love, and sweet are you, + My little children dear, with violet eyes, +And sweet about the dawn to hear anew + The sacred monotone of peace arise. +Love, 't is thy welcome from the air-hung bell, +Congratulant and clear, Estelle, Estelle. + + + + +LOSS AND WASTE. + + +Up to far Osteroe and Suderoe + The deep sea-floor lies strewn with Spanish wrecks, +O'er minted gold the fair-haired fishers go, + O'er sunken bravery of high carved decks. + +In earlier days great Carthage suffered bale + (All her waste works choke under sandy shoals); +And reckless hands tore down the temple veil; + And Omar burned the Alexandrian rolls. +The Old World arts men suffered not to last, + Flung down they trampled lie and sunk from view, +He lets wild forest for these ages past + Grow over the lost cities of the New. + +O for a life that shall not be refused +To see the lost things found, and waste things used. + + + + +ON A PICTURE. + + +As a forlorn soul waiting by the Styx + Dimly expectant of lands yet more dim, +Might peer afraid where shadows change and mix + Till the dark ferryman shall come for him. + +And past all hope a long ray in his sight, + Fall'n trickling down the steep crag Hades-black +Reveals an upward path to life and light, + Nor any let but he should mount that track. + +As with the sudden shock of joy amazed, + He might a motionless sweet moment stand, +So doth that mortal lover, silent, dazed, + For hope had died and loss was near at hand. + +'Wilt thou?' his quest. Unready but for 'Nay,' +He stands at fault for joy, she whispering 'Ay.' + + + + +THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. + + +The doom'd king pacing all night through the windy fallow. +'Let me alone, mine enemy, let me alone,' +Never a Christian bell that dire thick gloom to hallow, +Or guide him, shelterless, succourless, thrust from his own. + +Foul spirits riding the wind do flout at him friendless, +The rain and the storm on his head beat ever at will; +His weird is on him to grope in the dark with endless +Weariful feet for a goal that shifteth still. + +A sleuth-hound baying! The sleuth-hound bayeth behind him, +His head, he flying and stumbling turns back to the sound, +Whom doth the sleuth-hound follow? What if it find him; +Up! for the scent lieth thick, up from the level ground. + +Up, on, he must on, to follow his weird essaying, +Lo you, a flood from the crag cometh raging past, +He falls, he fights in the water, no stop, no staying, +Soon the king's head goes under, the weird is dreed at last. + + +I. + +'Wake, O king, the best star worn +In the crown of night, forlorn +Blinks a fine white point--'t is morn.' +Soft! The queen's voice, fair is she, +'Wake!' He waketh, living, free, +In the chamber of arras lieth he. +Delicate dim shadows yield +Silken curtains over head +All abloom with work of neeld, +Martagon and milleflower spread. +On the wall his golden shield, +Dinted deep in battle field, +When the host o' the Khalif fled. +Gold to gold. Long sunbeams flit +Upward, tremble and break on it. +'Ay, 't is over, all things writ +Of my sleep shall end awake, +Now is joy, and all its bane +The dark shadow of after pain.' +Then the queen saith, 'Nay, but break +Unto me for dear love's sake +This thy matter. Thou hast been +In great bitterness I ween +All the night-time.' But 'My queen, +Life, love, lady, rest content, +Ill dreams fly, the night is spent, +Good day draweth on. Lament +'Vaileth not,--yea peace,' quoth he; +'Sith this thing no better may be, +Best were held 'twixt thee and me.' +Then the fair queen, 'Even so +As thou wilt, O king, but know +Mickle nights have wrought thee woe, +Yet the last was troubled sore +Above all that went before.' +Quoth the king, 'No more, no more.' +Then he riseth, pale of blee, +As one spent, and utterly +Master'd of dark destiny. + + +II. + +Comes a day for glory famed +Tidings brought the enemy shamed, +Fallen; now is peace proclaimed. +And a swarm of bells on high +Make their sweet din scale the sky, +'Hail! hail! hail!' the people cry +To the king his queen beside, +And the knights in armour ride +After until eventide. + + +III. + +All things great may life afford, +Praise, power, love, high pomp, fair gaud, +Till the banquet be toward +Hath this king. Then day takes flight, +Sinketh sun and fadeth light, +Late he coucheth--Night; 't is night. + +_The proud king heading the host on his red roan charger._ + Dust. On a thicket of spears glares the Syrian sun, +The Saracens swarm to the onset, larger aye larger + Loom their fierce cohorts, they shout as the day were won. + +Brown faces fronting the steel-bright armour, and ever + The crash o' the combat runs on with a mighty cry, +Fell tumult; trampling and carnage--then fails endeavour, + O shame upon shame--the Christians falter and fly. + +The foe upon them, the foe afore and behind them, + The king borne back in the melee; all, all is vain; +They fly with death at their heels, fierce sun-rays blind them, + Riderless steeds affrighted, tread down their ranks amain. + +Disgrace, dishonour, no rally, ah no retrieving, + The scorn of scorns shall his name and his nation brand, +'T is a sword that smites from the rear, his helmet cleaving, + That hurls him to earth, to his death on the desert sand. + +Ever they fly, the cravens, and ever reviling + Flies after. Athirst, ashamed, he yieldeth his breath, +While one looks down from his charger; and calm slow smiling, + Curleth his lip. 'T is the Khalif. And this is death. + + +IV. + +'Wake, yon purple peaks arise, +Jagged, bare, through saffron skies; +Now is heard a twittering sweet, +For the mother-martins meet, +Where wet ivies, dew-besprent, +Glisten on the battlement. +Now the lark at heaven's gold gate +Aiming, sweetly chides on fate +That his brown wings wearied were +When he, sure, was almost there. +Now the valley mist doth break, +Shifting sparkles edge the lake, +Love, Lord, Master, wake, O wake!' + + +V. + +Ay, he wakes,--and dull of cheer, +Though this queen be very dear, +Though a respite come with day +From th' abhorred flight and fray, +E'en though life be not the cost, +Nay, nor crown nor honour lost; +For in his soul abideth fear +Worse than of the Khalif's spear, +Smiting when perforce in flight +He was borne,--for that was night, +That his weird. But now 't is day, +'And good sooth I know not--nay, +Know not how this thing could be. +Never, more it seemeth me +Than when left the weird to dree, +I am I. And it was I +Felt or ever they turned to fly, +How, like wind, a tremor ran, +The right hand of every man +Shaking. Ay, all banners shook, +And the red all cheeks forsook, +Mine as theirs. Since this was I, +Who my soul shall certify +When again I face the foe +Manful courage shall not go. +Ay, it is not thrust o' a spear, +Scorn of infidel eyes austere, +But mine own fear--is to fear.' + + +VI. + +After sleep thus sore bestead, +Beaten about and buffeted, +Featly fares the morning spent +In high sport and tournament. + + +VII. + +Served within his sumptuous tent, +Looks the king in quiet wise, +Till this fair queen yield the prize +To the bravest; but when day +Falleth to the west away, +Unto her i' the silent hour, +While she sits in her rose-bower. +Come, 'O love, full oft,' quoth she, +'I at dawn have prayed thee +Thou would'st tell o' the weird to me, +Sith I might some counsel find +Of my wit or in my mind +Thee to better.' 'Ay, e'en so, +But the telling shall let thee know,' +Quoth the king, 'is neither scope +For sweet counsel nor fair hope, +Nor is found for respite room, +Till the uttermost crack of doom. + + +VIII. + +Then the queen saith, 'Woman's wit +No man asketh aid of it, +Not wild hyssop on a wall +Is of less account; or small +Glossy gnats that flit i' the sun +Less worth weighing--light so light! +Yet when all's said--ay, all done, +Love, I love thee! By love's might +I will counsel thee aright, +Or would share the weird to-night.' +Then he answer'd 'Have thy way. +Know 't is two years gone and a day +Since I, walking lone and late, +Pondered sore mine ill estate; +Open murmurers, foes concealed, +Famines dire i' the marches round, +Neighbour kings unfriendly found, +Ay, and treacherous plots revealed +Where I trusted. I bid stay +All my knights at the high crossway, +And did down the forest fare +To bethink me, and despair. +'Ah! thou gilded toy a throne, +If one mounts to thee alone, +Quoth I, mourning while I went, +Haply he may drop content +As a lark wing-weary down +To the level, and his crown +Leave for another man to don; +Throne, thy gold steps raised upon. +But for me--O as for me +What is named I would not dree, +Earn, or conquer, or forego +For the barring of overthrow.' + + +IX. + +'Aloud I spake, but verily +Never an answer looked should be. +But it came to pass from shade +Pacing to an open glade, +Which the oaks a mighty wall +Fence about, methought a call +Sounded, then a pale thin mist +Rose, a pillar, and fronted me, +Rose and took a form I wist, +And it wore a hood on 'ts head, +And a long white garment spread, +And I saw the eyes thereof. + + +X. + +Then my plumed cap I doff, +Stooping. 'T is the white-witch. 'Hail,' +Quoth the witch, 'thou shalt prevail +An thou wilt; I swear to thee +All thy days shall glorious shine, +Great and rich, ay, fair and fine, +So what followeth rest my fee, +So thou'lt give thy sleep to me.' + + +XI. + +While she spake my heart did leap. +Waking is man's life, and sleep-- +What is sleep?--a little death +Coming after, and methought +Life is mine and death is nought +Till it come,--so day is mine +I will risk the sleep to shine +In the waking. + And she saith, +In a soft voice clear and low, +'Give thy plumed cap also +For a token.' + 'Didst thou give?' +Quoth the queen; and 'As I live +He makes answer 'none can tell. +I did will my sleep to sell, +And in token held to her +That she asked. And it fell +To the grass. I saw no stir +In her hand or in her face, +And no going; but the place +Only for an evening mist +Was made empty. There it lay, +That same plumed cap, alway +On the grasses--but I wist +Well, it must be let to lie, +And I left it. Now the tale +Ends, th' events do testify +Of her truth. The days go by +Better and better; nought doth ail +In the land, right happy and hale +Dwell the seely folk; but sleep +Brings a reckoning; then forth creep +Dreaded creatures, worms of might. +Crested with my plumed cap +Loll about my neck all night, +Bite me in the side, and lap +My heart's blood. Then oft the weird +Drives me, where amazed, afeard, +I do safe on a river strand +Mark one sinking hard at hand +While fierce sleuth-hounds that me track +Fly upon me, bear me back, +Fling me away, and he for lack +Of man's aid in piteous wise +Goeth under, drowns and dies. + + +XII. + +'O sweet wife, I suffer sore-- +O methinks aye more and more +Dull my day, my courage numb, +Shadows from the night to come. +But no counsel, hope, nor aid +Is to give; a crown being made +Power and rule, yea all good things +Yet to hang on this same weird +I must dree it, ever that brings +Chastening from the white-witch feared. +O that dreams mote me forsake, +Would that man could alway wake.' + + +XIII. + +Now good sooth doth counsel fail, +Ah this queen is pale, so pale. +'Love,' she sigheth, 'thou didst not well +Listening to the white-witch fell, +Leaving her doth thee advance +Thy plumed cap of maintenance.' + + +XIV. + +'She is white, as white snow flake,' +Quoth the king; 'a man shall make +Bargains with her and not sin.' +'Ay,' she saith, 'but an he win, +Let him look the right be done +Else the rue shall be his own. + + +XV. + +No more words. The stars are bright, +For the feast high halls be dight +Late he coucheth. Night--'t is night. + +_The dead king lying in state in the Minster holy._ + Fifty candles burn at his head and burn at his feet, +A crown and royal apparel upon him lorn and lowly, + And the cold hands stiff as horn by their cold palms meet. + +Two days dead. Is he dead? Nay, nay--but is he living? + The weary monks have ended their chantings manifold, +The great door swings behind them, night winds entrance giving, + The candles flare and drip on him, warm and he so cold. + +Neither to move nor to moan, though sunk and though swallow'd + In earth he shall soon be trodden hard and no more seen. +Soft you the door again! Was it a footstep followed, + Falter'd, and yet drew near him?--Malva, Malva the queen! + +One hand o' the dead king liveth (e'en so him seemeth) + On the purple robe, on the ermine that folds his breast +Cold, very cold. Yet e'en at that pass esteemeth + The king, it were sweet if she kissed the place of its rest. + +Laid her warm face on his bosom, a fair wife grieved + For the lord and love of her youth, and bewailed him sore; +Laid her warm face on the bosom of her bereaved + Soon to go under, never to look on her more. + +His candles guide her with pomp funereal flaring, + Out of the gulfy dark to the bier whereon he lies. +Cometh this queen i' the night for grief or for daring, + Out o' the dark to the light with large affrighted eyes? + +The pale queen speaks in the Presence with fear upon her, + 'Where is the ring I gave to thee, where is my ring? +I vowed--'t was an evil vow--by love, and by honour, + Come life or come death to be thine, thou poor dead king.' + +The pale queen's honour! A low laugh scathing and sereing-- + A mumbling as made by the dead in the tombs ye wot. +Braveth the dead this queen? 'Hear it, whoso hath hearing, + I vowed by my love, cold king, but I loved thee not.' + +Honour! An echo in aisles and the solemn portals, + Low sinketh this queen by the bier with its freight forlorn; +Yet kneeling, 'Hear me!' she crieth, 'you just immortals, + You saints bear witness I vowed and am not forsworn. + +I vowed in my youth, fool-king, when the golden fetter + Thy love that bound me and bann'd me full weary I wore, +But all poor men of thy menai I held them better, + All stalwart knights of thy train unto me were more. + +Twenty years I have lived on earth and two beside thee, + Thirty years thou didst live on earth, and two on the throne: +Let it suffice there be none of thy rights denied thee, + Though I dare thy presence--I--come for my ring alone.' + +She risen shuddereth, peering, afraid to linger + Behold her ring, it shineth! 'Now yield to me, thou dead, +For this do I dare the touch of thy stark stiff finger.' + The queen hath drawn her ring from his hand, the queen hath fled. + +'O woman fearing sore, to whom my man's heart cleaved, + The faith enwrought with love and life hath mocks for its meed'-- +The dead king lying in state, of his past bereaved, + Twice dead. Ay, this is death. Now dieth the king indeed. + + +XVI. + +'Wake, the seely gnomes do fly, +Drenched across yon rainy sky, +With the vex'd moon-mother'd elves, +And the clouds do weep themselves +Into morning. + + All night long +Hath thy weird thee sore opprest; +Wake, I have found within my breast +Counsel.' Ah, the weird was strong, +But the time is told. Release +Openeth on him when his eyes +Lift them in dull desolate wise, +And behold he is at peace. + +Ay, but silent. Of all done +And all suffer'd in the night, +Of all ills that do him spite +She shall never know that one. +Then he heareth accents bland, +Seeth the queen's ring on his hand, +And he riseth calmed withal. + + +XVII. + +Rain and wind on the palace wall +Beat and bluster, sob and moan, +When at noon he musing lone, +Comes the queen anigh his seat, +And she kneeleth at his feet. + + +XVIII. + +Quoth the queen, 'My love, my lord, +Take thy wife and take thy sword, +We must forth in the stormy weather, +Thou and I to the witch together. +Thus I rede thee counsel deep, +Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep, +Turning so man's wholesome life +From its meaning. Thine intent +None shall hold for innocent. +Thou dost take thy good things first, +Then thou art cast into the worst; +First the glory, then the strife. +Nay, but first thy trouble dree, +So thy peace shall sweeter be. +First to work and then to rest, +Is the way for our humanity, +Ay, she sayeth that loves thee best, +We must forth and from this strife +Buy the best part of man's life; +Best and worst thou holdest still +Subject to a witch's will. +Thus I rede thee counsel deep, +Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep; +Take the crown from off thy head, +Give it the white-witch instead, +If in that she say thee nay, +Get the night,--and give the day.' + + +XIX. + +Then the king (amazed, mild, +As one reasoning with a child +All his speech): 'My wife! my fair! +And his hand on her brown hair +Trembles; 'Lady, dost indeed +Weigh the meaning of thy rede? +Would'st thou dare the dropping away +Of allegiance, should our sway +And sweet splendour and renown +All be risked? (methinks a crown +Doth become thee marvellous well). +We ourself are, truth to tell, +Kingly both of wont and kind, +Suits not such the craven mind.' +'Yet this weird thou can'st not dree.' +Quoth the queen, 'And live;' then he, +'I must die and leave the fair +Unborn, long-desired heir +To his rightful heritage.' + + +XX. + +But this queen arisen doth high +Her two hands uplifting, sigh +'God forbid.' And he to assuage +Her keen sorrow, for his part +Searcheth, nor can find in his heart +Words. And weeping she will rest +Her sweet cheek upon his breast, +Whispering, 'Dost thou verily +Know thou art to blame? Ah me, +Come,' and yet beseecheth she, +'Ah me, come.' + + For good for ill, +Whom man loveth hath her will. +Court and castle left behind, +Stolen forth in the rain and wind, +Soon they are deep in the forest, fain +The white-witch to raise again; +Down and deep where flat o'erhead +Layer on layer do cedars spread, +Down where lordly maples strain, +Wrestling with the storm amain. + + +XXI. + +Wide-wing'd eagles struck on high +Headlong fall'n break through, and lie +With their prey in piteous wise, +And no film on their dead eyes. +Matted branches grind and crash, +Into darkness dives the flash, +Stabs, a dread gold dirk of fire, +Loads the lift with splinters dire. +Then a pause i' the deadly feud-- +And a sick cowed quietude. + + +XXII. + +Soh! A pillar misty and grey, +'T is the white-witch in the way. +Shall man deal with her and gain? +I trow not. Albeit the twain +Costly gear and gems and gold +Freely offer, she will hold +Sleep and token for the pay +She did get for greatening day. + + +XXIII. + +'Or the night shall rest my fee +Or the day shall nought of me,' +Quoth the witch. 'An't thee beseem, +Sell thy kingdom for a dream.' + + +XXIV. + +'Now what will be let it be!' +Quoth the queen; 'but choose the right.' +And the white-witch scorns at her, +Stately standing in their sight. +Then without or sound or stir +She is not. For offering meet +Lieth the token at their feet, +Which they, weary and sore bestead +In the storm, lift up, full fain +Ere the waning light hath fled +Those high towers they left to gain. + + +XXV. + +Deep among tree roots astray +Here a torrent tears its way, +There a cedar split aloft +Lies head downward. Now the oft +Muttering thunder, now the wind +Wakens. How the path to find? +How the turning? Deep ay deep, +Far ay far. She needs must weep, +This fair woman, lost, astray +In the forest; nought to say. +Yet the sick thoughts come and go, +'I, 't was I would have it so.' + + +XXVI. + +Shelter at the last, a roof +Wrought of ling (in their behoof, +Foresters, that drive the deer). +What, and must they couch them here? +Ay, and ere the twilight fall +Gather forest berries small +And nuts down beaten for a meal. + + +XXVII. + +Now the shy wood-wonners steal +Nearer, bright-eyed furry things, +Winking owls on silent wings +Glance, and float away. The light +In the wake o' the storm takes flight, +Day departeth: night--'t is night. + +The crown'd king musing at morn by a clear sweet river. + Palms on the slope o' the valley, and no winds blow; +Birds blameless, dove-eyed, mystical talk deliver, + Oracles haply. The language he doth not know. + +Bare, blue, are yon peaked hills for a rampart lying, + As dusty gold is the light in the palms o'erhead, +'What is the name o' the land? and this calm sweet sighing, + If it be echo, where first was it caught and spread? + +I might--I might be at rest in some field Elysian, + If this be asphodel set in the herbage fair, +I know not how I should wonder, so sweet the vision, + So clear and silent the water, the field, the air. + +Love, are you by me! Malva, what think you this meaneth? + Love, do you see the fine folk as they move over there? +Are they immortals? Look you a winged one leaneth + Down from yon pine to the river of us unaware. + +All unaware; and the country is full of voices, + Mild strangers passing: they reck not of me nor of thee. +List! about and around us wondrous sweet noises, + Laughter of little children and maids that dreaming be. + +Love, I can see their dreams.' A dim smile flitteth + Over her lips, and they move as in peace supreme, +And a small thing, silky haired, beside her sitteth, + 'O this is thy dream atween us--this is thy dream.' + +Was it then truly his dream with her dream that blended? + 'Speak, dear child dear,' quoth the queen, 'and mine own little son.' +'Father,' the small thing murmurs; then all is ended, + He starts from that passion of peace--ay, the dream is done. + + +XXVIII. + +'I have been in a good land,' +Quoth the king: 'O sweet sleep bland, +Blessed! I am grown to more, +Now the doing of right hath moved +Me to love of right, and proved +If one doth it, he shall be +Twice the man he was before. +Verily and verily, +Thou fair woman, thou didst well; +I look back and scarce may tell +Those false days of tinsel sheen, +Flattery, feasting, that have been. +Shows of life that were but shows, +How they held me; being I ween +Like sand-pictures thin, that rose +Quivering, when our thirsty bands +Marched i' the hot Egyptian lands; +Shade of palms on a thick green plot, +Pools of water that was not, +Mocking us and melting away. + + +XXIX. + +I have been a witch's prey, +Art mine enemy now by day, +Thou fell Fear? There comes an end +To the day; thou canst not wend +After me where I shall fare, +My foredoomed peace to share. +And awake with a better heart, +I shall meet thee and take my part +O' the dull world's dull spite; with thine +Hard will I strive for me and mine.' + + +XXX. + +A page and a palfrey pacing nigh, +Malva the queen awakes. A sigh-- +One amazed moment--'Ay, +We remember yesterday, +Let us to the palace straight: +What! do all my ladies wait-- +Is no zeal to find me? What! +No knights forth to meet the king; +Due observance, is it forgot?' + + +XXXI. + +'Lady,' quoth the page, 'I bring +Evil news. Sir king, I say, +My good lord of yesterday, +Evil news,' This king saith low, +'Yesterday, and yesterday, +The queen's yesterday we know, +Tell us thine.' 'Sir king,' saith he, +Hear. Thy castle in the night +Was surprised, and men thy flight +Learned but then; thine enemy +Of old days, our new king, reigns; +And sith thou wert not at pains +To forbid it, hear also, +Marvelling whereto this should grow +How thy knights at break of morn +Have a new allegiance sworn, +And the men-at-arms rejoice, +And the people give their voice +For the conqueror. I, Sir king, +Rest thine only friend. I bring +Means of flight; now therefore fly, +A great price is on thy head. +Cast her jewel'd mantle by, +Mount thy queen i' the selle and hie +(Sith disguise ye need, and bread) +Down yon pleached track, down, down, +Till a tower shall on thee frown; +Him that holds it show this ring: +So farewell, my lord the king.' + + +XXXII. + +Had one marked that palfrey led +To the tower, he sooth had said, +These are royal folk and rare-- +Jewels in her plaited hair +Shine not clearer than her eyes, +And her lord in goodly wise +With his plumed cap in 's hand +Moves in the measure of command. + + +XXXIII. + +Had one marked where stole forth two +From the friendly tower anew, +'Common folk' he sooth had said, +Making for the mountain track. +Common, common, man and maid, +Clad in russet, and of kind +Meet for russet. On his back +A wallet bears the stalwart hind; +She, all shy, in rustic grace +Steps beside her man apace, +And wild roses match her face. + + +XXXIV. + +Whither speed they? Where are toss'd +Like sea foam the dwarfed pines +At the jagged sharp inclines; +To the country of the frost +Up the mountains to be lost, +Lost. No better now may be, +Lost where mighty hollows thrust +'Twixt the fierce teeth of the world, +Fill themselves with crimson dust +When the tumbling sun down hurl'd +Stares among them drearily, +As a' wondering at the lone +Gulfs that weird gaunt company +Fenceth in. Lost there unknown, +Lineage, nation, name, and throne. + + +XXXV. + +Lo, in a crevice choked with ling +And fir, this man, not now the king, +This Sigismund, hath made a fire, +And by his wife in the dark night +He leans at watch, her guard and squire. +His wide eyes stare out for the light +Weary. He needs must chide on fate, +And she is asleep. 'Poor brooding mate, +What! wilt thou on the mountain crest +Slippery and cold scoop thy first nest? +Or must I clear some uncouth cave +That laired the mother wolf, and save-- +Spearing her cubs--the grey pelt fine +To be a bed for thee and thine? +It is my doing. Ay,' quoth he, +'Mine; but who dares to pity thee +Shall pity, not for loss of all, +But that thou wert my wife perdie, +E'en wife unto a witch's thrall,-- +A man beholden to the cold +Cloud for a covering, he being sold +And hunted for reward of gold. + + +XXXVI. + +But who shall chronicle the ways +Of common folk--the nights and days +Spent with rough goatherds on their snows, +Of travellers come whence no man knows, +Then gone aloft on some sharp height +In the dumb peace and the great light +Amid brown eagles and wild roes? + + +XXXVII. + +'Tis the whole world whereon they lie, +The rocky pastures hung on high +Shelve off upon an empty sky. +But they creep near the edge, look down-- +Great heaven! another world afloat, +Moored as in seas of air; remote +As their own childhood; swooning away +Into a tenderer sweeter day, +Innocent, sunny. 'O for wings! +There lie the lands of other kings-- +I Sigismund, my sometime crown +Forfeit; forgotten of renown +My wars, my rule; I fain would go +Down to yon peace obscure.' + + Even so; +Down to the country of the thyme, +Where young kids dance, and a soft chime +Of sheepbells tinkles; then at last +Down to a country of hollows, cast +Up at the mountains full of trees, +Down to fruit orchards and wide leas. + + +XXXVIII. + +With name unsaid and fame unsunned +He walks that was King Sigismund. +With palmers holy and pilgrims brown, +New from the East, with friar and clown, +He mingles in a walled town, +And in the mart where men him scan +He passes for a merchant man. +For from his vest, where by good hap +He thrust it, he his plumed cap +Hath drawn and plucked the gems away, +And up and down he makes essay +To sell them; they are all his wares +And wealth. He is a man of cares, +A man of toil; no roof hath he +To shelter her full soon to be +The mother of his dispossessed +Desired heir. + + +XXXIX. + + Few words are best. +He, once King Sigismund, saith few, +But makes good diligence and true. +Soon with the gold he gather'd so, +A little homestead lone and low +He buyeth: a field, a copse, with these +A melon patch and mulberry trees. +And is the man content? Nay, morn +Is toilsome, oft is noon forlorn, +Though right be done and life be won, +Yet hot is weeding in the sun, +Yea scythe to wield and axe to swing, +Are hard on sinews of a king. + + +XL. + +And Malva, must she toil? E'en so. +Full patiently she takes her part, +All, all so new. But her deep heart +Forebodes more change than shall be shown +Betwixt a settle and a throne. +And lost in musing she will go +About the winding of her silk, +About the skimming her goat's milk, +About the kneading of her bread, +And water drawn from her well-head. + + +XLI. + +Then come the long nights dark and still, +Then come the leaves and cover the sill, +Then come the swift flocks of the stare, +Then comes the snow--then comes the heir. + + +XLII. + +If he be glad, if he be sad, +How should one question when the hand +Is full, the heart. That life he had, +While leisure was aside may stand, +Till he shall overtake the task +Of every day, then let him ask +(If he remember--if he will), +'When I could sit me down and muse, +And match my good against mine ill, +And weigh advantage dulled by use +At nothing, was it better with me?' +But Sigismund! It cannot be +But that he toil, nor pause, nor sigh, +A dreamer on a day gone by +The king is come. + + +XLIII. + + His vassals two +Serve with all homage deep and due. +He is contented, he doth find +Belike the kingdom much to his mind. +And when the long months of his long +Reign are two years, and like a song +From some far sweeter world, a call +From the king's mouth for fealty, +Buds soon to blossom in language fall, +They listen and find not any plea +Left, for fine chiding at destiny. + + +XLIV. + +Sigismund hath ricked the hay, +He sitteth at close o' a sultry day +Under his mulberry boughs at ease. +'Hey for the world, and the world is wide, +The world is mine, and the world is--these +Beautiful Malva leans at his side, +And the small babbler talks at his knees. + + +XLV. + +Riseth a waft as of summer air, +Floating upon it what moveth there? +Faint as the light of stars and wan +As snow at night when the moon is gone, +It is the white-witch risen once more. + + +XLVI. + +The white-witch that tempted of yore +So utterly doth substance lack, +You may breathe her nearer and breathe her back. +Soft her eyes, her speech full clear: +'Hail, thou Sigismund my fere, +Bargain with me yea or nay. +NAY, I go to my true place, +And no more thou seest my face. +YEA, the good be all thine own, +For now will I advance thy day, +And yet will leave the night alone. + + +XLVII. + +Sigismund makes answer 'NAY. +Though the Highest heaped on me +Trouble, yet the same should be +Welcomer than weal from thee. +Nay;--for ever and ever Nay.' +O, the white-witch floats away. +Look you, look! A still pure smile +Blossoms on her mouth the while, +White wings peaked high behind, +Bear her;--no, the wafting wind, +For they move not,--floats her back, +Floats her up. They scarce may track +Her swift rising, shot on high +Like a ray from the western sky, +Or a lark from some grey wold +Utterly whelm'd in sunset gold. + + +XLVIII. + +Then these two long silence hold, +And the lisping babe doth say +'White white bird, it flew away.' +And they marvel at these things, +For her ghostly visitings +Turn to them another face. +Haply she was sent, a friend +Trying them, and to good end +For their better weal and grace; +One more wonder let to be +In the might and mystery +Of the world, where verily +And good sooth a man may wend +All his life, and no more view +Than the one right next to do. + + +XLIX. + +So, the welcome dusk is here, +Sweet is even, rest is dear; +Mountain heads have lost the light, +Soon they couch them. Night--'t is night. + +Sigismund dreaming delightsomely after his haying. + ('Sleep of the labouring man,' quoth King David, 'is sweet.') +'Sigismund, Sigismund'--'Who is this calling and saying + "Sigismund, Sigismund," O blessed night do not fleet. + +Is it not dark--ay, methinks it is dark, I would slumber, + O I would rest till the swallow shall chirp 'neath mine eaves.' +'Sigismund, Sigismund,' multitudes now without number + Calling, the noise is as dropping of rain upon leaves. + +'Ay,' quoth he dreaming, 'say on, for I, Sigismund, hear ye.' + 'Sigismund, Sigismund, all the knights weary full sore. +Come back, King Sigismund, come, they shall love thee and fear thee, + The people cry out O come back to us, reign evermore. + +The new king is dead, and we will not his son, no nor brother, + Come with thy queen, is she busy yet, kneading of cakes? +Sigismund, show us the boy, is he safe, and his mother, + Sigismund?'--dreaming he falls into laughter and wakes. + + +L. + +And men say this dream came true, +For he walking in the dew +Turned aside while yet was red +On the highest mountain head, +Looking how the wheat he set +Flourished. And the knights him met +And him prayed 'Come again, +Sigismund our king, and reign.' +But at first--at first they tell +How it liked not Malva well; +She must leave her belted bees +And the kids that she did rear. +When she thought on it full dear +Seemed her home. It did not please +Sigismund that he must go +From the wheat that he did sow; +When he thought on it his mind +Was not that should any bind +Into sheaves that wheat but he, +Only he; and yet they went, +And it may be were content. +And they won a nation's heart; +Very well they played their part. +They ruled with sceptre and diadem, +And their children after them. + + + + +THE MAID-MARTYR. + + +Only you'd have me speak. + Whether to speak +Or whether to be silent is all one; +Whether to sleep and in my dreaming front +Her small scared face forlorn; whether to wake +And muse upon her small soft feet that paced +The hated, hard, inhospitable stone-- +I say all's one. But you would have me speak, +And change one sorrow for the other. Ay, +Right reverend father, comfortable father, +Old, long in thrall, and wearied of the cell, +So will I here--here staring through the grate, +Whence, sheer beneath us lying the little town, +Her street appears a riband up the rise; +Where 't is right steep for carts, behold two ruts +Worn in the flat, smooth, stone. + That side I stood; +My head was down. At first I did but see +Her coming feet; they gleamed through my hot tears +As she walked barefoot up yon short steep hill. +Then I dared all, gazed on her face, the maid +Martyr and utterly, utterly broke my heart. + +Her face, O! it was wonderful to me, +There was not in it what I look'd for--no, +I never saw a maid go to her death, +How should I dream that face and the dumb soul? + +Her arms and head were bare, seemly she walked +All in her smock so modest as she might; +Upon her shoulders hung a painted cape +For horrible adornment, flames of fire +Portrayed upon it, and mocking demon heads. + +Her eyes--she did not see me--opened wide, +Blue-black, gazed right before her, yet they marked +Nothing; and her two hands uplift as praying, +She yet prayed not, wept not, sighed not. O father, +She was past that, soft, tender, hunted thing; +But, as it seemed, confused from time to time, +She would half-turn her or to left or right +To follow other streets, doubting her way. + +Then their base pikes they basely thrust at her, +And, like one dazed, obedient to her guides +She came; I knew not if 't was present to her +That death was her near goal; she was so lost, +And set apart from any power to think. +But her mouth pouted as one brooding, father, +Over a lifetime of forlorn fear. No, +Scarce was it fear; so looks a timid child +(Not more affrighted; ah! but not so pale) +That has been scolded or has lost its way. + +Mother and father--father and mother kind, +She was alone, where were you hidden? Alone, +And I that loved her more, or feared death less, +Rushed to her side, but quickly was flung back, +And cast behind o' the pikemen following her +Into a yelling and a cursing crowd. +That bristled thick with monks and hooded friars; +Moreover, women with their cheeks ablaze, +Who swarmed after up the narrowing street. + +Pitiful heaven! I knew she did not hear +In that last hour the cursing, nor the foul +Words; she had never heard like words, sweet soul, +In her life blameless; even at that pass, +That dreadful pass, I felt it had been worse, +Though nought I longed for as for death, to know +She did. She saw not 'neath their hoods those eyes +Soft, glittering, with a lust for cruelty; +Secret delight, that so great cruelty, +All in the sacred name of Holy Church, +Their meed to look on it should be anon. +Speak! O, I tell you this thing passeth word! +From roofs and oriels high, women looked down; +Men, maidens, children, and a fierce white sun +Smote blinding splinters from all spears aslant. + +Lo! next a stand, so please you, certain priests +(May God forgive men sinning at their ease), +Whose duty 't was to look upon this thing, +Being mindful of thick pungent smoke to come, +Had caused a stand to rise hard by the stake, +Upon its windward side. + + My life! my love! +She utter'd one sharp cry of mortal dread +While they did chain her. This thing passeth words, +Albeit told out for ever in my soul. +As the torch touched, thick volumes of black reek +Rolled out and raised the wind, and instantly +Long films of flaxen hair floated aloft, +Settled alow, in drifts upon the crowd. +The vile were merciful; heaped high, my dear, +Thou didst not suffer long. O! it was soon, +Soon over, and I knew not any more, +Till grovelling on the ground, beating my head, +I heard myself, and scarcely knew 't was I, +At Holy Church railing with fierce mad words, +Crying and craving for a stake, for me. +While fast the folk, as ever, such a work +Being over, fled, and shrieked 'A heretic! +More heretics; yon ashes smoking still.' + +And up and almost over me came on +A robed--ecclesiastic--with his train +(I choose the words lest that they do some wrong) +Call him a robed ecclesiastic proud. +And I lying helpless, with my bruised face +Beat on his garnished shoon. But he stepped back, +Spurned me full roughly with them, called the pikes, +Delivering orders, 'Take the bruised wretch. +He raves. Fool! thou'lt hear more of this anon. +Bestow him there.' He pointed to a door. +With that some threw a cloth upon my face +Because it bled. I knew they carried me +Within his home, and I was satisfied; +Willing my death. Was it an abbey door? +Was 't entrance to a palace? or a house +Of priests? I say not, nor if abbot he, +Bishop or other dignity; enough +That he so spake. 'Take in the bruised wretch.' +And I was borne far up a turret stair +Into a peaked chamber taking form +O' the roof, and on a pallet bed they left +Me miserable. Yet I knew forsooth, +Left in my pain, that evil things were said +Of that same tower; men thence had disappeared, +Suspect of heresy had disappeared, +Deliver'd up, 't was whisper'd, tried and burned. +So be it methought, I would not live, not I. +But none did question me. A beldame old, +Kind, heedless of my sayings, tended me. +I raved at Holy Church and she was deaf, +And at whose tower detained me, she was dumb. +So had I food and water, rest and calm. +Then on the third day I rose up and sat +On the side of my low bed right melancholy, +All that high force of passion overpast, +I sick with dolourous thought and weak through tears +Spite of myself came to myself again +(For I had slept), and since I could not die +Looked through the window three parts overgrown +With leafage on the loftiest ivy ropes, +And saw at foot o' the rise another tower +In roof whereof a grating, dreary bare. +Lifetimes gone by, long, slow, dim, desolate, +I knew even there had been my lost love's cell. + +So musing on the man that with his foot +Spurned me, the robed ecclesiastic stern, +'Would he had haled me straight to prison' methought, +'So made an end at once.' + + My sufferings rose +Like billows closing over, beating down; +Made heavier far because of a stray, strange, +Sweet hope that mocked me at the last. + 'T was thus, +I came from Oxford secretly, the news +Terrible of her danger smiting me,-- +She was so young, and ever had been bred +With whom 't was made a peril now to name. +There had been worship in the night; some stole +To a mean chapel deep in woods, and heard +Preaching, and prayed. She, my betrothed, was there. +Father and mother, mother and father kind, +So young, so innocent, had ye no ruth, +No fear, that ye did bring her to her doom? +I know the chiefest Evil One himself +Sanded that floor. Their footsteps marking it +Betrayed them. How all came to pass let be. +Parted, in hiding some, other in thrall, +Father and mother, mother and father kind, +It may be yet ye know not this--not all. + +I in the daytime lying perdue looked up +At the castle keep impregnable,--no foot +How rash so e'er might hope to scale it. Night +Descending, come I near, perplexedness, +Contempt of danger, to the door o' the keep +Drawing me. There a short stone bench I found, +And bitterly weeping sat and leaned my head +Against the hopeless hated massiveness +Of that detested hold. A lifting moon +Had made encroachment on the dark, but deep +Was shadow where I leaned. Within a while +I was aware, but saw no shape, of one +Who stood beside me, a dark shadow tall. +I cared not, disavowal mattered nought +Of grief to one so out of love with life. +But after pause I felt a hand let down +That rested kindly, firmly, a man's hand, +Upon my shoulder; there was cheer in it. +And presently a voice clear, whispering, low, +With pitifulness that faltered, spoke to me. +Was I, it asked, true son of Mother Church? +Coldly I answer'd 'Ay;' then blessed words +That danced into mine ears more excellent +Music than wedding bells had been were said, +With certitude that I might see my maid, +My dear one. He would give a paper, he +The man beside me. 'Do thy best endeavour, +Dear youth. Thy maiden being a right sweet child +Surely will hearken to thee; an she do, +And will recant, fair faultless heretic, +Whose knowledge is but scant of matters high +Which hard men spake on with her, hard men forced +From her mouth innocent, then shall she come +Before me; have good cheer, all may be well. +But an she will not she must burn, no power-- +Not Solomon the Great on 's ivory throne +With all his wisdom could find out a way, +Nor I nor any to save her, she must burn. +Now hast thou till day dawn. The Mother of God +Speed thee.' A twisted scroll he gave; himself +Knocked at the door behind, and he was gone, +A darker pillar of darkness in the dark. +Straightway one opened and I gave the scroll. +He read, then thrust it in his lanthorn flame +Till it was ashes; 'Follow' and no more +Whisper'd, went up the giddy spiring way, +I after, till we reached the topmost door. +Then took a key, opened, and crying 'Delia, +Delia my sweetheart, I am come, I am come,' +I darted forward and he locked us in. +Two figures; one rose up and ran to me +Along the ladder of moonlight on the floor, +Fell on my neck. Long time we kissed and wept. + +But for that other, while she stood appeased +For cruel parting past, locked in mine arms, +I had been glad, expecting a good end. +The cramped pale fellow prisoner; 'Courage' cried. +Then Delia lifting her fair face, the moon +Did show me its incomparable calms. +Her effluent thought needed no word of mine, +It whelmed my soul as in a sea of tears. +The warm enchantment leaning on my breast +Breathed as in air remote, and I was left +To infinite detachment, even with hers +To take cold kisses from the lips of doom, +Look in those eyes and disinherit hope +From that high place late won. + Then murmuring low +That other spake of Him on the cross, and soft +As broken-hearted mourning of the dove, +She 'One deep calleth to another' sighed. +'The heart of Christ mourns to my heart, "Endure. +There was a day when to the wilderness +My great forerunner from his thrall sent forth +Sad messengers, demanding _Art thou He_? +Think'st thou I knew no pang in that strange hour? +How could I hold the power, and want the will +Or want the love? That pang was his--and mine. +He said not, Save me an thou be the Son, +But only _Art thou He_? In my great way +It was not writ,--legions of Angels mine, +There was one Angel, one ordain'd to unlock +At my behest the doomed deadly door. +I could not tell him, tell not thee, why." Lord, +We know not why, but would not have Thee grieve, +Think not so deeply on 't; make us endure +For thy blest sake, hearing thy sweet voice mourn +"I will go forth, thy desolations meet, +And with my desolations solace them. +I will not break thy bonds but I am bound, +With thee."' + + I feared. That speech deep furrows cut +In my afflicted soul. I whisper'd low, +'Thou wilt not heed her words, my golden girl.' +But Delia said not ought; only her hand +Laid on my cheek and on the other leaned +Her own. O there was comfort, father, +In love and nearness, e'en at the crack of doom. + +Then spake I, and that other said no more, +For I appealed to God and to his Christ. +Unto the strait-barred window led my dear; +No table, bed, nor plenishing; no place +They had for rest: maugre two narrow chairs +By day, by night they sat thereon upright. +One drew I to the opening; on it set +My Delia, kneeled; upon its arm laid mine, +And prayed to God and prayed of her. + Father, +If you should ask e'en now, 'And art thou glad +Of what befell?' I could not say it, father, +I should be glad; therefore God make me glad, +Since we shall die to-morrow! + Think not sin, +O holy, harmless reverend man, to fear. +'T will be soon over. Now I know thou fear'st +Also for me, lest I be lost; but aye +Strong comfortable hope doth wrap me round, +A token of acceptance. I am cast +From Holy Church, and not received of thine; +But the great Advocate who knoweth all, +He whispers with me. + O my Delia wept +When I did plead; 'I have much feared to die,' +Answering. (The moonlight on her blue-black eyes +Fell; shining tears upon their lashes hung; +Fair showed the dimple that I loved; so young, +So very young.) 'But they did question me +Straitly, and make me many times to swear, +To swear of all alas, that I believed. +Truly, unless my soul I would have bound +With false oaths--difficult, innumerous, strong, +Way was not left me to get free. + + But now,' +Said she, I am happy; I have seen the place +Where I am going. + + I will tell it you, +Love, Hubert. Do not weep; they said to me +That you would come, and it would not be long. +Thus was it, being sad and full of fear, +I was crying in the night; and prayed to God +And said, "I have not learned high things;" and said +To the Saviour, "Do not be displeased with me, +I am not crying to get back and dwell +With my good mother and my father fond, +Nor even with my love, Hubert--my love, +Hubert; but I am crying because I fear +Mine answers were not rightly given--so hard +Those questions. If I did not understand, +Wilt thou forgive me?" And the moon went down +While I did pray, and looking on the floor, +Behold a little diamond lying there, +So small it might have dropped from out a ring. +I could but look! The diamond waxed--it grew-- +It was a diamond yet, and shot out rays, +And in the midst of it a rose-red point; +It waxed till I might see the rose-red point +Was a little Angel 'mid those oval rays, +With a face sweet as the first kiss, O love, +You gave me, and it meant that self-same thing. + +Now was it tall as I, among the rays +Standing; I touched not. Through the window drawn, +This barred and narrow window,--but I know +Nothing of how, we passed, and seemed to walk +Upon the air, till on the roof we sat. + +It spoke. The sweet mouth did not move, but all +The Angel spoke in strange words full and old, +It was my Angel sent to comfort me +With a message, and the message, "I might come, +And myself see if He forgave me." Then +Deliver'd he admonition, "Afterwards +I must return and die." But I being dazed, +Confused with love and joy that He so far +Did condescend, "Ay, Eminence," replied, +"Is the way great?" I knew not what I said. +The Angel then, "I know not far nor near, +But all the stars of God this side it shine." +And I forgetful wholly for this thing +My soul did pant in--a rapture and a pain, +So great as they would melt it quite away +To a vanishing like mist when sultry rays +Shot from the daystar reckon with it--I +Said in my simpleness, "But is there time? +For in three days I am to burn, and O +I would fain see that he forgiveth first. +Pray you make haste." "I know not haste," he said; +"I was not fashioned to be thrall of time. +What is it?" And I marvelled, saw outlying, +Shaped like a shield and of dimensions like +An oval in the sky beyond all stars, +And trembled with foreknowledge. We were bound +To that same golden holy hollow. I +Misdoubted how to go, but we were gone. +I set off wingless, walking empty air +Beside him. In a moment we were caught +Among thick swarms of lost ones, evil, fell +Of might, only a little less than gods, +And strong enough to tear the earth to shreds, +Set shoulders to the sun and rend it out +O' its place. Their wings did brush across my face, +Yet felt I nought; the place was vaster far +Than all this wholesome pastoral windy world. +Through it we spinning, pierced to its far brink, +Saw menacing frowns and we were forth again. +Time has no instant for the reckoning ought +So sudden; 't was as if a lightning flash +Threw us within it, and a swifter flash, +We riding harmless down its swordlike edge, +Shot us fast forth to empty nothingness. + +All my soul trembled, and my body it seemed +Pleaded than such a sight rather to faint +To the last silence, and the eery grave +Inhabit, and the slow solemnities +Of dying faced, content me with my shroud. + +And yet was lying athwart the morning star +That shone in front, that holy hollow; yet +It loomed, as hung atilt towards the world, +That in her time of sleep appeared to look +Up to it, into it. + We, though I wept, +Fearing and longing, knowing not how to go, +My heart gone first, both mine eyes dedicate +To its all-hallowed sweet desired gold, +We on the empty limitless abyss +Walked slowly. It was far; + And I feared much, +For lo! when I looked down deep under me +The little earth was such a little thing, +How in the vasty dark find her again? +The crescent moon a moored boat hard by, +Did wait on her and touch her ragged rims +With a small gift of silver. + Love! my life! +Hubert, while I yet wept, O we were there. +A menai of Angels first, a swarm of stars +Took us among them (all alive with stars +Shining and shouting each to each that place), +The feathered multitude did lie so thick +We walked upon them, walked on outspread wings, +And the great gates were standing open. + Love! +The country is not what you think; but oh! +When you have seen it nothing else contents. +The voice, the vision was not what you think-- +But oh! it was all. It was the meaning of life, +Excellent consummation of desires +For ever, let into the heart with pain +Most sweet. That smile did take the feeding soul +Deeper and deeper into heaven. The sward +(For I had bowed my face on it) I found +Grew in my spirit's longed for native land-- +At last I was at home.' + And here she paused: +I must needs weep. I have not been in heaven, +Therefore she could not tell me what she heard, +Therefore she might not tell me what she saw, +Only I understood that One drew near +Who said to her she should e'en come, 'Because,' +Said He, 'My Father loves Me. I will ask +He send, a guiding Angel for My sake, +Since the dark way is long, and rough, and hard, +So that I shall not lose whom I love--thee.' + +Other words wonderful of things not known, +When she had uttered, I gave hope away, +Cried out, and took her in despairing arms, +Asking no more. Then while the comfortless +Dawn till night fainted grew, alas! a key +That with abhorred jarring probed the door. +We kissed, we looked, unlocked our arms. She sighed +'Remember,' 'Ay, I will remember. What?' +'To come to me.' Then I, thrust roughly forth-- +I, bereft, dumb, forlorn, unremedied +My hurt for ever, stumbled blindly down, +And the great door was shut behind and chained. + +The weird pathetic scarlet of day dawning, +More kin to death of night than birth of morn, +Peered o'er yon hill bristling with spires of pine. +I heard the crying of the men condemned, +Men racked, that should be martyr'd presently, +And my great grief met theirs with might; I held +All our poor earth's despairs in my poor breast, +The choking reek, the faggots were all mine. +Ay, and the partings they were all mine--mine. +Father, it will be very good methinks +To die so, to die soon. It doth appease +The soul in misery for its fellows, when +There is no help, to suffer even as they. + +Father, when I had lost her, when I sat +After my sickness on the pallet bed, +My forehead dropp'd into my hand, behold +Some one beside me. A man's hand let down +With that same action kind, compassionate, +Upon my shoulder. And I took the hand +Between mine own, laying my face thereon. +I knew this man for him who spoke with me, +Letting me see my Delia. I looked up. +Lo! lo! the robed ecclesiastic proud, +He and this other one. Tell you his name? +Am I a fiend? No, he was good to me, +Almost he placed his life in my hand. + Father, +He with good pitying words long talked to me, +'Did I not strive to save her?' 'Ay,' quoth I. +'But sith it would not be, I also claim +Death, burning; let me therefore die--let me. +I am wicked, would be heretic, but, faith, +I know not how, and Holy Church I hate. +She is no mother of mine, she slew my love.' +What answer? 'Peace, peace, thou art hard on me. +Favour I forfeit with the Mother of God, +Lose rank among the saints, foresee my soul +Drenched in the unmitigated flame, and take +My payment in the lives snatched at all risk +From battling in it here. O, an thou turn +And tear from me, lost to that other world +My heart's reward in this, I am twice lost; +Now have I doubly failed.' + Father, I know +The Church would rail, hound forth, disgrace, try, burn, +Make his proud name, discover'd, infamy, +Tread underfoot his ashes, curse his soul. +But God is greater than the Church. I hope +He shall not, for that he loved men, lose God. +I hope to hear it said 'Thy sins are all +Forgiven; come in, thou hast done well.' + For me +My chronicle comes down to its last page. +'Is not life sweet?' quoth he, and comforted +My sick heart with good words, 'duty' and 'home.' +Then took me at moonsetting down the stair +To the dark deserted midway of the street, +Gave me a purse of money, and his hand +Laid on my shoulder, holding me with words +A father might have said, bad me God speed, +So pushed me from him, turned, and he was gone. + +There was a Pleiad lost; where is she now? +None knoweth,--O she reigns, it is my creed, +Otherwhere dedicate to making day. +The God of Gods, He doubtless looked to that +Who wasteth never ought He fashioned. +I have no vision, but where vision fails +Faith cheers, and truly, truly there is need, +The god of this world being so unkind. +O love! My girl for ever to the world +Wanting. Lost, not that any one should find, +But wasted for the sake of waste, and lost +For love of man's undoing, of man's tears, +By envy of the evil one; I mourn +For thee, my golden girl, I mourn, I mourn. + +He set me free. And it befell anon +That I must imitate him. Then 't befell +That on the holy Book I read, and all, +The mediating Mother and her Babe, +God and the Church, and man and life and death, +And the dark gulfs of bitter purging flame, +Did take on alteration. Like a ship +Cast from her moorings, drifting from her port, +Not bound to any land, not sure of land, +My dull'd soul lost her reckoning on that sea +She sailed, and yet the voyage was nigh done. + +This God was not the God I had known; this Christ +Was other. O, a gentler God, a Christ-- +By a mother and a Father infinite-- +In distance each from each made kin to me. +Blest Sufferer on the rood; but yet, I say +Other. Far gentler, and I cannot tell, +Father, if you, or she, my golden girl, +Or I, or any aright those mysteries read. + +I cannot fathom them. There is not time, +So quickly men condemned me to this cell. +I quarrell'd not so much with Holy Church +For that she taught, as that my love she burned. +I die because I hid her enemies, +And read the Book. + But O, forgiving God, +I do elect to trust thee. I have thought, +What! are there set between us and the sun +Millions of miles, and did He like a tent +Rear up yon vasty sky? Is heaven less wide? +And dwells He there, but for His winged host, +Almost alone? Truly I think not so; +He has had trouble enough with this poor world +To make Him as an earthly father would, +Love it and value it more. + He did not give +So much to have us with Him, and yet fail. +And now He knows I would believe e'en so +As pleaseth Him, an there was time to learn +Or certitude of heart; but time fails, time. +He knoweth also 't were a piteous thing +Not to be sure of my love's welfare--not +To see her happy and good in that new home. +Most piteous. I could all forego but this. +O let me see her, Lord. + What, also I! +White ashes and a waft of vapour--I +To flutter on before the winds. No, no. +And yet for ever ay--my flesh shall hiss +And I shall hear 't. Dreadful, unbearable! +Is it to-morrow? + Ay, indeed, indeed, +To-morrow. But my moods are as great waves +That rise and break and thunder down on me, +And then fall'n back sink low. + I have waked long +And cannot hold my thoughts upon th' event; +They slip, they wander forth. + How the dusk grows. +This is the last moonrising we shall see. +Methought till morn to pray, and cannot pray. +Where is mine Advocate? let Him say all +And more was in my mind to say this night, +Because to-morrow--Ah! no more of that, +The tale is told. Father, I fain would sleep. + +Truly my soul is silent unto God. + + + + +A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST. + + +I. + +Laura, my Laura! 'Yes, mother!' 'I want you, Laura; come down.' +'What is it, mother--what, dearest? O your loved face how it pales! +You tremble, alas and alas--you heard bad news from the town?' +'Only one short half hour to tell it. My poor courage fails-- + + +II. + +Laura.' 'Where's Ronald?--O anything else but Ronald!' 'No, no, +Not Ronald, if all beside, my Laura, disaster and tears; +But you, it is yours to send them away, for you they will go, +One short half hour, and must it decide, it must for the years. + + +III. + +Laura, you think of your father sometimes?' 'Sometimes!' 'Ah, but how?' +'I think--that we need not think, sweet mother--the time is not yet, +He is as the wraith of a wraith, and a far off shadow now-- +--But if you have heard he is dead?' 'Not that?' 'Then let me forget.' + + +IV. + +'The sun is off the south window, draw back the curtain, my child.' +'But tell it, mother.' 'Answer you first what it is that you see.' +'The lambs on the mountain slope, and the crevice with blue ice piled.' +'Nearer.'--'But, mother!' 'Nearer!' 'My heifer she's lowing to me.' + + +V. + +'Nearer.' 'Nothing, sweet mother, O yes, for one sits in the bower. +Black the clusters hang out from the vine about his snow-white head, +And the scarlet leaves, where my Ronald leaned.' 'Only one half hour-- +Laura'--'O mother, my mother dear, all known though nothing said. + + +VI. + +O it breaks my heart, the face dejected that looks not on us, +A beautiful face--I remember now, though long I forgot.' +'Ay and I loved it. I love him to-day, and to see him thus! +Saying "I go if she bids it, for work her woe--I will not." + + +VII. + +There! weep not, wring not your hands, but think, think with your heart + and soul.' +'Was he innocent, mother? If he was, I, sure had been told, +'He said so.' 'Ah, but they do.' 'And I hope--and long was his dole, +And all for the signing a name (if indeed he signed) for gold.' + + +VIII. + +'To find us again, in the far far West, where hid, we were free-- +But if he was innocent--O my heart, it is riven in two, +If he goes how hard upon him--or stays--how harder on me, +For O my Ronald, my Ronald, my dear,--my best what of you!' + + +IX. + +'Peace; think, my Laura--I say he will go there, weep not so sore. +And the time is come, Ronald knows nothing, your father will go, +As the shadow fades from its place will he, and be seen no more.' +'There 'll be time to think to-morrow, and after, but to-day, no. + + +X. + +I'm going down the garden, mother.' 'Laura!' 'I've dried my tears.' +'O how will this end!' 'I know not the end, I can but begin.' +'But what will you say?' 'Not "welcome, father," though long were those + years, +But I'll say to him, "O my poor father, we wait you, come in." + + + + +LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE. + + +I. + +'And you brought him home.' 'I did, ay Ronald, it rested with me.' +'Love!' 'Yes.' 'I would fain you were not so calm.' 'I cannot weep. No.' +'What is he like, your poor father?' 'He is--like--this fallen tree +Prone at our feet, by the still lake taking on rose from the glow, + + +II. + +Now scarlet, O look! overcoming the blue both lake and sky, +While the waterfalls waver like smoke, then leap in and are not. +And shining snow-points of high sierras cast down, there they lie.' +'O Laura--I cannot bear it. Laura! as if I forgot.' + + +III. + +'No, you remember, and I remember that evening--like this +When we come forth from the gloomy Canyon, lo, a sinking sun. +And, Ronald, you gave to me your troth ring, I gave my troth kiss.' +'Give me another, I say that this makes no difference, none. + + +IV. + +It hurts me keenly. It hurts to the soul that you thought it could.' +'I never thought so, my Ronald, my love, never thought you base.' +No, but I look for a nobler nobleness, loss understood, +Accepted, and not that common truth which can hold through disgrace. + + +V. + +O! we remember, and how ere that noon through deeps of the lake +We floating looked down and the boat's shadow followed on rocks below, +So clear the water. O all pathetic as if for love's sake +Our life that is but a fleeting shadow 't would under us show. + + +VI. + +O we remember forget-me-not pale, and white columbine +You wreathed for my hair; because we remember this cannot be. +Ah! here is your ring--see, I draw it off--it must not be mine, +Put it on, love, if but for the moment and listen to me. + + +VII. + +I look for the best, I look for the most, I look for the all +From you, it consoles this misery of mine, there is you to trust. +O if you can weep, let us weep together, tears may well fall +For that lost sunsetting and what it promised,--they may, they must. + + +VIII. + +Do you say nothing, mine own beloved, you know what I mean, +And whom.--To her pride and her love from YOU shall such blow be dealt... +...Silence uprisen, is like a presence, it comes us between... +As once there was darkness, now is there silence that may be felt. + + +IX. + +Ronald, your mother, so gentle, so pure, and you are her best, +'T is she whom I think of, her quiet sweetness, her gracious way. +'How could she bear it?'--'Laura!' 'Yes, Ronald.' 'Let that matter rest. +You might give your name to my father's child?' 'My father's name. Ay, + + +X. + +Who died before it was soiled.' 'You mutter.' 'Why, love, are you here?' +'Because my mother fled forth to the West, her trouble to hide, +And I was so small, the lone pine forest, and tier upon tier, +Far off Mexican snowy sierras pushed England aside.' + + +XI. + +'And why am I here?' 'But what did you mutter?' 'O pardon, sweet. +Why came I here and--my mother?' In truth then I cannot tell.' +'Yet you drew my ring from your finger--see--I kneel at your feet.' +'Put it on. 'T was for no fault of mine.' 'Love! I knew that full well.' + + +XII. + +'And yet there be faults that long repented, are aye to deplore, +Wear my ring, Laura, at least till I choose some words I can say, +If indeed any word need be said.' 'No! wait, Ronald, no more; +What! is there respite? Give me a moment to think "nay" or "ay." + + +XIII. + +I know not, but feel there is. O pardon me, pardon me,--peace. +For nought is to say, and the dawn of hope is a solemn thing, +Let us have silence. Take me back, Ronald, full sweet is release.' +'Laura! but give me my troth kiss again.' 'And give me my ring.' + + + + +THE WHITE MOON WASTETH. + + +The white moon wasteth, +And cold morn hasteth + Athwart the snow, +The red east burneth +And the tide turneth, + And thou must go. + +Think not, sad rover, +Their story all over + Who come from far-- +Once, in the ages +Won goodly wages + Led by a star. + +Once, for all duly +Guidance doth truly + Shine as of old, +Opens for me and thee +Once, opportunity + Her gates of gold. + +Enter, thy star is out, +Traverse nor faint nor doubt + Earth's antres wild, +Thou shalt find good and rest +As found the Magi blest + That divine Child. + + + + +AN ARROW-SLIT. + + +I clomb full high the belfry tower + Up to yon arrow-slit, up and away, +I said 'let me look on my heart's fair flower + In the walled garden where she doth play.' + +My care she knoweth not, no nor the cause, + White rose, red rose about her hung, +And I aloft with the doves and the daws. + They coo and call to their callow young. + +Sing, 'O an she were a white rosebud fair + Dropt, and in danger from passing feet, +'T is I would render her service tender, + Upraised on my bosom with reverence meet.' + +Playing at the ball, my dearest of all, + When she grows older how will it be, +I dwell far away from her thoughts to-day + That heed not, need not, or mine or me. + +Sing, 'O an my love were a fledgeling dove + That flutters forlorn o' her shallow nest, +'T is I would render her service tender, + And carry her, carry her on my breast.' + + + + +WENDOVER. + + +Uplifted and lone, set apart with our love + On the crest of a soft swelling down +Cloud shadows that meet on the grass at our feet + Sail on above Wendover town. + +Wendover town takes the smile of the sun + As if yearning and strife were no more, +From her red roofs float high neither plaint neither sigh, + All the weight of the world is our own. + +Would that life were more kind and that souls might have peace + As the wide mead from storm and from bale, +We bring up our own care, but how sweet over there + And how strange is their calm in the vale. + +As if trouble at noon had achieved a deep sleep, + Lapped and lulled from the weariful fret, +Or shot down out of day, had a hint dropt away + As if grief might attain to forget. + +Not if we two indeed had gone over the bourne + And were safe on the hills of the blest, +Not more strange they might show to us drawn from below, + Come up from long dolour to rest. + +But the peace of that vale would be thine love and mine, + And sweeter the air than of yore, +And this life we have led as a dream that is fled + Might appear to our thought evermore. + +'Was it life, was it life?' we might say ''twas scarce life,' + 'Was it love? 'twas scarce love,' looking down, +'Yet we mind a sweet ray of the red sun one day + Low lying on Wendover town. + + + + +THE LOVER PLEADS. + + +I. + +When I had guineas many a one +Nought else I lacked 'neath the sun, +I had two eyes the bluest seen, +A perfect shape, a gracious mien, +I had a voice might charm the bale +From a two days widowed nightingale, +And if you ask how this I know +I had a love who told me so. +The lover pleads, the maid hearkeneth, +Her foot turns, his day darkeneth. +Love unkind, O can it be +'T was your foot false did turn from me. + + +II. + +The gear is gone, the red gold spent, +Favour and beauty with them went, +Eyes take the veil, their shining done, +Not fair to him is fair to none, +Sweet as a bee's bag 'twas to taste +His praise. O honey run to waste, +He loved not! spoiled is all my way +In the spoiling of that yesterday. + +The shadows wax, the low light alters, +Gold west fades, and false heart falters. +The pity of it!--Love's a rover, +The last word said, and all over. + + + + +SONG IN THREE PARTS. + + +I. + +The white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June weather, + 'O most sweet wear; +Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me, + Four am I fair,' + + Quoth the brown bee + 'In thy white wear + Four thou art fair. + A mystery + Of honeyed snow + In scented air + The bee lines flow + Straight unto thee. + Great boon and bliss + All pure I wis, + And sweet to grow + Ay, so to give + That many live. + Now as for me, + I,' quoth the bee, + 'Have not to give, + Through long hours sunny + Gathering I live: + Aye debonair + Sailing sweet air + After my fare, + Bee-bread and honey. + In thy deep coombe, + O thou white broom, + Where no leaves shake, + Brake, + Bent nor clover, + I a glad rover, + Thy calms partake, + While winds of might + From height to height + Go bodily over. + Till slanteth light, + And up the rise + Thy shadow lies, + A shadow of white, + A beauty-lender + Pathetic, tender. + + Short is thy day? + Answer with 'Nay,' + Longer the hours + That wear thy flowers + Than all dull, cold + Years manifold + That gift withhold. + A long liver, + O honey-giver, + Thou by all showing + Art made, bestowing, + I envy not + Thy greater lot, + Nor thy white wear. + But, as for me, + I,' quoth the bee, + 'Never am fair.' + +II. + +The nightingale lorn of his note in darkness brooding + Deeply and long, +'Two sweet months spake the heart to the heart. Alas! all's over, + O lost my song.' + + One in the tree, + 'Hush now! Let be: + The song at ending + Left my long tending + Over also. + Let be, let us go + Across the wan sea. + + The little ones care not, + And I fare not + Amiss with thee. + + Thou hast sung all, + This hast thou had. + Love, be not sad; + It shall befall + Assuredly, + When the bush buddeth + And the bank studdeth-- + Where grass is sweet + And damps do fleet, + Her delicate beds + With daisy heads + That the Stars Seven + Leaned down from heaven + Shall sparkling mark + In the warm dark + Thy most dear strain + Which ringeth aye true-- + Piercing vale, croft + Lifted aloft + Dropt even as dew + With a sweet quest + To her on the nest + When damps we love + Fall from above. + + "Art thou asleep? + Answer me, answer me, + Night is so deep + Thy right fair form + I cannot see; + Answer me, answer me, + Are the eggs warm? + Is't well with thee?" + + Ay, this shall be + Assuredly. + Ay, thou full fain + In the soft rain + Shalt sing again.' + + +III. + +A fair wife making her moan, despised, forsaken, + Her good days o'er; +'Seven sweet years of my life did I live beloved, + Seven--no more.' + + Then Echo woke--and spoke + 'No more--no more,' + And a wave broke + On the sad shore + When Echo said + 'No more,' + + Nought else made reply, + Nor land, nor loch, nor sky + Did any comfort try, + But the wave spread + Echo's faint tone + Alone, + All down the desolate shore, + 'No more--no more.' + + + + +'IF I FORGET THEE, O JERUSALEM.' + + +Out of the melancholy that is made +Of ebbing sorrow that too slowly ebbs, +Comes back a sighing whisper of the reed, +A note in new love-pipings on the bough, +Grieving with grief till all the full-fed air +And shaken milky corn doth wot of it, +The pity of it trembling in the talk +Of the beforetime merrymaking brook-- +Out of that melancholy will the soul, +In proof that life is not forsaken quite +Of the old trick and glamour which made glad; +Be cheated some good day and not perceive +How sorrow ebbing out is gone from view, +How tired trouble fall'n for once on sleep, +How keen self-mockery that youth's eager dream +Interpreted to mean so much is found +To mean and give so little--frets no more, +Floating apart as on a cloud--O then +Not e'en so much as murmuring 'Let this end,' +She will, no longer weighted, find escape, +Lift up herself as if on wings and flit +Back to the morning time. + 'O once with me +It was all one, such joy I had at heart, +As I heard sing the morning star, or God +Did hold me with an Everlasting Hand, +And dip me in the day. + O once with me,' +Reflecting ''twas enough to live, to look +Wonder and love. Now let that come again. +Rise!' And ariseth first a tanglement +Of flowering bushes, peonies pale that drop +Upon a mossy lawn, rich iris spikes, +Bee-borage, mealy-stemmed auricula, +Brown wallflower, and the sweetbriar ever sweet, +Her pink buds pouting from their green. + To these +Add thick espaliers where the bullfinch came +To strew much budding wealth, and was not chid. +Then add wide pear trees on the warmed wall, +The old red wall one cannot see beyond. +That is the garden. + In the wall a door +Green, blistered with the sun. You open it, +And lo! a sunny waste of tumbled hills +And a glad silence, and an open calm. +Infinite leisure, and a slope where rills +Dance down delightedly, in every crease, +And lambs stoop drinking and the finches dip, +Then shining waves upon a lonely beach. +That is the world. + + An all-sufficient world, +And as it seems an undiscovered world, +So very few the folk that come to look. +Yet one has heard of towns; but they are far +The world is undiscovered, and the child +Is undiscovered that with stealthy joy +Goes gathering like a bee who in dark cells +Hideth sweet food to live on in the cold. +What matters to the child, it matters not +More than it mattered to the moons of Mars, +That they for ages undiscovered went +Marked not of man, attendant on their king. + +A shallow line of sand curved to the cliff, +There dwelt the fisherfolk, and there inland +Some scattered cottagers in thrift and calm, +Their talk full oft was of old days,--for here +Was once a fosse, and by this rock-hewn path +Our wild fore-elders as 't is said would come +To gather jetsam from some Viking wreck, +Like a sea-beast wide breasted (her snake head +Reared up as staring while she rocked ashore) +That split, and all her ribs were on their fires +The red whereof at their wives' throats made bright +Gold gauds which from the weed they picked ere yet +The tide had turned. + + 'Many,' methought, 'and rich +They must have been, so long their chronicle. +Perhaps the world was fuller then of folk, +For ships at sea are few that near us now.' + +Yet sometimes when the clouds were torn to rags, +Flying black before a gale, we saw one rock +In the offing, and the mariner folk would cry, +'Look how she labours; those aboard may hear +Her timbers creak e'en as she'd break her heart.' + +'Twas then the grey gulls blown ashore would light +In flocks, and pace the lawn with flat cold feet. + +And so the world was sweet, and it was strange, +Sweet as a bee-kiss to the crocus flower, +Surprising, fresh, direct, but ever one. +The laughter of glad music did not yet +In its echo yearn, as hinting ought beyond, +Nor pathos tremble at the edge of bliss +Like a moon halo in a watery sky, +Nor the sweet pain alike of love and fear +In a world not comprehended touch the heart-- +The poetry of life was not yet born. +'T was a thing hidden yet that there be days +When some are known to feel 'God is about,' +As if that morn more than another morn +Virtue flowed forth from Him, the rolling world +Swam in a soothed calm made resonant +And vital, swam as in the lap of God +Come down; until she slept and had a dream +(Because it was too much to bear awake), +That all the air shook with the might of Him +And whispered how she was the favourite world +That day, and bade her drink His essence in. + +'Tis on such days that seers prophesy +And poets sing, and many who are wise +Find out for man's wellbeing hidden things +Whereof the hint came in that Presence known +Yet unknown. But a seer--what is he? +A poet is a name of long ago. + +Men love the largeness of the field--the wild +Quiet that soothes the moor. In other days +They loved the shadow of the city wall, +In its stone ramparts read their poetry, +Safety and state, gold, and the arts of peace, +Law-giving, leisure, knowledge, all were there +This to excuse a child's allegiance and +A spirit's recurrence to the older way. +Orphan'd, with aged guardians kind and true, +Things came to pass not told before to me. + +Thus, we did journey once when eve was near. +Through carriage windows I beheld the moors, +Then, churches, hamlets cresting of low hills. +The way was long, at last I, fall'n asleep, +Awoke to hear a rattling 'neath the wheels +And see the lamps alight. This was the town. + +Then a wide inn received us, and full soon +Came supper, kisses, bed. + The lamp without +Shone in; the door was shut, and I alone. +An ecstasy of exultation took +My soul, for there were voices heard and steps, +I was among so many,--none of them +Knew I was come! + I rose, with small bare feet, +Across the carpet stole, a white-robed child, +And through the window peered. Behold the town. + +There had been rain, the pavement glistened yet +In a soft lamplight down the narrow street; +The church was nigh at hand, a clear-toned clock +Chimed slowly, open shops across the way +Showed store of fruit, and store of bread,--and one +Many caged birds. About were customers, +I saw them bargain, and a rich high voice +Was heard,--a woman sang, her little babe +Slept 'neath her shawl, and by her side a boy +Added wild notes and sweet to hers. + Some passed +Who gave her money. It was far from me +To pity her, she was a part of that +Admired town. E'en so within the shop +A rosy girl, it may be ten years old, +Quaint, grave. She helped her mother, deftly weighed +The purple plums, black mulberries rich and ripe +For boyish customers, and counted pence +And dropped them in an apron that she wore. +Methought a queen had ne'er so grand a lot, +She knew it, she looked up at me, and smiled. + +But yet the song went on, and in a while +The meaning came; the town was not enough +To satisfy that singer, for a sigh +With her wild music came. What wanted she? +Whate'er she wanted wanted all. O how +'T was poignant, her rich voice; not like a bird's. +Could she not dwell content and let them be, +That they might take their pleasure in the town, +For--no, she was not poor, witness the pence. +I saw her boy and that small saleswoman; +He wary, she with grave persuasive air, +Till he came forth with filberts in his cap, +And joined his mother, happy, triumphing. + +This was the town; and if you ask what else, +I say good sooth that it was poetry +Because it was the all, and something more,-- +It was the life of man, it was the world +That made addition to the watching heart, +First conscious its own beating, first aware +How, beating it kept time with all the race; +Nay, 't was a consciousness far down and dim +Of a Great Father watching too. + +But lo! the rich lamenting voice again; +She sang not for herself; it was a song +For me, for I had seen the town and knew, +Yearning I knew the town was not enough. + +What more? To-day looks back on yesterday, +Life's yesterday, the waiting time, the dawn, +And reads a meaning into it, unknown +When it was with us. + It is always so. +But when as ofttimes I remember me +Of the warm wind that moved the beggar's hair, +Of the wet pavement, and the lamps alit, +I know it was not pity that made yearn +My heart for her, and that same dimpled boy +How grand methought to be abroad so late. +And barefoot dabble in the shining wet; +How fine to peer as other urchins did +At those pent huddled doves they let not rest; +No, it was almost envy. Ay, how sweet +The clash of bells; they rang to boast that far +That cheerful street was from the cold sea-fog, +From dark ploughed field and narrow lonesome lane. +How sweet to hear the hum of voices kind, +To see the coach come up with din of horn. +Quick tramp of horses, mark the passers-by +Greet one another, and go on. + But now +They closed the shops, the wild clear voice was still, +The beggars moved away--where was their home. +The coach which came from out dull darksome fells +Into the light; passed to the dark again +Like some old comet which knows well her way, +Whirled to the sun that as her fateful loop +She turns, forebodes the destined silences. +Yes, it was gone; the clattering coach was gone, +And those it bore I pitied even to tears, +Because they must go forth, nor see the lights, +Nor hear the chiming bells. + In after days, +Remembering of the childish envy and +The childish pity, it has cheered my heart +To think e'en now pity and envy both +It may be are misplaced, or needed not. +Heaven may look down in pity on some soul +Half envied, or some wholly pitied smile, +For that it hath to wait as it were an hour +To see the lights that go not out by night, +To walk the golden street and hear a song; +Other-world poetry that is the all +And something more. + + + + +NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. + + +White as white butterflies that each one dons + Her face their wide white wings to shade withal, +Many moon-daisies throng the water-spring. + While couched in rising barley titlarks call, +And bees alit upon their martagons + Do hang a-murmuring, a-murmuring. + +They chide, it may be, alien tribes that flew + And rifled their best blossom, counted on +And dreamed on in the hive ere dangerous dew + That clogs bee-wings had dried; but when outshone +Long shafts of gold (made all for them) of power +To charm it away, those thieves had sucked the flower. + +Now must they go; a-murmuring they go, + And little thrushes twitter in the nest; +The world is made for them, and even so + The clouds are; they have seen no stars, the breast +Of their soft mother hid them all the night, +Till her mate came to her in red dawn-light. + +Eggs scribbled over with strange writing, signs, + Prophecies, and their meaning (for you see +The yolk within) is life, 'neath yonder bines + Lie among sedges; on a hawthorn tree +The slender-lord and master perched hard by, +Scolds at all comers if they step too nigh. + +And our small river makes encompassment + Of half the mead and holm: yon lime-trees grow +All heeling over to it, diligent + To cast green doubles of themselves below, +But shafts of sunshine reach its shallow floor +And warm the yellow sand it ripples o'er. + +Ripples and ripples to a pool it made +Turning. The cows are there, one creamy white-- +She should be painted with no touch of shade +If any list to limn her--she the light +Above, about her, treads out circles wide, +And sparkling water flashes from her side. + +The clouds have all retired to so great height + As earth could have no dealing with them more, +As they were lost, for all her drawing and might, + And must be left behind; but down the shore +Lie lovelier clouds in ranks of lace-work frail, +Wild parsley with a myriad florets pale, + +Another milky-way, more intricate + And multitudinous, with every star +Perfect. Long changeful sunbeams undulate + Amid the stems where sparklike creatures are +That hover and hum for gladness, then the last +Tree rears her graceful head, the shade is passed. + +And idle fish in warm wellbeing lie + Each with his shadow under, while at ease +As clouds that keep their shape the darting fry + Turn and are gone in company; o'er these +Strangers to them, strangers to us, from holes +Scooped in the bank peer out shy water-voles. + +Here, take for life and fly with innocent feet + The brown-eyed fawns, from moving shadows clear; +There, down the lane with multitudinous bleat + Plaining on shepherd lads a flock draws near; +A mild lamenting fills the morning air, +'Why to yon upland fold must we needs fare?' + +These might be fabulous creatures every one, + And this their world might be some other sphere +We had but heard of, for all said or done + To know of them,--of what this many a year +They may have thought of man, or of his sway, +Or even if they have a God and pray, + +The sweetest river bank can never more + Home to its source tempt back the lapsed stream, +Nor memory reach the ante-natal shore, + Nor one awake behold a sleeper's dream, +Not easier 't were that unbridged chasm to walk, +And share the strange lore of their wordless talk. + +Like to a poet voice, remote from ken, + That unregarded sings and undesired, +Like to a star unnamed by lips of men, + That faints at dawn in saffron light retired, +Like to an echo in some desert deep +From age to age unwakened from its sleep-- + +So falls unmarked that other world's great song, + And lapsing wastes without interpreter. +Slave world! not man's to raise, yet man's to wrong, + He cannot to a loftier place prefer, +But he can,--all its earlier rights forgot, +Reign reckless if its nations rue their lot. + +If they can sin or feel life's wear and fret, + An men had loved them better, it may be +We had discovered. But who e'er did yet, + After the sage saints in their clemency, +Ponder in hope they had a heaven to win, +Or make a prayer with a dove's name therein. + +As grave Augustine pleading in his day, + 'Have pity, Lord, upon the unfledged bird, +Lest such as pass do trample it in the way, + Not marking, or not minding; give the word, +O bid an angel in the nest again +To place it, lest the mother's love be vain. + +And let it live, Lord God, till it can fly.' + This man dwelt yearning, fain to guess, to spell +The parable; all work of God Most High + Took to his man's heart. Surely this was well; +To love is more than to be loved, by leave +Of Heaven, to give is more than to receive. + +He made it so that said it. As for us + Strange is their case toward us, for they give +And we receive. Made martyrs ever thus + In deed but not in will, for us they live, +For us they die, we quench their little day, +Remaining blameless, and they pass away. + +The world is better served than it is ruled, + And not alone of them, for ever +Ruleth the man, the woman serveth fooled + Full oft of love, not knowing his yoke is sore. +Life's greatest Son nought from life's measure swerved, +He was among us 'as a man that served.' + +Have they another life, and was it won + In the sore travail of another death, +Which loosed the manacles from our race undone + And plucked the pang from dying? If this breath +Be not their all, reproach no more debarred, +'O unkind lords, you made our bondage hard' + +May be their plaint when we shall meet again + And make our peace with them; the sea of life +Find flowing, full, nor ought or lost or vain. + Shall the vague hint whereof all thought is rife, +The sweet pathetic guess indeed come true, +And things restored reach that great residue? + +Shall we behold fair flights of phantom doves, + Shall furred creatures couch in moly flowers, +Swan souls the rivers oar with their world-loves, + In difference welcome as these souls of ours? +Yet soul of man from soul of man far more +May differ, even as thought did heretofore + +That ranged and varied on th' undying gleam: + From a pure breath of God aspiring, high, +Serving and reigning, to the tender dream, + The winged Psyche and her butterfly-- +From thrones and powers, to--fresh from death alarms +Child spirits entering in an angel's arms. + +Why must we think, begun in paradise, + That their long line, cut off with severance fell, +Shall end in nothingness--the sacrifice + Of their long service in a passing knell? +Could man be wholly blest if not to say +'Forgive'--nor make amends for ever and aye? + +Waste, waste on earth, and waste of God afar. + Celestial flotsam, blazing spars on high, +Drifts in the meteor month from some wrecked star, + Strew oft th' unwrinkled ocean of the sky, +And pass no more accounted of than be +Long dulses limp that stripe a mundane sea. + +The sun his kingdom fills with light, but all + Save where it strikes some planet and her moons +Across cold chartless gulfs ordained to fall, + Void antres, reckoneth no man's nights or noons, +But feeling forth as for some outmost shore, +Faints in the blank of doom, and is no more. + +God scattereth His abundance as forgot, + And what then doth he gather? If we know, +'Tis that One told us it was life. 'For not + A sparrow,' quoth he, uttering long ago +The strangest words that e'er took earthly sound, + 'Without your Father falleth to the ground.' + + + + +PERDITA. + + +_I go beyond the commandment_.' So be it. Then mine be the blame, +The loss, the lack, the yearning, till life's last sand be run,-- +I go beyond the commandment, yet honour stands fast with her claim, +And what I have rued I shall rue; for what I have done--I have done. + +Hush, hush! for what of the future; you cannot the base exalt, +There is no bridging a chasm over, that yawns with so sheer incline; +I will not any sweet daughter's cheek should pale for this mother's fault, +Nor son take leave to lower his life a-thinking on mine. + +'_ Will I tell you all?_' So! this, e'en this, will I do for your great + love's sake; +Think what it costs. '_Then let there be silence--silence you'll count + consent._' +No, and no, and for ever no: rather to cross and to break, +And to lower your passion I speak--that other it was I meant. + +That other I meant (but I know not how) to speak of, nor April days, +Nor a man's sweet voice that pleaded--O (but I promised this)-- +He never talked of marriage, never; I grant him that praise; +And he bent his stately head, and I lost, and he won with a kiss. + +He led me away--O, how poignant sweet the nightingale's note that noon-- +I beheld, and each crisped spire of grass to him for my sake was fair, +And warm winds flattered my soul blowing straight from the soul of June, +And a lovely lie was spread on the fields, but the blue was bare. + +When I looked up, he said: 'Love, fair love! O rather look in these eyes +With thine far sweeter than eyes of Eve when she stepped the valley + unshod'-- +For ONE might be looking through it, he thought, and he would not in any + wise +I should mark it open, limitless, empty, bare 'neath the gaze of God. + +Ah me! I was happy--yes, I was; 't is fit you should know it all, +While love was warm and tender and yearning, the rough winds troubled + me not; +I heard them moan without in the forest; heard the chill rains fall-- +But I thought my place was sheltered with him--I forgot, I forgot. + +After came news of a wife; I think he was glad I should know. +To stay my pleading, 'take me to church and give me my ring'; +'You should have spoken before,' he had sighed, when I prayed him so, +For his heart was sick for himself and me, and this bitter thing. + +But my dream was over me still,--I was half beguiled, +And he in his kindness left me seldom, O seldom, alone, +And yet love waxed cold, and I saw the face of my little child, +And then at the last I knew what I was, and what I had done. + +'YOU _will give me the name of wife_. YOU _will give me a ring_.'--O + peace! +You are not let to ruin your life because I ruined mine; +You will go to your people at home. There will be rest and release; +The bitter now will be sweet full soon--ay, and denial divine. + +But spare me the ending. I did not wait to be quite cast away; +I left him asleep, and the bare sun rising shone red on my gown. +There was dust in the lane, I remember; prints of feet in it lay, +And honeysuckle trailed in the path that led on to the down. + +I was going nowhere--I wandered up, then turned and dared to look back, +Where low in the valley he careless and quiet--quiet and careless slept. +'_Did I love him yet?_' I loved him. Ay, my heart on the upland track +Cried to him, sighed to him out by the wheat, as I walked, and I wept. + +I knew of another alas, one that had been in my place, +Her little ones, she forsaken, were almost in need; +I went to her, and carried my babe, then all in my satins and lace +I sank at the step of her desolate door, a mourner indeed. + +I cried, ''T is the way of the world, would I had never been born!' +'Ay, 't is the way of the world, but have you no sense to see +For all the way of the world,' she answers and laughs me to scorn, +'The world is made the world that it is by fools like you, like me.' + +Right hard upon me, hard on herself, and cold as the cold stone, +But she took me in; and while I lay sick I knew I was lost, +Lost with the man I loved, or lost without him, making my moan +Blighted and rent of the bitter frost, wrecked, tempest tossed, lost, + lost! + +How am I fallen:--we that might make of the world what we would, +Some of us sink in deep waters. Ah! '_you would raise me again?'_ +No true heart,--you cannot, you cannot, and all in my soul that is good +Cries out against such a wrong. Let be, your quest is for ever in vain. + +For I feel with another heart, I think with another mind, +I have worsened life, I have wronged the world, I have lowered the light; +But as for him, his words and his ways were after his kind, +He did but spoil where he could, and waste where he might. + +For he was let to do it; I let him and left his soul +To walk mid the ruins he made of home in remembrance of love's despairs, +Despairs that harden the hearts of men and shadow their heads with dole, +And woman's fault, though never on earth, may be healed,--but what of + theirs. + +'T was fit you should hear it all--What, tears? they comfort me; now you + will go, +Nor wrong your life for the nought you call 'a pair of beautiful eyes,' +_'I will not say I love you.'_ Truly I will not, no. +_'Will, I pity you?'_ Ay, but the pang will be short, you shall wake and be + wise. + +_'Shall we meet?_ We shall meet on the other side, but not before. +I shall be pure and fair, I shall hear the sound of THE NAME, +And see the form of His face. You too will walk on that shore, +In the garden of the Lord God, where neither is sorrow nor shame. + +Farewell, I shall bide alone, for God took my one white lamb, +I work for such as she was, and I will the while I last, +But there's no beginning again, ever I am what I am, +And nothing, nothing, nothing, can do away with the past. + + + + +SERIOUS POEMS, + +AND + +SONGS AND POEMS + +OF + +LOVE AND CHILDHOOD. + + + + +LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. + + +_(First of a Series.)_ + +A PARSON'S LETTER TO A YOUNG POET. + +They said "Too late, too late, the work is done; +Great Homer sang of glory and strong men +And that fair Greek whose fault all these long +years +Wins no forgetfulness nor ever can; +For yet cold eyes upon her frailty bend, +For yet the world waits in the victor's tent +Daily, and sees an old man honourable, +His white head bowed, surprise to passionate tears +Awestruck Achilles; sighing, 'I have endured, +The like whereof no soul hath yet endured, +To kiss the hand of him that slew my son.'" + +They said: "We, rich by him, are rich by more; +One Aeschylus found watchfires on a hill +That lit Old Night's three daughters to their work; +When the forlorn Fate leaned to their red light +And sat a-spinning, to her feet he came +And marked her till she span off all her thread. + +"O, it is late, good sooth, to cry for more: +The work once done, well done," they said, "forbear! +A Tuscan afterward discovered steps +Over the line of life in its mid-way; +He climbed the wall of Heaven, beheld his love +Safe at her singing, and he left his foes +In a vale of shadow weltering, unassoiled +Immortal sufferers henceforth in both worlds. + +"Who may inherit next or who shall match +The Swan of Avon and go float with him +Down the long river of life aneath a sun +Not veiled, and high at noon?--the river of life +That as it ran reflected all its lapse +And rippling on the plumage of his breast? + +"Thou hast them, heed them, for thy poets now, +Albeit of tongue full sweet and majesty +Like even to theirs, are fallen on evil days, +Are wronged by thee of life, wronged of the world. +Look back they must and show thee thy fair past, +Or, choosing thy to-day, they may but chant +As they behold. + + "The mother-glowworm broods +Upon her young, fast-folded in the egg +And long before they come to life they shine-- +The mother-age broods on her shining thought +That liveth, but whose life is hid. He comes +Her poet son, and lo you, he can see +The shining, and he takes it to his breast +And fashions for it wings that it may fly +And show its sweet light in the dusky world. + +"Mother, O Mother of our dusk to-day, +What hast thou lived for bards to sing of thee? +Lapsed water cannot flow above its source; +'_The kid must browse_,'" they said, "'_where she is tied_.'" + +Son of to-day, rise up, and answer them. +What! wilt thou let thy mother sit ashamed +And crownless?--Set the crown on her fair head: +She waited for thy birth, she cries to thee +"Thou art the man." He that hath ears to hear, +To him the mother cries "Thou art the man." + +She murmurs, for thy mother's voice is low-- +"Methought the men of war were even as gods +The old men of the ages. Now mine eyes +Retrieve the truth from ruined city walls +That buried it; from carved and curious homes +Full of rich garments and all goodly spoil, +Where having burned, battered, and wasted them, +They flung it. Give us, give us better gods +Than these that drink with blood upon their hands, +For I repent me that I worshipped them. +O that there might be yet a going up! +O to forget--and to begin again!" + +Is not thy mother's rede at one with theirs +Who cry "The work is done"? What though to thee, +Thee only, should the utterance shape itself +"O to forget, and to begin again," +Only of thee be heard as that keen cry +Rending its way from some distracted heart +That yields it and so breaks? Yet list the cry +Begin for her again, and learn to sing; +But first, in all thy learning learn to be. +Is life a field? then plough it up--re-sow +With worthier seed--Is life a ship? O heed +The southing of thy stars--Is life a breath? +Breathe deeper, draw life up from hour to hour, +Aye, from the deepest deep in thy deep soul. + +It may be God's first work is but to breathe +And fill the abysm with drifts of shining air +That slowly, slowly curdle into worlds. +A little space is measured out to us +Of His long leisure; breathe and grow therein, +For life, alas! is short, and "_When we die_ +_It is not for a little while_." + +They said, +"The work is done," and is it therefore done? +Speak rather to thy mother thus: "All-fair, +Lady of ages, beautiful To-day +And sorrowful To-day, thy children set +The crown of sorrow on their heads, their loss +Is like to be the loss of all: we hear +Lamenting, as of some that mourn in vain +Loss of high leadership, but where is he +That shall be great enough to lead thee now? +Where is thy Poet? thou hast wanted him. +Where? Thou hast wakened as a child in the night +And found thyself alone. The stars have set, +There is great darkness, and the dark is void +Of music. Who shall set thy life afresh +And sing thee thy new songs? Whom wilt thou love +And lean on to break silence worthily-- +Discern the beauty in thy goings--feel +The glory of thy yearning,--thy self-scorn +Matter to dim oblivion with a smile-- +Own thy great want, that knew not its great name? +O who shall make to thee mighty amends +For thy lost childhood, joining two in one, +Thyself and Him? Behold Him, He is near: +God is thy Poet now. + +"A King sang once +Long years ago 'My soul is athirst for God, +Yea for the living God'--thy thirst and his +Are one. It is thy Poet whom thy hands +Grope for, not knowing. Life is not enough, +Nor love, nor learning,--Death is not enough +Even to them, happy, who forecast new life; +But give us now and satisfy us now, +Give us now, now, to live in the life of God, +Give us now, now, to be at one with Him." + +Would I had words--I have not words for her, +Only for thee; and thus I tell them out: +For every man the world is made afresh; +To God both it and he are young. There are +Who call upon Him night, and morn, and night +"Where is the kingdom? Give it us to-day. +We would be here with God, not there with God. +Make Thine abode with us, great Wayfarer, +And let our souls sink deeper into Thee"-- +There are who send but yearnings forth, in quest +They know not why, of good they know not what. + +The unknown life, and strange its stirring is. +The babe knows nought of life, yet clothed in it +And yearning only for its mother's breast +Feeds thus the unheeded thing--and as for thee, +That life thou hast is hidden from thine eyes, +And when it yearns, thou, knowing not for what, +Wouldst fain appease it with one grand, deep joy, +One draught of passionate peace--but wilt thou know +The other name of joy, the better name +Of peace? It is thy Father's name. Thy life +Yearns to its Source. The spirit thirsts for God, +Even the living God. + + But "No," thou sayest, +"My heart is all in ruins with pain, my feet +Tread a dry desert where there is no way +Nor water. I look back, and deep through time +The old words come but faintly up the track +Trod by the sons of men. The man He sent, +The Prince of life, methinks I could have loved +If I had looked once in His deep man's eyes. +But long ago He died, and long ago +Is gone." + + He is not dead, He cannot go. +Men's faith at first was like a mastering stream, +Like Jordan "the descender" leaping down +Pure from his snow; and warmed of tropic heat +Hiding himself in verdure: then at last +In a Dead Sea absorbed, as faith of doubt. +But yet the snow lies thick on Hermon's breast +And daily at his source the stream is born. +Go up--go mark the whiteness of the snow--Thy +faith is not thy Saviour, not thy God, +Though faith waste fruitless down a desert old. +The living God is new, and He is near. + +What need to look behind thee and to sigh? +When God left speaking He went on before +To draw men after, following up and on; +And thy heart fails because thy feet are slow; +Thou think'st of Him as one that will not wait, +A Father and not wait!--He waited long +For us, and yet perchance He thinks not long +And will not count the time. There are no dates +In His fine leisure. + + Speak then as a son: +"Father, I come to satisfy Thy love +With mine, for I had held Thee as remote, +The background of the stars--Time's yesterday-- +Illimitable Absence. Now my heart +Communes, methinks, with somewhat teaching me +Thou art the Great To-day. God, is it so? +Then for all love that WAS, I thank Thee, God, +It is and yet shall hide. And I have part +In all, for in Thine image I was made, +To Thee my spirit yearns, as Thou to mine. +If aught be stamped of Thy Divine on me, +And man be God-like, God is like to man. + +"Dear and dread Lord, I have not found it hard +To fear Thee, though Thy love in visible form +Bled 'neath a thorny crown--but since indeed, +For kindred's sake and likeness, Thou dost thirst +To draw men nigh, and make them one with Thee, +My soul shall answer 'Thou art what I want: +I am athirst for God, the living God.'" + +Then straightway flashes up athwart the words: +"And if I be a son I am very far +From my great Father's house; I am not clean. +I have not always willed it should be so, +And the gold of life is rusted with my tears." + +It is enough. He never said to men, +"Seek ye My face in vain." And have they sought-- +Beautiful children, well-beloved sons, +Opening wide eyes to ache among the moons +All night, and sighing because star multitudes +Fainted away as to a glittering haze, +And sparkled here and there like silver wings, +Confounding them with nameless, numberless, +Unbearable, fine flocks? It is not well +For them, for thee. Hast thou gone forth so far +To the unimaginable steeps on high +Trembling and seeking God? Yet now come home, +Cry, cry to Him: "I cannot search Thee out, +But Thou and I must meet. O come, come down, +Come." And that cry shall have the mastery. +Ay, He shall come in truth to visit thee, +And thou shalt mourn to Him, "Unclean, unclean," +But never more "I will to have it so." +From henceforth thou shalt learn that there is love +To long for, pureness to desire, a mount +Of consecration it were good to scale. + +Look you, it is to-day as at the first. +When Adam first was 'ware his new-made eyes +And opened them, behold the light! And breath +Of God was misting yet about his mouth, +Whereof they had made his soul. Then he looked forth +And was a part of light; also he saw +Beautiful life, and it could move. But Eve--Eve +was the child of midnight and of sleep. +Lo, in the dark God led her to his side; +It may be in the dark she heard him breathe +Before God woke him. And she knew not light, +Nor life but as a voice that left his lips, +A warmth that clasped her; but the stars were out, +And she with wide child-eyes gazed up at them. + +Haply she thought that always it was night; +Haply he, whispering to her in that reach +Of beauteous darkness, gave her unworn heart +A rumour of the dawn, and wakened it +To a trembling, and a wonder, and a want +Kin to his own; and as he longed to gaze +On his new fate, the gracious mystery +His wife, she may have longed, and felt not why, +After the light that never she had known. + +So doth each age walk in the light beheld, +Nor think on light, if it be light or no; +Then comes the night to it, and in the night +Eve. + + The God-given, the most beautiful +Eve. And she is not seen for darkness' sake; +Yet, when she makes her gracious presence felt, +The age perceives how dark it is, and fain, +Fain would have daylight, fain would see her well, +A beauty half revealed, a helpmeet sent +To draw the soul away from valley clods; +Made from itself, yet now a better self-- +Soul in the soulless, arrow tipped with fire +Let down into a careless breast; a pang +Sweeter than healing that cries out with it +For light all light, and is beheld at length-- +The morning dawns. + + Were not we born to light? +Ay, and we saw the men and women as saints +Walk in a garden. All our thoughts were fair; +Our simple hearts, as dovecotes full of doves, +Made home and nest for them. They fluttered forth. +And flocks of them flew white about the world. +And dreams were like to ships that floated us +Far out on silent floods, apart from earth, +From life--so far that we could see their lights +In heaven--and hear the everlasting tide, +All dappled with that fair reflected gold, +Wash up against the city wall, and sob +At the dark bows of vessels that drew on +Heavily freighted with departed souls +To whom did spirits sing; but on that song +Might none, albeit the meaning was right plain, +Impose the harsh captivity of words. + +Afterward waking, sweet was early air, +Full excellent was morning: whether deep +The snow lay keenly white, and shrouds of hail +Blurred the grey breaker on a long foreshore, +And swarming plover ran, and wild white mews +And sea-pies printed with a thousand feet +The fallen whiteness, making shrill the storm; +Or whether, soothed of sunshine, throbbed and hummed +The mill atween its bowering maple trees, +And churned the leaping beck that reared, and urged +A diamond-dripping wheel. + + The happy find +Equality of beauty everywhere +To feed on. All of shade and sheen is theirs, +All the strange fashions and the fair wise ways +Of lives beneath man's own. He breathes delight +Whose soul is fresh, whose feet are wet with dew +And the melted mist of morning, when at watch +Sunk deep in fern he marks the stealthy roe, +Silent as sleep or shadow, cross the glade, +Or dart athwart his view as August stars +Shoot and are out--while gracefully pace on +The wild-eyed harts to their traditional tree +To clear the velvet from their budded horns. +There is no want, both God and life are kind; +It is enough to hear, it is enough +To see; the pale wide barley-field they love, +And its weird beauty, and the pale wide moon +That lowering seems to lurk between the sheaves. +So in the rustic hamlet at high noon +The white owl sailing drowsed and deaf with sleep +To hide her head in turrets browned of moss +That is the rust of time. Ay so the pinks +And mountain grass marked on a sharp sea-cliff +While far below the northern diver feeds; +She having ended settling while she sits, +As vessels water-logged that sink at sea +And quietly into the deep go down. + +It is enough to wake, it is enough +To sleep:--With God and time he leaves the rest. +But on a day death on the doorstep sits +Waiting, or like a veiled woman walks +Dogging his footsteps, or athwart his path +The splendid passion-flower love unfolds +Buds full of sorrow, not ordained to know +Appeasement through the answer of a sigh, +The kiss of pity with denial given, +The crown and blossom of accomplishment. +Or haply comes the snake with subtlety, +And tempts him with an apple to know all. + +So,--Shut the gate; the story tells itself +Over and over; Eden must be lost +If after it be won. He stands at fault, +Not knowing at all how this should be--he feels +The great bare barrenness o' the outside world. +He thinks on Time and what it has to say; +He thinks on God, but God has changed His hand, +Sitting afar. And as the moon draws on +To cover the day-king in his eclipse, +And thin the last fine sickle of light, till all +Be gone, so fares it with his darkened soul. + +The dark, but not Orion sparkling there +With his best stars; the dark, but not yet Eve. +And now the wellsprings of sweet natural joy +Lie, as the Genie sealed of Solomon, +Fast prisoned in his heart; he hath not learned +The spell whereby to loose and set them forth, +And all the glad delights that boyhood loved +Smell at Oblivion's poppy, and lie still. + +Ah! they must sleep--"The mill can grind no more +With water that hath passed." Let it run on. +For he hath caught a whisper in the night; +This old inheritance in darkness given, +The world, is widened, warmed, it is alive, +Comes to his beating heart and bids it wake, +Opens the door to youth, and bids it forth, +Exultant for expansion and release, +And bent to satisfy the mighty wish, +Comfort and satisfy the mighty wish, +Life of his life, the soul's immortal child +That is to him as Eve. + + He cannot win, +Nor earn, nor see, nor hear, nor comprehend, +With all the watch, tender, impetuous, +That wastes him, this, whereof no less he feels +Infinite things; but yet the night is full +Of air-beats and of heart-beats for her sake. +Eve the aspirer, give her what she wants, +Or wherefore was he born? + + O he was born +To wish--then turn away:--to wish again +And half forget his wish for earthlier joy; +He draws the net to land that brings red gold; +His dreams among the meshes tangled lie, +And learning hath him at her feet;--and love, +The sea-born creature fresh from her sea foam, +Touches the ruddiest veins in his young heart, +Makes it to sob in him and sigh in him, +Restless, repelled, dying, alive and keen, +Fainting away for the remorseless ALL +Gone by, gone up, or sweetly gone before, +But never in his arms. Then pity comes, +Knocks at his breast, it may be, and comes in, +Makes a wide wound that haply will not heal, +But bleeds for poverty, and crime, and pain, +Till for the dear kin's sake he grandly dares +Or wastes him, with a wise improvidence; +But who can stir the weighty world; or who +Can drink a sea of tears? + + O love, and life, +O world, and can it be that this is all? +Leave him to tread expectance underfoot; +Let him alone to tame down his great hope +Before it breaks his heart: "Give me my share +That I foresaw, my place, my draught of life. +This that I bear, what is it?--me no less +It binds, I cannot disenslave my soul." + +There is but halting for the wearied foot. +The better way is hidden; faith hath failed-- +One stronger far than reason mastered her. +It is not reason makes faith hard, but life. +The husks of his dead creed, downtrod and dry, +Are powerless now as some dishonoured spell, +Some aged Pythia in her priestly clothes, +Some widow'd witch divining by the dead. +Or if he keep one shrine undesecrate +And go to it from time to time with tears, +What lies there? A dead Christ enswathed and cold, +A Christ that did not rise. The linen cloth +Is wrapped about His head, He lies embalmed +With myrrh and spices in His sepulchre, +The love of God that daily dies;--to them +That trust it the One Life, the all that lives. + +O mother Eve, who wert beguiled of old, +Thy blood is in thy children, thou art yet +Their fate and copy; with thy milk they drew +The immortal want of morning; but thy day +Dawned and was over, and thy children know +Contentment never, nor continuance long. +For even thus it is with them: the day +Waxeth, to wane anon, and a long night +Leaves the dark heart unsatisfied with stars. + +A soul in want and restless and bereft +To whom all life hath lied, shall it too lie? +Saying, "I yield Thee thanks, most mighty God, +Thou hast been pleased to make me thus and thus. +I do submit me to Thy sovereign will +That I full oft should hunger and not have, +And vainly yearn after the perfect good, +Gladness and peace"? + + No, rather dare think thus: +"Ere chaos first had being, earth, or time, +My Likeness was apparent in high heaven, +Divine and manlike, and his dwelling place +Was the bosom of the Father. By His hands +Were the worlds made and filled with diverse growths +And ordered lives. Then afterward they said, +Taking strange counsel, as if he who worked +Hitherto should not henceforth work alone, +'Let us make man;' and God did look upon +That Divine Word which was the form of God, +And it became a thought before the event. +There they foresaw my face, foreheard my speech, +God-like, God-loved, God-loving, God-derived. + +"And I was in a garden, and I fell +Through envy of God's evil son, but Love +Would not be robbed of me for ever--Love +For my sake passed into humanity, +And there for my first Father won me home. +How should I rest then? I have NOT gone home; +I feed on husks, and they given grudgingly, +While my great Father--Father--O my God, +What shall I do?" + + Ay, I will dare think thus: +"I cannot rest because He doth not rest +In whom I have my being. THIS is GOD-- +My soul is conscious of His wondrous wish, +And my heart's hunger doth but answer His +Whose thought has met with mine. + + "I have not all; +He moves me thus to take of Him what lacks. +My want is God's desire to give,--He yearns +To add Himself to life and so for aye +Make it enough." + A thought by night, a wish +After the morning, and behold it dawns +Pathetic in a still solemnity, +And mighty words are said for him once more, +"Let there be light." Great heaven and earth have heard, +And God comes down to him, and Christ doth rise. + + + + +THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. + + +There are who give themselves to work for men,-- +To raise the lost, to gather orphaned babes +And teach them, pitying of their mean estate, +To feel for misery, and to look on crime +With ruth, till they forget that they themselves +Are of the race, themselves among the crowd +Under the sentence and outside the gate, +And of the family and in the doom. +Cold is the world; they feel how cold it is, +And wish that they could warm it. Hard is life +For some. They would that they could soften it; +And, in the doing of their work, they sigh +As if it was their choice and not their lot; +And, in the raising of their prayer to God, +They crave his kindness for the world he made, +Till they, at last, forget that he, not they, +Is the true lover of man. + + * * * * * + +Now, in an ancient town, that had sunk low,-- +Trade having drifted from it, while there stayed +Too many, that it erst had fed, behind,-- +There walked a curate once, at early day. + +It was the summer-time; but summer air +Came never, in its sweetness, down that dark +And crowded alley,--never reached the door +Whereat he stopped,--the sordid, shattered door. + +He paused, and, looking right and left, beheld +Dirt and decay, the lowering tenements +That leaned toward each other; broken panes +Bulging with rags, and grim with old neglect; +And reeking hills of formless refuse, heaped +To fade and fester in a stagnant air. +But he thought nothing of it: he had learned +To take all wretchedness for granted,--he, +Reared in a stainless home, and radiant yet +With the clear hues of healthful English youth, +Had learned to kneel by beds forlorn, and stoop +Under foul lintels. He could touch, with hand +Unshrinking, fevered fingers; he could hear +The language of the lost, in haunt and den,-- +So dismal, that the coldest passer-by +Must needs be sorry for them, and, albeit +They cursed, would dare to speak no harder words +Than these,--"God help them!" + + Ay! a learned man +The curate in all woes that plague mankind,-- +Too learned, for he was but young. His heart +Had yearned till it was overstrained, and now +He--plunged into a narrow slough unblest, +Had struggled with its deadly waters, till +His own head had gone under, and he took +Small joy in work he could not look to aid +Its cleansing. + + Yet, by one right tender tie, +Hope held him yet. The fathers coarse and dull, +Vile mothers hard, and boys and girls profane, +His soul drew back from. He had worked for them,-- +Work without joy: but, in his heart of hearts, +He loved the little children; and whene'er +He heard their prattle innocent, and heard +Their tender voices lisping sacred words +That he had taught them,--in the cleanly calm +Of decent school, by decent matron held,-- +Then would he say, "I shall have pleasure yet, +In these." + + But now, when he pushed back that door +And mounted up a flight of ruined stairs, +He said not that. He said, "Oh! once I thought +The little children would make bright for me +The crown they wear who have won many souls +For righteousness; but oh, this evil place! +Hard lines it gives them, cold and dirt abhorred,-- +Hunger and nakedness, in lieu of love, +And blows instead of care. + + "And so they die, +The little children that I love,--they die,--They +turn their wistful faces to the wall, +And slip away to God." + + With that, his hand +He laid upon a latch and lifted it, +Looked in full quietly, and entered straight. + +What saw he there? He saw a three-years child, +That lay a-dying on a wisp of straw +Swept up into a corner. O'er its brow +The damps of death were gathering: all alone, +Uncared for, save that by its side was set +A cup, it waited. And the eyes had ceased +To look on things at hand. He thought they gazed +In wistful wonder, or some faint surmise +Of coming change,--as though they saw the gate +Of that fair land that seems to most of us +Very far off. + When he beheld the look, +He said, "I knew, I knew how this would be! +Another! Ay, and but for drunken blows +And dull forgetfulness of infant need, +This little one had lived." And thereupon +The misery of it wrought upon him so, +That, unaware, he wept. Oh! then it was +That, in the bending of his manly head, +It came between the child and that whereon +He gazed, and, when the curate glanced again, +Those dying eyes, drawn back to earth once more, +Looked up into his own, and smiled. + He drew +More near, and kneeled beside the small frail thing, +Because the lips were moving; and it raised +Its baby hand, and stroked away his tears, +And whispered, "Master! master!" and so died. + +Now, in that town there was an ancient church, +A minster of old days which these had turned +To parish uses: there the curate served. +It stood within a quiet swarded Close, +Sunny and still, and, though it was not far +From those dark courts where poor humanity +Struggled and swarmed, it seemed to wear its own +Still atmosphere about it, and to hold +That old-world calm within its precincts pure +And that grave rest which modern life foregoes. + +When the sad curate, rising from his knees, +Looked from the dead to heaven,--as, unaware, +Men do when they would track departed life,--He +heard the deep tone of the minster-bell +Sounding for service, and he turned away +So heavy at heart, that, when he left behind +That dismal habitation, and came out +In the clear sunshine of the minster-yard, +He never marked it. Up the aisle he moved, +With his own gloom about him; then came forth, +And read before the folk grand words and calm,--Words +full of hope; but into his dull heart +Hope came not. As one talketh in a dream, +And doth not mark the sense of his own words, +He read; and, as one walketh in a dream, +He after walked toward the vestment-room, +And never marked the way he went by,--no, +Nor the gray verger that before him stood, +The great church-keys depending from his hand, +Ready to follow him out and lock the door. + +At length, aroused to present things, but not +Content to break the sequence of his thought, +Nor ready for the working day that held +Its busy course without, he said, "Good friend, +Leave me the keys: I would remain a while." +And, when the verger gave, he moved with him +Toward the door distraught, then shut him out, +And locked himself within the church alone. +The minster-church was like a great brown cave, +Fluted and fine with pillars, and all dim +With glorious gloom; but, as the curate turned, +Suddenly shone the sun,--and roof and walls, +Also the clustering shafts from end to end, +Were thickly sown all over, as it were, +With seedling rainbows. And it went and came +And went, that sunny beam, and drifted up +Ethereal bloom to flush the open wings +And carven cheeks of dimpled cherubim, +And dropped upon the curate as he passed, +And covered his white raiment and his hair. + +Then did look down upon him from their place, +High in the upper lights, grave mitred priests, +And grand old monarchs in their flowered gowns +And capes of miniver; and therewithal +(A veiling cloud gone by) the naked sun +Smote with his burning splendor all the pile, +And in there rushed, through half-translucent panes, +A sombre glory as of rusted gold, +Deep ruby stains, and tender blue and green, +That made the floor a beauty and delight, +Strewed as with phantom blossoms, sweet enough +To have been wafted there the day they dropt +On the flower-beds in heaven. + The curate passed +Adown the long south aisle, and did not think +Upon this beauty, nor that he himself-- +Excellent in the strength of youth, and fair +With all the majesty that noble work +And stainless manners give--did add his part +To make it fairer. + In among the knights +That lay with hands uplifted, by the lute +And palm of many a saint,--'neath capitals +Whereon our fathers had been bold to carve +With earthly tools their ancient childlike dream +Concerning heavenly fruit and living bowers, +And glad full-throated birds that sing up there +Among the branches of the tree of life-- +Through all the ordered forest of the shafts, +Shooting on high to enter into light, +That swam aloft,--he took his silent way, +And in the southern transept sat him down, +Covered his face, and thought. + He said, "No pain, +No passion, and no aching, heart o' mine, +Doth stir within thee. Oh! I would there did: +Thou art so dull, so tired. I have lost +I know not what. I see the heavens as lead: +They tend no whither. Ah! the world is bared +Of her enchantment now: she is but earth +And water. And, though much hath passed away, +There may be more to go. I may forget +The joy and fear that have been: there may live +No more for me the fervency of hope +Nor the arrest of wonder. + + "Once I said, +'Content will wait on work, though work appear +Unfruitful.' Now I say, 'Where is the good? +What is the good? A lamp when it is lit +Must needs give light; but I am like a man +Holding his lamp in some deserted place +Where no foot passeth. Must I trim my lamp, +And ever painfully toil to keep it bright, +When use for it is none? I must; I will. +Though God withhold my wages, I must work, +And watch the bringing of my work to nought,-- +Weed in the vineyard through the heat o' the day, +And, overtasked, behold the weedy place +Grow ranker yet in spite of me. + + "Oh! yet +My meditated words are trodden down +Like a little wayside grass. Castaway shells, +Lifted and tossed aside by a plunging wave, +Have no more force against it than have I +Against the sweeping, weltering wave of life, +That, lifting and dislodging me, drives on, +And notes not mine endeavor." + + Afterward, +He added more words like to these; to wit, +That it was hard to see the world so sad: +He would that it were happier. It was hard +To see the blameless overborne; and hard +To know that God, who loves the world, should yet +Let it lie down in sorrow, when a smile +From him would make it laugh and sing,--a word +From him transform it to a heaven. He said, +Moreover, "When will this be done? My life +Hath not yet reached the noon, and I am tired; +And oh! it may be that, uncomforted +By foolish hope of doing good and vain +Conceit of being useful, I may live, +And it may be my duty to go on +Working for years and years, for years and years." + +But, while the words were uttered, in his heart +There dawned a vague alarm. He was aware +That somewhat touched him, and he lifted up +His face. "I am alone," the curate said,-- +"I think I am alone. What is it, then? +I am ashamed! My raiment is not clean. +My lips,--I am afraid they are not clean. +My heart is darkened and unclean. Ah me, +To be a man, and yet to tremble so! +Strange, strange!" + And there was sitting at his feet-- +He could not see it plainly--at his feet +A very little child. And, while the blood +Drave to his heart, he set his eye on it, +Gazing, and, lo! the loveliness from heaven +Took clearer form and color. He beheld +The strange, wise sweetness of a dimpled mouth,-- +The deep serene of eyes at home with bliss, +And perfect in possession. So it spoke, +"My master!" but he answered not a word; +And it went on: "I had a name, a name. +He knew my name; but here they can forget." +The curate answered: "Nay, I know thee well. +I love thee. Wherefore art thou come?" It said, +"They sent me;" and he faltered, "Fold thy hand, +O most dear little one! for on it gleams +A gem that is so bright I cannot look +Thereon." It said, "When I did leave this world, +That was a tear. But that was long ago; +For I have lived among the happy folk, +You wot of, ages, ages." Then said he, +"Do they forget us, while beneath the palms +They take their infinite leisure?" And, with eyes +That seemed to muse upon him, looking up +In peace the little child made answer, "Nay;" +And murmured, in the language that he loved, +"How is it that his hair is not yet white; +For I and all the others have been long +Waiting for him to come." + "And was it long?" +The curate answered, pondering. "Time being done, +Shall life indeed expand, and give the sense, +In our to-come, of infinite extension?" +Then said the child, "In heaven we children talk +Of the great matters, and our lips are wise; +But here I can but talk with thee in words +That here I knew." And therewithal, arisen, +It said, "I pray you take me in your arms." +Then, being afraid but willing, so he did; +And partly drew about the radiant child, +For better covering its dread purity, +The foldings of his gown. And he beheld +Its beauty, and the tremulous woven light +That hung upon its hair; withal, the robe, +"Whiter than fuller of this world can white," +That clothed its immortality. And so +The trembling came again, and he was dumb, +Repenting his uncleanness: and he lift +His eyes, and all the holy place was full +Of living things; and some were faint and dim, +As if they bore an intermittent life, +Waxing and waning; and they had no form, +But drifted on like slowly trailed clouds, +Or moving spots of darkness, with an eye +Apiece. And some, in guise of evil birds, +Came by in troops, and stretched their naked necks, +And some were men-like, but their heads hung down; +And he said, "O my God! let me find grace +Not to behold their faces, for I know +They must be wicked and right terrible." +But while he prayed, lo! whispers; and there moved +Two shadows on the wall. He could not see +The forms of them that cast them: he could see +Only the shadows as of two that sat +Upon the floor, where, clad in women's weeds, +They lisped together. And he shuddered much: +There was a rustling near him, and he feared +Lest they should touch him, and he feel their touch. + +"It is not great," quoth one, "the work achieved. +We do, and we delight to do, our best: +But that is little; for, my dear," quoth she, +"This tower and town have been infested long +With angels."--"Ay," the other made reply, +"I had a little evil-one, of late, +That I picked up as it was crawling out +O' the pit, and took and cherished in my breast. +It would divine for me, and oft would moan, +'Pray thee, no churches,' and it spake of this. +But I was harried once,--thou know'st by whom,-- +And fled in here; and, when he followed me, +I crouching by this pillar, he let down +His hand,--being all too proud to send his eyes +In its wake,--and, plucking forth my tender imp, +Flung it behind him. It went yelping forth; +And, as for me, I never saw it more. +Much is against us,--very much: the times +Are hard." She paused: her fellow took the word, +Plaining on such as preach and them that plead. +"Even such as haunt the yawning mouths of hell," +Quoth she, "and pluck them back that run thereto." +Then, like a sudden blow, there fell on him +The utterance of his name. "There is no soul +That I loathe more, and oftener curse. Woe's me, +That cursing should be vain! Ay, he will go +Gather the sucking children, that are yet +Too young for us, and watch and shelter them. +Till the strong Angels--pitiless and stern, +But to them loving ever--sweep them in, +By armsful, to the unapproachable fold. + +"We strew his path with gold: it will not lie. +'Deal softly with him,' was the master's word. +We brought him all delights: his angel came +And stood between them and his eyes. They spend +Much pains upon him,--keep him poor and low +And unbeloved; and thus he gives his mind +To fill the fateful, the impregnable +Child-fold, and sow on earth the seed of stars. + +"Oh! hard is serving against love,--the love +Of the Unspeakable; for if we soil +The souls He openeth out a washing-place; +And if we grudge, and snatch away the bread, +Then will He save by poverty, and gain +By early giving up of blameless life; +And if we shed out gold, He even will save +In spite of gold,--of twice-refined gold." + +With that the curate set his daunted eyes +To look upon the shadows of the fiends. +He was made sure they could not see the child +That nestled in his arms; he also knew +They were unconscious that his mortal ears +Had new intelligence, which gave their speech +Possible entrance through his garb of clay. + +He was afraid, yet awful gladness reached +His soul: the testimony of the lost +Upbraided him; but while he trembled yet, +The heavenly child had lifted up its head +And left his arms, and on the marble floor +Stood beckoning. + + And, its touch withdrawn, the place +Was silent, empty; all that swarming tribe +Of evil ones concealed behind the veil, +And shut into their separate world, were closed +From his observance. He arose, and paced +After the little child,--as half in fear +That it would leave him,--till they reached a door; +And then said he,--but much distraught he spoke, +Laying his hand across the lock,--"This door +Shuts in the stairs whereby men mount the tower. +Wouldst thou go up, and so withdraw to heaven?" +It answered, "I will mount them." Then said he, +"And I will follow."--"So thou shalt do well," +The radiant thing replied, and it went up, +And he, amazed, went after; for the stairs, +Otherwhile dark, were lightened by the rays +Shed out of raiment woven in high heaven, +And hair whereon had smiled the light of God. + +With that, they, pacing on, came out at last +Into a dim, weird place,--a chamber formed +Betwixt the roofs: for you shall know that all +The vaulting of the nave, fretted and fine, +Was covered with the dust of ages, laid +Thick with those chips of stone which they had left +Who wrought it; but a high-pitched roof was reared +Above it, and the western gable pierced +With three long narrow lights. Great tie-beams loomed +Across, and many daws frequented there, +The starling and the sparrow littered it +With straw, and peeped from many a shady nook; +And there was lifting up of wings, and there +Was hasty exit when the curate came. +But sitting on a beam and moving not +For him, he saw two fair gray turtle-doves +Bowing their heads, and cooing; and the child +Put forth a hand to touch his own, but straight +He, startled, drew it back, because, forsooth, +A stirring fancy smote him, and he thought +That language trembled on their innocent tongues, +And floated forth in speech that man could hear. +Then said the child, "Yet touch, my master dear." +And he let down his hand, and touched again; +And so it was. "But if they had their way," +One turtle cooed, "how should this world go on?" + +Then he looked well upon them, as he stood +Upright before them. They were feathered doves, +And sitting close together; and their eyes +Were rounded with the rim that marks their kind. +Their tender crimson feet did pat the beam,-- +No phantoms they; and soon the fellow-dove +Made answer, "Nay they count themselves so wise, +There is no task they shall be set to do +But they will ask God why. What mean they so? +The glory is not in the task, but in +The doing it for Him. What should he think, +Brother, this man that must, forsooth, be set +Such noble work, and suffered to behold +Its fruit, if he knew more of us and ours?" +With that the other leaned, as if attent: +"I am not perfect, brother, in his thought." +The mystic bird replied. "Brother, he saith, +'But it is nought: the work is overhard.' +Whose fault is that? God sets not overwork. +He saith the world is sorrowful, and he +Is therefore sorrowful. He cannot set +The crooked straight;--but who demands of him, +O brother, that he should? What! thinks he, then, +His work is God's advantage, and his will +More bent to aid the world than its dread Lord's? +Nay, yet there live amongst us legions fair, +Millions on millions, who could do right well +What he must fail in; and 'twas whispered me, +That chiefly for himself the task is given,-- +His little daily task." With that he paused. + +Then said the other, preening its fair wing, +"Men have discovered all God's islands now, +And given them names; whereof they are as proud, +And deem themselves as great, as if their hands +Had made them. Strange is man, and strange his pride. +Now, as for us, it matters not to learn +What and from whence we be: How should we tell? +Our world is undiscovered in these skies, +Our names not whispered. Yet, for us and ours, +What joy it is,--permission to come down, +Not souls, as he, to the bosom of their God, +To guide, but to their goal the winged fowls, +His lovely lower-fashioned lives to help +To take their forms by legions, fly, and draw +With us the sweet, obedient, flocking things +That ever hear our message reverently, +And follow us far. How should they know their way, +Forsooth, alone? Men say they fly alone; +Yet some have set on record, and averred, +That they, among the flocks, had duly marked +A leader." + Then his fellow made reply: +"They might divine the Maker's heart. Come forth, +Fair dove, to find the flocks, and guide their wings, +For Him that loveth them." + With that, the child +Withdrew his hand, and all their speech was done. +He moved toward them, but they fluttered forth +And fled into the sunshine. + "I would fain," +Said he, "have heard some more. And wilt thou go?" +He added to the child, for this had turned. +"Ay," quoth he, gently, "to the beggar's place; +For I would see the beggar in the porch." + +So they went down together to the door, +Which, when the curate opened, lo! without +The beggar sat; and he saluted him: +"Good morrow, master." "Wherefore art thou here?" +The curate asked: "it is not service time, +And none will enter now to give thee alms." +Then said the beggar, "I have hope at heart +That I shall go to my poor house no more." +"Art thou so sick that thou dost think to die?" +The curate said. With that the beggar laughed, +And under his dim eyelids gathered tears, +And he was all a-tremble with a strange +And moving exaltation. "Ay," quoth he, +And set his face toward high heaven: "I think +The blessing that I wait on must be near." +Then said the curate, "God be good to thee." +And, straight, the little child put forth his hand, +And touched him. "Master, master, hush! +You should not, master, speak so carelessly +In this great presence." + But the touch so wrought, +That, lo! the dazzled curate staggered back, +For dread effulgence from the beggar's eyes +Smote him, and from the crippled limbs shot forth +Terrible lights, as pure long blades of fire. +"Withdraw thy touch! withdraw thy touch!" he cried, +"Or else shall I be blinded." Then the child +Stood back from him; and he sat down apart, +Recovering of his manhood: and he heard +The beggar and the child discourse of things +Dreadful for glory, till his spirits came +Anew; and, when the beggar looked on him, +He said, "If I offend not, pray you tell +Who and what are you--I behold a face +Marred with old age, sickness, and poverty,-- +A cripple with a staff, who long hath sat +Begging, and ofttimes moaning, in the porch, +For pain and for the wind's inclemency. +What are you?" Then the beggar made reply, +"I was a delegate, a living power; +My work was bliss, for seeds were in my hand +To plant a new-made world. O happy work! +It grew and blossomed; but my dwelling-place +Was far remote from heaven. I have not seen; +I knew no wish to enter there. But lo! +There went forth rumors, running out like rays, +How some, that were of power like even to mine, +Had made request to come and find a place +Within its walls. And these were satisfied +With promises, and sent to this far world +To take the weeds of your mortality, +And minister, and suffer grief and pain, +And die like men. Then were they gathered in. +They saw a face, and were accounted kin +To Whom thou knowest, for he is kin to men. + +"Then I did wait; and oft, at work, I sang, +'To minister! oh, joy, to minister!' +And, it being known, a message came to me: +'Whether is best, thou forest-planter wise, +To minister to others, or that they +Should minister to thee?' Then, on my face +Low lying, I made answer: 'It is best, +Most High, to minister;' and thus came back +The answer,--'Choose not for thyself the best: +Go down, and, lo! my poor shall minister, +Out of their poverty, to thee; shall learn +Compassion by thy frailty; and shall oft +Turn back, when speeding home from work, to help +Thee, weak and crippled, home. My little ones, +Thou shalt importune for their slender mite, +And pray, and move them that they give it up +For love of Me.'" + The curate answered him, +"Art thou content, O great one from afar! +If I may ask, and not offend?" He said, +"I am. Behold! I stand not all alone, +That I should think to do a perfect work. +I may not wish to give; for I have heard +'Tis best for me that I receive. For me, +God is the only giver, and His gift +Is one." With that, the little child sighed out, +"O master! master! I am out of heaven +Since noonday, and I hear them calling me. +If you be ready, great one, let us go:-- +Hark! hark! they call." + Then did the beggar lift +His face to heaven, and utter forth a cry +As of the pangs of death, and every tree +Moved as if shaken by a sudden wind. +He cried again, and there came forth a hand +From some invisible form, which, being laid +A little moment on the curate's eyes, +It dazzled him with light that brake from it, +So that he saw no more. + "What shall I do?" +The curate murmured, when he came again +To himself and looked about him. "This is strange! +My thoughts are all astray; and yet, methinks, +A weight is taken from my heart. Lo! lo! +There lieth at my feet, frail, white, and dead, +The sometime beggar. He is happy now. +There was a child; but he is gone, and he +Is also happy. I am glad to think +I am not bound to make the wrong go right; +But only to discover, and to do +With cheerful heart, the work that God appoints." + +With that, he did compose, with reverent care, +The dead; continuing, "I will trust in Him, +THAT HE CAN HOLD HIS OWN; and I will take +His will, above the work He sendeth me, +To be my chiefest good." + Then went he forth, +"I shall die early," thinking: "I am warned, +By this fair vision, that I have not long +To live." Yet he lived on to good old age;-- +Ay, he lives yet, and he is working still. + + * * * * * + +It may be there are many in like case: +They give themselves, and are in misery +Because the gift is small, and doth not make +The world by so much better as they fain +Would have it. 'Tis a fault; but, as for us, +Let us not blame them. Maybe, 'tis a fault +More kindly looked on by The Majesty +Than our best virtues are. Why, what are we? +What have we given, and what have we desired +To give, the world? + There must be something wrong +Look to it: let us mend our ways. Farewell. + + + + +THE SHEPHERD LADY. + + +I. + +Who pipes upon the long green hill, + Where meadow grass is deep? +The white lamb bleats but followeth on-- + Follow the clean white sheep. +The dear white lady in yon high tower, + She hearkeneth in her sleep. + +All in long grass the piper stands, + Goodly and grave is he; +Outside the tower, at dawn of day, + The notes of his pipe ring free. +A thought from his heart doth reach to hers: + "Come down, O lady! to me." + +She lifts her head, she dons her gown: + Ah! the lady is fair; +She ties the girdle on her waist, + And binds her flaxen hair, +And down she stealeth, down and down, + Down the turret stair. + +Behold him! With the flock he wons + Along yon grassy lea. +"My shepherd lord, my shepherd love, + What wilt thou, then, with me? +My heart is gone out of my breast, + And followeth on to thee." + + +II. + +"The white lambs feed in tender grass: + With them and thee to bide, +How good it were," she saith at noon; + "Albeit the meads are wide. +Oh! well is me," she saith when day + Draws on to eventide. + +Hark! hark! the shepherd's voice. Oh, sweet! + Her tears drop down like rain. +"Take now this crook, my chosen, my fere, + And tend the flock full fain; +Feed them, O lady, and lose not one, + Till I shall come again." + +Right soft her speech: "My will is thine, + And my reward thy grace!" +Gone are his footsteps over the hill, + Withdrawn his goodly face; +The mournful dusk begins to gather, + The daylight wanes apace. + + +III. + +On sunny slopes, ah! long the lady + Feedeth her flock at noon; +She leads it down to drink at eve + Where the small rivulets croon. +All night her locks are wet with dew, + Her eyes outwatch the moon. + +Beyond the hills her voice is heard, + She sings when light doth wane: +"My longing heart is full of love, + Nor shall my watch be vain. +My shepherd lord. I see him not, + But he will come again." + + + + +POEMS + +WRITTEN ON THE DEATHS OF THREE LOVELY CHILDREN +WHO WERE TAKEN FROM THEIR PARENTS WITHIN A MONTH +OF ONE ANOTHER. + + +HENRY, + +AGED EIGHT YEARS. + +Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter--woodland hollows thickly strewing, + Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the mid-day win, +While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in saddened hues imbuing + All without and all within! + +All within! but winds of autumn, little Henry, round their dwelling + Did not load your father's spirit with those deep and burdened sighs;-- +Only echoed thoughts of sadness, in your mother's bosom swelling, + Fast as tears that dim her eyes. + +Life is fraught with many changes, checked with sorrow and mutation, + But no grief it ever lightened such a truth before to know:-- +I behold them--father, mother--as they seem to contemplation, + Only three short weeks ago! + +Saddened for the morrow's parting--up the stairs at midnight stealing-- + As with cautious foot we glided past the children's open door,-- +"Come in here," they said, the lamplight dimpled forms at last revealing, + "Kiss them in their sleep once more." + +You were sleeping, little Henry, with your eyelids scarcely closing, + Two sweet faces near together, with their rounded arms entwined:-- +And the rose-bud lips were moving, as if stirred in their reposing + By the movements of the mind! + +And your mother smoothed the pillow, and her sleeping treasures numbered, + Whispering fondly--"He is dreaming"--as you turned upon your bed-- +And your father stooped to kiss you, happy dreamer, as you slumbered, + With his hand upon your head! + +Did he know the true deep meaning of his blessing? No! he never + Heard afar the summons uttered--"Come up hither"--Never knew +How the awful Angel faces kept his sleeping boy for ever, + And for ever in their view. + +Awful Faces, unimpassioned, silent Presences were by us, + Shrouding wings--majestic beings--hidden by this earthly veil-- +Such as we have called on, saying, "Praise the Lord, O Ananias, + Azarias and Misael!" + +But we saw not, and who knoweth, what the missioned Spirits taught him, + To that one small bed drawn nearer, when we left him to their will? +While he slumbered, who can answer for what dreams they may have brought + him, + When at midnight all was still? + +Father! Mother! must you leave him on his bed, but not to slumber? + Are the small hands meekly folded on his breast, but not to pray? +When you count your children over, must you tell a different number, + Since that happier yesterday? + +Father! Mother! weep if need be, since this is a "time" for weeping, + Comfort comes not for the calling, grief is never argued down-- +Coldly sounds the admonition, "Why lament? in better keeping + Rests the child than in your own." + +"Truth indeed! but, oh! compassion! Have you sought to scan my sorrow?" + (Mother, you shall meekly ponder, list'ning to that common tale) +"Does your heart repeat its echo, or by fellow-feeling borrow + Even a tone that might avail? + +"Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep heart-warm affection? + Might perceive by strength of loving how the fond words to combine? +Surely no! I will be silent, in your soul is no reflection + Of the care that burdens mine!" + +When the winter twilight gathers, Father, and your thoughts shall wander, + Sitting lonely you shall blend him with your listless reveries, +Half forgetful what division holds the form whereon you ponder + From its place upon your knees-- + +With a start of recollection, with a half-reproachful wonder, + Of itself the heart shall question, "Art Thou then no longer here? +Is it so, my little Henry? Are we set so far asunder + Who were wont to be so near?" + +While the fire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthened shades are meeting, + To itself the heart shall answer, "He shall come to me no more: +I shall never hear his footsteps nor the child's sweet voice entreating + For admission at my door." + +But upon _your_ fair, fair forehead, no regrets nor griefs are dwelling, + Neither sorrow nor disquiet do the peaceful features know; +Nor that look, whose wistful beauty seemed their sad hearts to be telling, + "Daylight breaketh, let me go!" + +Daylight breaketh, little Henry; in its beams your soul awaketh-- + What though night should close around us, dim and dreary to the view-- +Though _our_ souls should walk in darkness, far away that morning breaketh + Into endless day for you! + + +SAMUEL, + +AGED NINE YEARS. + +They have left you, little Henry, but they have not left you lonely-- + Brothers' hearts so knit together could not, might not separate dwell. +Fain to seek you in the mansions far away--One lingered only + To bid those behind farewell! + +Gentle Boy!--His childlike nature in most guileless form was moulded, + And it may be that his spirit woke in glory unaware, +Since so calmly he resigned it, with his hands still meekly folded, + Having said his evening prayer. + +Or--if conscious of that summons--"Speak, O Lord, Thy servant heareth"-- + As one said, whose name they gave him, might his willing answer be, +"Here am I"--like him replying--"At Thy gates my soul appeareth, + For behold Thou calledst me!" + +A deep silence--utter silence, on his earthly home descendeth:-- + Reading, playing, sleeping, waking--he is gone, and few remain! +"O the loss!"--they utter, weeping--every voice its echo lendeth-- + "O the loss!"--But, O the gain! + +On that tranquil shore his spirit was vouchsafed an early landing, + Lest the toils of crime should stain it, or the thrall of guilt control-- +Lest that "wickedness should alter the yet simple understanding, + Or deceit beguile his soul!" + +"Lay not up on earth thy treasure"--they have read that sentence duly, + Moth and rust shall fret thy riches--earthly good hath swift decay-- +"Even so," each heart replieth--"As for me, my riches truly + Make them wings and flee away!" + +"O my riches!--O my children!--dearest part of life and being, +Treasures looked to for the solace of this life's declining years,-- +Were our voices cold to hearing--or our faces cold to seeing, + That ye left us to our tears?" + +"We inherit conscious silence, ceasing of some merry laughter, + And the hush of two sweet voices--(healing sounds for spirits bruised!) +Of the tread of joyous footsteps in the pathway following after, + Of two names no longer used!" + +Question for them, little Sister, in your sweet and childish fashion-- + Search and seek them, Baby Brother, with your calm and asking eyes-- +Dimpled lips that fail to utter fond appeal or sad compassion, + Mild regret or dim surprise! + +There are two tall trees above you, by the high east window growing, + Underneath them, slumber sweetly, lapt in silence deep, serene; +Save, when pealing in the distance, organ notes towards you flowing + Echo--with a pause between! + +And that pause?--a voice shall fill it--tones that blessed you daily, + nightly, + Well beloved, but not sufficing, Sleepers, to awake you now, +Though so near he stand, that shadows from your trees may tremble lightly + On his book and on his brow! + +Sleep then ever! Neither singing of sweet birds shall break your slumber, + Neither fall of dew, nor sunshine, dance of leaves, nor drift of snow, +Charm those dropt lids more to open, nor the tranquil bosoms cumber + With one care for things below! + +It is something, the assurance, that _you_ ne'er shall feel like sorrow, + Weep no past and dread no future--know not sighing, feel not pain-- +Nor a day that looketh forward to a mournfuller to-morrow-- + "Clouds returning after rain!" + +No, far off, the daylight breaketh, in its beams each soul awaketh: + "What though clouds," they sigh, "be gathered dark and stormy to the + view, +Though the light our eyes forsaketh, fresh and sweet behold it breaketh + Into endless day for you!" + + +KATIE, AGED FIVE YEARS. + +(ASLEEP IN THE DAYTIME.) + +All rough winds are hushed and silent, golden light the meadow steepeth, + And the last October roses daily wax more pale and fair; +They have laid a gathered blossom on the breast of one who sleepeth + With a sunbeam on her hair. + +Calm, and draped in snowy raiment she lies still, as one that dreameth, + And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips that may not speak; +Slanting down that narrow sunbeam like a ray of glory gleameth + On the sainted brow and cheek. + +There is silence! They who watch her, speak no word of grief or wailing, + In a strange unwonted calmness they gaze on and cannot cease, +Though the pulse of life beat faintly, thought shrink back, and hope be + failing, + They, like Aaron, "hold their peace." + +While they gaze on her, the deep bell with its long slow pauses soundeth; + Long they hearken--father--mother--love has nothing more to say: +Beating time to feet of Angels leading her where love aboundeth + Tolls the heavy bell this day. + +Still in silence to its tolling they count over all her meetness + To lie near their hearts and soothe them in all sorrows and all fears; +Her short life lies spread before them, but they cannot tell her + sweetness, + Easily as tell her years. + +Only daughter--Ah! how fondly Thought around that lost name lingers, + Oft when lone your mother sitteth, she shall weep and droop her head, +She shall mourn her baby-sempstress, with those imitative fingers, + Drawing out her aimless thread. + +In your father's Future cometh many a sad uncheered to-morrow, + But in sleep shall three fair faces heavenly-calm towards him lean-- +Like a threefold cord shall draw him through the weariness of sorrow, + Nearer to the things unseen. + +With the closing of your eyelids close the dreams of expectation, + And so ends the fairest chapter in the records of their way: +Therefore--O thou God most holy--God of rest and consolation, + Be Thou near to them this day! + +Be Thou near, when they shall nightly, by the bed of infant brothers, + Hear their soft and gentle breathing, and shall bless them on their + knees; +And shall think how coldly falleth the white moonlight on the others, + In their bed beneath the trees. + +Be Thou near, when they, they _only_, bear those faces in remembrance, + And the number of their children strangers ask them with a smile; +And when other childlike faces touch them by the strong resemblance + To those turned to them erewhile. + +Be Thou near, each chastened Spirit for its course and conflict nerving, + Let Thy voice say, "Father--mother--lo! thy treasures live above! +Now be strong, be strong, no longer cumbered over much with serving + At the shrine of human love." + +Let them sleep! In course of ages e'en the Holy House shall crumble, + And the broad and stately steeple one day bend to its decline, +And high arches, ancient arches bowed and decked in clothing humble, + Creeping moss shall round them twine. + +Ancient arches, old and hoary, sunny beams shall glimmer through them, + And invest them with a beauty we would fain they should not share, +And the moonlight slanting down them, the white moonlight shall imbue them + With a sadness dim and fair. + +Then the soft green moss shall wrap you, and the world shall all forget + you, + Life, and stir, and toil, and tumult unawares shall pass you by; +Generations come and vanish: but it shall not grieve nor fret you, + That they sin, or that they sigh. + +And the world, grown old in sinning, shall deny her first beginning, + And think scorn of words which whisper how that all must pass away; +Time's arrest and intermission shall account a vain tradition, + And a dream, the reckoning day! + +Till His blast, a blast of terror, shall awake in shame and sadness + Faithless millions to a vision of the failing earth and skies, +And more sweet than song of Angels, in their shout of joy and gladness, + Call the dead in Christ to rise! + +Then, by One Man's intercession, standing clear from their transgression, + Father--mother--you shall meet them fairer than they were before, +And have joy with the Redeemed, joy ear hath not heard heart dreamed, + Ay for ever--evermore! + + + + +THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT (IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL). + + + Marvels of sleep, grown cold! + Who hath not longed to fold +With pitying ruth, forgetful of their bliss, + Those cherub forms that lie, + With none to watch them nigh, +Or touch the silent lips with one warm human kiss? + + What! they are left alone + All night with graven stone, +Pillars and arches that above them meet; + While through those windows high + The journeying stars can spy, +And dim blue moonbeams drop on their uncovered feet? + + O cold! yet look again, + There is a wandering vein +Traced in the hand where those white snowdrops lie. + Let her rapt dreamy smile + The wondering heart beguile, +That almost thinks to hear a calm contented sigh. + + What silence dwells between + Those severed lips serene! +The rapture of sweet waiting breathes and grows. + What trance-like peace is shed + On her reclining head, +And e'en on listless feet what languor of repose! + + Angels of joy and love + Lean softly from above +And whisper to her sweet and marvellous things; + Tell of the golden gate + That opened wide doth wait, +And shadow her dim sleep with their celestial wings. + + Hearing of that blest shore + She thinks on earth no more, +Contented to forego this wintry land. + She has nor thought nor care + But to rest calmly there, +And hold the snowdrops pale that blossom in her hand. + + But on the other face + Broodeth a mournful grace, +This had foreboding thoughts beyond her years, + While sinking thus to sleep + She saw her mother weep, +And could not lift her hand to dry those heart-sick tears. + + Could not--but failing lay, + Sighed her young life away. +And let her arm drop down in listless rest, + Too weary on that bed + To turn her dying head, +Or fold the little sister nearer to her breast. + + Yet this is faintly told + On features fair and cold, +A look of calm surprise, of mild regret, + As if with life oppressed + She turned her to her rest, +But felt her mother's love and looked not to forget. + + How wistfully they close, + Sweet eyes, to their repose! +How quietly declines the placid brow! + The young lips seem to say, + "I have wept much to-day, +And felt some bitter pains, but they are over now." + + Sleep! there are left below + Many who pine to go, +Many who lay it to their chastened souls, + That gloomy days draw nigh, + And they are blest who die, +For this green world grows worse the longer that she rolls. + + And as for me I know + A little of her woe, +Her yearning want doth in my soul abide, + And sighs of them that weep, + "O put us soon to sleep, +For when we wake--with Thee--we shall be satisfied." + + + + +HYMNS. + + +THE MEASURELESS GULFS OF AIR ARE FULL OF THEE. + +"_In Him we live, and move, and have our being._" + +The measureless gulfs of air are full of Thee: + Thou Art, and therefore hang the stars; they wait, +And swim, and shine in God who bade them be, + And hold their sundering voids inviolate. + +A God concern'd (veil'd in pure light) to bless, + With sweet revealing of His love, the soul; +Toward things piteous, full of piteousness; + The Cause, the Life, and the continuing Whole. + +He is more present to all things He made + Than anything unto itself can be; +Full-foliaged boughs of Eden could not shade + Afford, since God was also 'neath the tree. + +Thou knowest me altogether; I knew not + Thy likeness till Thou mad'st it manifest. +There is no world but is Thy heaven; no spot + Remote; Creation leans upon Thy breast. + +Thou art beyond all stars, yet in my heart + Wonderful whisperings hold Thy creature dumb; +I need no search afar; to me Thou art + Father, Redeemer, and Renewer--come. + + +THOU WERT FAR OFF AND IN THE SIGHT OF HEAVEN. + +"_And fell on his neck, and kissed him._" + +Thou wert far off, and in the sight of heaven + Dead. And thy Father would not this should be; +And now thou livest, it is all forgiven; + Think on it, O my soul, He kissed thee! + +What now are gold and gear? thou canst afford + To cast them from thee at His sacred call, +As Mary, when she met her living Lord, +The burial spice she had prepared let fall. + +O! what is death to life? One dead could well + Afford to waste his shroud, if he might wake; +Thou canst afford to waste the world, and sell + Thy footing in it, for the new world's sake. + +What is the world? it is a waiting place, + Where men put on their robes for that above. +What is the new world? 'tis a Father's face + Beholden of His sons--the face of love. + + +THICK ORCHARDS ALL IN WHITE. + +"_The time of the singing of birds is come._" + + Thick orchards, all in white, + Stand 'neath blue voids of light, +And birds among the branches blithely sing, + For they have all they know; + There is no more, but so, +All perfectness of living, fair delight of spring. + + Only the cushat dove + Makes answer as for love +To the deep yearning of man's yearning breast; + And mourneth, to his thought, + As in her notes were wrought +Fulfill'd in her sweet having, sense of his unrest. + + Not with possession, not + With fairest earthly lot, +Cometh the peace assured, his spirit's quest; + With much it looks before, + With most it yearns for more; +And 'this is not our rest,' and 'this is not our rest.' + + Give Thou us more. We look + For more. The heart that took +All spring-time for itself were empty still; + Its yearning is not spent + Nor silenced in content, +Till He that all things filleth doth it sweetly fill. + + Give us Thyself. The May + Dureth so short a day; +Youth and the spring are over all too soon; + Content us while they last, + Console us for them past, +Thou with whom bides for ever life, and love, and noon. + + +SWEET ARE HIS WAYS WHO RULES ABOVE. + +"_Though I take the wings of the morning_." + +Sweet are His ways who rules above, + He gives from wrath a sheltering place; + But covert none is found from grace, +Man shall not hide himself from love. + +What though I take to me the wide + Wings of the morning and forth fly, + Faster He goes, whoso care on high +Shepherds the stars and doth them guide. + +What though the tents foregone, I roam + Till day wax dim lamenting me; + He wills that I shall sleep to see +The great gold stairs to His sweet home. + +What though the press I pass before, + And climb the branch, He lifts his face; + I am not secret from His grace +Lost in the leafy sycamore. + +What though denied with murmuring deep + I shame my Lord,--it shall not be; + For He will turn and look on me, +Then must I think thereon and weep. + +The nether depth, the heights above, + Nor alleys pleach'd of Paradise, + Nor Herod's judgment-halls suffice: +Man shall not hide himself from love. + + +O NIGHT OF NIGHTS! + +"_Let us now go even unto Bethlehem_." + +O Night of nights! O night + Desired of man so long! +The ancient heavens fled forth in light + To sing thee thy new song; +And shooting down the steep, + To shepherd folk of old, +An angel, while they watch'd their sheep, + Set foot beside the fold. + +Lo! while as like to die + Of that keen light he shed, +They look'd on his pure majesty, + Amazed, and sore bestead; +Lo! while with words of cheer + He bade their trembling cease, +The flocks of God swept sweetly near, + And sang to them of peace. + +All on the hillside grass + That fulgent radiance fell, +So close those innocents did pass, + Their words were heard right well; +Among the sheep, their wings + Some folding, walk'd the sod +An order'd throng of shining things, + White, with the smile of God. + +The waits of heaven to hear, + Oh! what it must have been! +Think, Christian people, think, and fear + For cold hearts, for unclean; +Think how the times go by, + How love and longing fail, +Think how we live and how we die, + As this were but a tale. + +O tender tale of old, + Live in thy dear renown; +God's smile was in the dark, behold + That way His hosts came down; +Light up, great God, Thy Word, + Make the blest meaning strong, +As if our ears, indeed, had heard + The glory of their song. + +It was so far away, + But Thou could'st make it near, +And all its living might display + And cry to it, "Be here," +Here, in th' unresting town, + As once remote to them, +Who heard it when the heavens came down, + On pastoral Bethlehem. + +It was so long ago, + But God can make it _now_, +And as with that sweet overflow, + Our empty hearts endow; +Take, Lord, those words outworn, + O! make them new for aye, +Speak--"Unto you a child is born," + To-day--to-day--to-day. + + +DEAR IS THE LOST WIFE TO A LONE MAN'S HEART. + +"_I have loved thee with an everlasting love_." + +Dear is the lost wife to a lone man's heart, + When in a dream he meets her at his door, +And, waked for joy, doth know she dwells apart, + All unresponsive on a silent shore; +Dearer, yea, more desired art thou--for thee +My divine heart yearns by the jasper sea. + +More than the mother's for her sucking child; + She wants, with emptied arms and love untold, +Her most dear little one that on her smiled + And went; but more, I want Mine own. Behold, +I long for My redeem'd, where safe with Me +Twelve manner of fruits grow on th' immortal tree; + +The tree of life that I won back for men, + And planted in the city of My God. +Lift up thy head, I love thee; wherefore, then, + Liest thou so long on thy memorial sod +Sleeping for sorrow? Rise, for dawn doth break-- +I love thee, and I cry to thee "Awake." + +Serve,--woman whom I love, ere noon be high, + Ere the long shadow lengthen at thy feet. +Work,--I have many poor, O man, that cry, + My little ones do languish in the street. +Love,--'tis a time for love, since I love thee. +Live,--'tis a time to live. Man, live in Me. + + +WEEPING AND WAILING NEEDS MUST BE. + +"_Blessed are ye that weep now_." + +Weeping and wailing needs must be + When Love His name shall disavow, +When christen'd men His wrath shall dree, +Who mercy scorn'd in this their day; +But what? He turns not yet away, + Not yet--not now. + +Let me not, waken'd after sleep, + Behold a Judge with lowering brow, +The world must weep, and I must weep +Those sins that nail'd Thee on the tree, +Lord Jesu, of Thy clemency. + Let it be NOW. + +Let us have weeping NOW for sin, + And not us only; let Thy tears +Avail the tears of many to win; +Weep with us, Jesu, kind art Thou; +We that have sinn'd many long years, + Let us weep NOW; + +And then, waked up, behold Thy face, + Who did forgive us. See Thy brow-- +Beautiful--learn Thy love and grace. +Then wilt Thou wipe away our tears, +And comfort in th' all-hallow'd spheres, + Them that weep now. + + +JESUS, THE LAMB OF GOD. + +"_Art Thou He that should come?_" + +Jesus, the Lamb of God, gone forth to heal and bless. +Calm lie the desert pools in a fair wilderness; +Wind-shaken moves the reed, so moves His voice the soul, +Sick folk surprised of joy, wax when they hear it, whole. + +Calm all His mastering might, calm smiles the desert waste; +Peace, peace, He shall not cry, nay, He shall not make haste; +Heaven gazes, hell beneath moved for Him, moans and stirs-- +Lo, John lies fast in prison, sick for his messengers. + +John, the forerunner, John, the desert's tameless son, +Cast into loathed thrall, his use and mission done; +John from his darkness sends a cry, but not a plea; +Not, "Hast Thou felt my need?" but only, "Art Thou He?" + +Unspoken pines his hope, grown weak in lingering dole; +None know what pang that hour might pierce the Healer's soul; +Silence that faints to Him--but must e'en so be vain; +A word--the fetters fall--He will that word restrain. + +Jesus, the Father's son, bound in a mighty plan, +Retired full oft in God, show'd not His mind to man; +Nor their great matters high His human lips confess; +He will His wonders work, and not make plain, but bless. + +The bournes of His wide way kept secret from all thought, +Enring'd the outmost waste that evil power had wrought; +His measure none can take, His strife we are not shown, +Nor if He gathered then more sheaves than earth hath grown. + +"John, from the Christ of God, an answer for all time," +The proof of Sonship given in characters sublime; +Sad hope will He make firm, and fainting faith restore, +But yet with mortal eyes will see His face no more. + +He bow'd His sacred head to exigence austere, +Unknown to us and dark, first piercings of the spear: +And to each martyr since 'tis even as if He said, +"Verily I am He--I live, and I was dead. + +"The All-wise found a way--a dark way--dread, unknown; +I chose it, will'd it Mine, seal'd for My feet alone; +Thou canst not therein walk, yet thou hast part in Me, +I will not break thy bonds, but I am bound with thee. + +"With thee and for thee bound, with thee and for thee given, +A mystery seal'd from hell, and wonder'd at in heaven; +I send thee rest at heart to love, and still believe; +But not for thee--nor Me--is found from death reprieve." + + +THOU HAST BEEN ALWAY GOOD TO ME. + +"_He doeth all things well._" + +Thou hast been alway good to me and mine + Since our first father by transgression fell. +Through all Thy sorest judgments love doth shine-- + Lord, of a truth, Thou doest all things well. + +Thou didst the food of immortality + Compass with flame, lest he thereto should win. +But what? his doom, yet eating of that tree, + Had been immortal life of shame and sin! + +I would not last immortal in such wise; + Desired death, not life, is now my song. +Through death shall I go back to Paradise, + And sin no more--Sweet death, tarry not long! + +One did prevail that closed gate to unseal, + Where yet th' immortalizing tree doth grow; +He shall there meet us, and once more reveal + The fruit of life, where crime is not, nor woe. + + +THOU THAT SLEEPEST NOT AFRAID. + +"_Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ +shall give thee light_." + +Thou that sleepest not afraid, +Men and angels thee upbraid; +Rise, cry, cry to God aloud, +Ere the swift hours weave thy shroud: + O, for Jesus' sake, + Wake! + +Thee full ill doth it beseem +Through the dark to drowse and dream; +In the dead-time of the night +Here is One can give thee light: + O, for Jesus' sake, + Wake! + +The year passeth--it and all +God shall take and shall let fall +Soon, into the whelming sea +Of His wide eternity: + O, for Jesus' sake, + Wake! + +Noiseless as the flakes of snow +The last moments falter and go; +The time-angel sent this way +Sweeps them like a drift away: + O, for Jesus' sake, + Wake! + +Loved and watch'd of heaven, for whom +The crowned Saviour there makes room, +Sleeper, hark! He calls thee, rise, +Lift thy head, and raise thine eyes! + Now, for Jesus' sake, + Wake! + + +NOW WINTER PAST, THE WHITE-THORN BOWER. + +"_Thy gentleness hath made me great_." + +Now winter past, the white-thorn bower + Breaks forth and buds down all the glen; +Now spreads the leaf and grows the flower: + So grows the life of God, in men. + +Oh, my child-God, most gentle King, + To me Thy waxing glory show; +Wake in my heart as wakes the spring, + Grow as the leaf and lily grow. + +I was a child, when Thou a child + Didst make Thyself again to me; +And holy, harmless, undefiled, + Play'd at Thy mother Mary's knee. + +Thou gav'st Thy pure example so, + The copy in my childish breast +Was a child's copy. I did know + God, made in childhood manifest. + +Now I am grown, and Thou art grown + The God-man, strong to love, to will, +Who was alone, yet not alone, + Held in His Father's presence still. + +Now do I know Thee for my cure, + My peace, the Absolver for me set; +Thy goings pass through deeps obscure, + But Thou with me art gentle yet. + +Long-suffering Lord, to man reveal'd + As One that e'en the child doth wait, +Thy full salvation is my shield, + Thy gentleness hath made me great. + + +SUCH AS HAVE NOT GOLD TO BRING THEE. + +"_Ye also, as lively stones, are built up a spiritual house_." + +Such as have not gold to bring Thee, + They bring thanks--Thy grateful sons; +Such as have no song to sing Thee, + Live Thee praise--Thy silent ones. + +Such as have their unknown dwelling, + Secret from Thy children here, +Known of Thee, will Thee be telling + How Thy ways with them are dear. + +None the place ordained refuseth, + They are one, and they are all +Living stones, the Builder chooseth + For the courses of His wall. + +Now Thy work by us fulfilling, + Build us in Thy house divine; +Each one cries, "I, Lord, am willing, + Whatsoever place be mine." + +Some, of every eye beholden, + Hewn to fitness for the height, +By Thy hand to beauty moulden, + Show Thy workmanship in light. + +Other, Thou dost bless with station + Dark, and of the foot downtrod, +Sink them deep in the foundation-- + Buried, hid with Christ in God. + + +A MORN OF GUILT, AN HOUR OF DOOM. + +"_There was darkness_." + +A Morn of guilt, an hour of doom-- + Shocks and tremblings dread; +All the city sunk in gloom-- + Thick darkness overhead. +An awful Sufferer straight and stark; + Mocking voices fell; +Tremblings--tremblings in the dark, + In heaven, and earth, and hell. + +Groping, stumbling up the way, + They pass, whom Christ forgave; +They know not what they do--they say, + "Himself He cannot save. +On His head behold the crown + That alien hands did weave; +Let Him come down, let Him come down, + And we will believe!" + +Fearsome dreams, a rending veil, + Cloven rocks down hurl'd; +God's love itself doth seem to fail + The Saviour of the world. +Dying thieves do curse and wail, + Either side is scorn; +Lo! He hangs while some cry "Hail!" + Of heaven and earth forlorn. + +Still o'er His passion darkness lowers, + He nears the deathly goal; +But He shall see in His last hours + Of the travail of His soul; +Lo, a cry!--the firstfruits given + On the accursed tree-- +"Dying Love of God in heaven, + Lord, remember me!" + +By His sacrifice, foreknown + Long ages ere that day, +And by God's sparing of His own + Our debt of death to pay; +By the Comforter's consent, + With ardent flames bestow'd, +In this dear race when Jesus went + To make His mean abode-- + +By the pangs God look'd not on, + And the world dared not see; +By all redeeming wonders won + Through that dread mystery;-- +Lord, receive once more the sigh + From the accursed tree-- +"Sacred Love of God most high, + O remember me!" + + +MARY OF MAGDALA. + +"_While it was yet dark_." + +Mary of Magdala, when the moon had set, +Forth to the garden that was with night dews wet, +Fared in the dark--woe-wan and bent was she, +'Neath many pounds' weight of fragrant spicery. + +Mary of Magdala, in her misery, +"Who shall roll the stone up from yon door?" quoth she; +And trembling down the steep she went, and wept sore, +Because her dearest Lord was, alas! no more. + +Her burden she let fall, lo! the stone was gone; +Light was there within, out to the dark it shone; +With an angel's face the dread tomb was bright, +The which she beholding fell for sore affright. + +Mary of Magdala, in her misery, +Heard the white vision speak, and did straightway flee; +And an idle tale seem'd the wild words she said, +And nought her heart received--nought was comforted. + +"Nay," quoth the men He loved, when they came to see, +"Our eyes beheld His death, the Saint of Galilee; +Who have borne Him hence truly we cannot say;" +Secretly in fear, they turn'd and went their way. + +Mary of Magdala, in her misery, +Follow'd to the tomb, and wept full bitterly, +Linger'd in the dark, where first the Lord was laid; +The white one spake again, she was no more afraid. + +In a moment--dawn! solemn, and sweet, and clear, +Kneeling, yet she weeps, and some one stands anear; +Asketh of her grief--she, all her thoughts are dim, +"If thou hast borne Him hence, tell me," doth answer Him. + +"Mary," He saith, no more, shades of night have fled +Under dewy leaves, behold Him!--death is dead; +"Mary," and "O my Master," sorrow speeds away, +Sunbeams touch His feet this earliest Easter day. + +After the pains of death, in a place unknown, +Trembling, of visions haunted, and all alone, +I too shall want Thee, Jesus, my hope, my trust, +Fall'n low, and all unclothed, even of my poor dust. + +I, too, shall hear Thee speak, Jesus, my life divine; +And call me by my name, Lord, for I am Thine; +Thou wilt stand and wait, I shall so look and SEE, +In the garden of God, I SHALL look up--on THEE. + + +WOULD I, TO SAVE MY DEAR CHILD? + +"_Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself._" + +Would I, to save my dear child dutiful, + Dare the white breakers on a storm-rent shore? +Ay, truly, Thou all good, all beautiful, + Truly I would,--then truly Thou would'st more. + +Would I for my poor son, who desolate + After long sinning, sued without my door +For pardon, open it? Ay, fortunate + To hear such prayer, I would,--Lord, Thou would'st more. + +Would I for e'en the stranger's weariness + And want divide, albeit 'twere scant, my store? +Ay, and mine enemy, sick, shelterless, + Dying, I would attend,--O, Lord, Thou more. + +In dust and ashes my long infamy + Of unbelief I rue. My love before +Thy love I set: my heart's discovery, + Is sweet,--whate'er I would, Thou wouldest more. + +I was Thy shelterless, sick enemy, + And Thou didst die for me, yet heretofore +I have fear'd; now learn I love's supremacy,-- + Whate'er is known of love, Thou lovest more. + + + + +AT ONE AGAIN. + + +I. NOONDAY. + +Two angry men--in heat they sever, + And one goes home by a harvest field:-- +"Hope's nought," quoth he, "and vain endeavor; + I said and say it, I will not yield! + +"As for this wrong, no art can mend it, + The bond is shiver'd that held us twain; +Old friends we be, but law must end it, + Whether for loss or whether for gain. + +"Yon stream is small--full slow its wending; + But winning is sweet, but right is fine; +And shoal of trout, or willowy bending-- + Though Law be costly--I'll prove them mine. + +"His strawberry cow slipped loose her tether, + And trod the best of my barley down; +His little lasses at play together + Pluck'd the poppies my boys had grown. + +"What then?--Why naught! _She_ lack'd of reason; + And _they_--my little ones match them well:-- +But _this_--Nay all things have their season, + And 'tis my season to curb and quell." + + +II. SUNSET. + +So saith he, when noontide fervors flout him, + So thinks, when the West is amber and red, +When he smells the hop-vines sweet about him, + And the clouds are rosy overhead. + +While slender and tall the hop-poles going + Straight to the West in their leafy lines, +Portion it out into chambers, glowing, + And bask in red day as the sun declines. + +Between the leaves in his latticed arbor + He sees the sky, as they flutter and turn, +While moor'd like boats in a golden harbor + The fleets of feathery cloudlets burn. + +Withdrawn in shadow, he thinketh over + Harsh thoughts, the fruit-laden trees among, +Till pheasants call their young to cover, + And cushats coo them a nursery song. + +And flocks of ducks forsake their sedges, + Wending home to the wide barn-door, +And loaded wains between the hedges + Slowly creep to his threshing floor-- + +Slowly creep. And his tired senses, + Float him over the magic stream, +To a world where Fancy recompenses + Vengeful thoughts, with a troubled dream! + + +III. THE DREAM. + +What's this? a wood--What's that? one calleth, + Calleth and cryeth in mortal dread-- +He hears men strive--then somewhat falleth!-- + "Help me, neighbor--I'm hard bestead." + +The dream is strong--the voice he knoweth-- + But when he would run, his feet are fast, +And death lies beyond, and no man goeth + To help, and he says the time is past. + +His feet are held, and he shakes all over,-- + Nay--they are free--he has found the place-- +Green boughs are gather'd--what is't they cover?-- + "I pray you, look on the dead man's face; + +"You that stand by," he saith, and cowers-- + "Man, or Angel, to guard the dead +With shadowy spear, and a brow that lowers, + And wing-points reared in the gloom o'erhead.-- + +"I dare not look. He wronged me never. + Men say we differ'd; they speak amiss: +This man and I were neighbors ever-- + I would have ventured my life for his. + +"But fast my feet were--fast with tangles-- + Ay! words--but they were not sharp, I trow, +Though parish feuds and vestry wrangles-- + O pitiful sight--I see thee now!-- + +"If we fell out, 'twas but foul weather, + After long shining! O bitter cup,-- +What--dead?--why, man, we play'd together-- + Art dead--ere a friend can make it up?" + + +IV. THE WAKING. + +Over his head the chafer hummeth, + Under his feet shut daisies bend: +Waken, man! the enemy cometh, + Thy neighbor, counted so long a friend. + +He cannot waken--and firm, and steady, + The enemy comes with lowering brow; +He looks for war, his heart is ready, + His thoughts are bitter--he will not bow. + +He fronts the seat,--the dream is flinging + A spell that his footsteps may not break,-- +But one in the garden of hops is singing-- + The dreamer hears it, and starts awake. + + +V. A SONG. + +Walking apart, she thinks none listen; + And now she carols, and now she stops; +And the evening star begins to glisten + Atween the lines of blossoming hops. + +Sweetest Mercy, your mother taught you + All uses and cares that to maids belong; +Apt scholar to read and to sew she thought you-- + She did not teach you that tender song-- + +"The lady sang in her charmed bower, + Sheltered and safe under roses blown-- +'_Storm cannot touch me, hail, nor shower, + Where all alone I sit, all alone. + +"My bower! The fair Fay twined it round me, + Care nor trouble can pierce it through; +But once a sigh from the warm world found me + Between two leaves that were bent with dew. + +"And day to night, and night to morrow, + Though soft as slumber the long hours wore, +I looked for my dower of love, of sorrow-- + Is there no more--no more--no more?_' + +"Give her the sun-sweet light, and duly + To walk in shadow, nor chide her part; +Give her the rose, and truly, truly-- + To wear its thorn with a patient heart-- + +"Misty as dreams the moonbeam lyeth + Chequered and faint on her charmed floor; +The lady singeth, the lady sigheth-- + '_Is there no more_--no more--no more!_'" + + +VI. LOVERS. + +A crash of boughs!--one through them breaking! + Mercy is startled, and fain would fly, +But e'en as she turns, her steps o'ertaking, + He pleads with her--"Mercy, it is but I!" + +"Mercy!" he touches her hand unbidden-- + "The air is balmy, I pray you stay-- +Mercy?" Her downcast eyes are hidden, + And never a word she has to say. + +Till closer drawn, her prison'd fingers + He takes to his lips with a yearning strong; +And she murmurs low, that late she lingers, + Her mother will want her, and think her long. + +"Good mother is she, then honor duly + The lightest wish in her heart that stirs; +But there is a bond yet dearer truly, + And there is a love that passeth hers. + +"Mercy, Mercy!" Her heart attendeth-- + Love's birthday blush on her brow lies sweet; +She turns her face when his own he bendeth, + And the lips of the youth and the maiden meet. + + +VII. FATHERS. + +Move through the bowering hops, O lovers,-- + Wander down to the golden West,-- +But two stand mute in the shade that covers + Your love and youth from their souls opprest. + +A little shame on their spirits stealing,-- + A little pride that is loth to sue,-- +A little struggle with soften'd feeling,-- + And a world of fatherly care for you. + +One says: "To this same running water, + May be, Neighbor, your claim is best." +And one--"Your son has kissed my daughter: + Let the matters between us--rest." + + + + +SONNETS. + + +FANCY. + +O fancy, if thou flyest, come back anon, + Thy fluttering wings are soft as love's first word, + And fragrant as the feathers of that bird, +Which feeds upon the budded cinnamon. +I ask thee not to work, or sigh--play on, + From nought that was not, was, or is, deterred; + The flax that Old Fate spun thy flights have stirred, +And waved memorial grass of Marathon. +Play, but be gentle, not as on that day + I saw thee running down the rims of doom +With stars thou hadst been stealing--while they lay + Smothered in light and blue--clasped to thy breast; +Bring rather to me in the firelit room + A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest. + + +COMPENSATION. + +One launched a ship, but she was wrecked at sea; + He built a bridge, but floods have borne it down; +He meant much good, none came: strange destiny, + His corn lies sunk, his bridge bears none to town, + Yet good he had not meant became his crown; +For once at work, when even as nature free, + From thought of good he was, or of renown, +God took the work for good and let good be. +So wakened with a trembling after sleep, + Dread Mona Roa yields her fateful store; +All gleaming hot the scarlet rivers creep, + And fanned of great-leaved palms slip to the shore, +Then stolen to unplumbed wastes of that far deep, + Lay the foundations for one island more. + + +LOOKING DOWN. + +Mountains of sorrow, I have heard your moans, + And the moving of your pines; but we sit high + On your green shoulders, nearer stoops the sky, +And pure airs visit us from all the zones. + Sweet world beneath, too happy far to sigh, +Dost thou look thus beheld from heavenly thrones? +No; not for all the love that counts thy stones, + While sleepy with great light the valleys lie. +Strange, rapturous peace! its sunshine doth enfold + My heart; I have escaped to the days divine, +It seemeth as bygone ages back had rolled, + And all the eldest past was now, was mine; +Nay, even as if Melchizedec of old + Might here come forth to us with bread and wine. + + +WORK. + +Like coral insects multitudinous + The minutes are whereof our life is made. + They build it up as in the deep's blue shade +It grows, it comes to light, and then, and thus +For both there is an end. The populous + Sea-blossoms close, our minutes that have paid + Life's debt of work are spent; the work is laid +Before our feet that shall come after us. +We may not stay to watch if it will speed, + The bard if on some luter's string his song +Live sweetly yet; the hero if his star +Doth shine. Work is its own best earthly meed, + Else have we none more than the sea-born throng +Who wrought those marvellous isles that bloom afar. + + +WISHING. + +When I reflect how little I have done, + And add to that how little I have seen, +Then furthermore how little I have won + Of joy, or good, how little known, or been: + I long for other life more full, more keen, +And yearn to change with such as well have run-- + Yet reason mocks me--nay, the soul, I ween, +Granted her choice would dare to change with none; +No,--not to feel, as Blondel when his lay + Pierced the strong tower, and Richard answered it-- +No,--not to do, as Eustace on the day + He left fair Calais to her weeping lit-- +No,--not to be, Columbus, waked from sleep +When his new world rose from the charmed deep. + + +TO ----. + +Strange was the doom of Heracles, whose shade + Had dwelling in dim Hades the unblest, + While yet his form and presence sat a guest +With the old immortals when the feast was made. +Thine like, thus differs; form and presence laid + In this dim chamber of enforced rest, + It is the unseen "shade" which, risen, hath pressed +Above all heights where feet Olympian strayed. +My soul admires to hear thee speak; thy thought + Falls from a high place like an August star, +Or some great eagle from his air-hung rings-- + When swooping past a snow-cold mountain scar-- +Down he steep slope of a long sunbeam brought, + He stirs the wheat with the steerage of his wings. + + +ON THE BORDERS OF CANNOCK CHASE. + +A cottager leaned whispering by her hives, + Telling the bees some news, as they lit down, + And entered one by one their waxen town. +Larks passioning hung o'er their brooding wives, +And all the sunny hills where heather thrives + Lay satisfied with peace. A stately crown + Of trees enringed the upper headland brown, +And reedy pools, wherein the moor-hen dives, +Glittered and gleamed. + A resting-place for light, +They that were bred here love it; but they say, + "We shall not have it long; in three years' time +A hundred pits will cast out fires by night, +Down yon still glen their smoke shall trail its way, +And the white ash lie thick in lieu of rime." + + +AN ANCIENT CHESS KING. + +Haply some Rajah first in the ages gone + Amid his languid ladies fingered thee, + While a black nightingale, sun-swart as he, +Sang his one wife, love's passionate oraison; +Haply thou may'st have pleased Old Prester John + Among his pastures, when full royally + He sat in tent, grave shepherds at his knee, +While lamps of balsam winked and glimmered on. +What doest thou here? Thy masters are all dead; + My heart is full of ruth and yearning pain +At sight of thee; O king that hast a crown + Outlasting theirs, and tell'st of greatness fled +Through cloud-hung nights of unabated rain +And murmurs of the dark majestic town. + + +COMFORT IN THE NIGHT. + +She thought by heaven's high wall that she did stray + Till she beheld the everlasting gate: + And she climbed up to it to long, and wait, +Feel with her hands (for it was night), and lay +Her lips to it with kisses; thus to pray + That it might open to her desolate. + And lo! it trembled, lo! her passionate +Crying prevailed. A little little way +It opened: there fell out a thread of light, + And she saw winged wonders move within; +Also she heard sweet talking as they meant +To comfort her. They said, "Who comes to-night + Shall one day certainly an entrance win;" +Then the gate closed and she awoke content. + + +THOUGH ALL GREAT DEEDS. + +Though all great deeds were proved but fables fine, + Though earth's old story could be told anew, + Though the sweet fashions loved of them that sue +Were empty as the ruined Delphian shrine-- +Though God did never man, in words benign, + With sense of His great Fatherhood endue, + Though life immortal were a dream untrue, +And He that promised it were not divine-- +Though soul, though spirit were not, and all hope + Reaching beyond the bourne, melted away; +Though virtue had no goal and good no scope, + But both were doomed to end with this our clay-- +Though all these were not,--to the ungraced heir +Would this remain,--to live, as though they were. + + +A SNOW MOUNTAIN. + +Can I make white enough my thought for thee, + Or wash my words in light? Thou hast no mate +To sit aloft in the silence silently + And twin those matchless heights undesecrate. +Reverend as Lear, when, lorn of shelter, he + Stood, with his old white head, surprised at fate; +Alone as Galileo, when, set free, + Before the stars he mused disconsolate. + +Ay, and remote, as the dead lords of song, + Great masters who have made us what we are, +For thou and they have taught us how to long + And feel a sacred want of the fair and far: +Reign, and keep life in this our deep desire-- +Our only greatness is that we aspire. + + +SLEEP. + +(A WOMAN SPEAKS.) + +O sleep, we are beholden to thee, sleep, + Thou bearest angels to us in the night, + Saints out of heaven with palms. Seen by thy light +Sorrow is some old tale that goeth not deep; +Love is a pouting child. Once I did sweep + Through space with thee, and lo, a dazzling sight-- + Stars! They came on, I felt their drawing and might; +And some had dark companions. Once (I weep +When I remember that) we sailed the tide, +And found fair isles, where no isles used to bide, + And met there my lost love, who said to me, +_That 'twas a long mistake: he had not died_. + Sleep, in the world to come how strange 'twill be +Never to want, never to wish for thee! + + +PROMISING. + +(A MAN SPEAKS.) + +Once, a new world, the sunswart marinere, + Columbus, promised, and was sore withstood, +Ungraced, unhelped, unheard for many a year; + But let at last to make his promise good. +Promised and promising I go, most dear, + To better my dull heart with love's sweet feud, +My life with its most reverent hope and fear, + And my religion, with fair gratitude. +O we must part; the stars for me contend, + And all the winds that blow on all the seas. +Through wonderful waste places I must wend, + And with a promise my sad soul appease. +Promise then, promise much of far-off bliss; +But--ah, for present joy, give me one kiss. + + +LOVE. + +Who veileth love should first have vanquished fate. + She folded up the dream in her deep heart, + Her fair full lips were silent on that smart, +Thick fringed eyes did on the grasses wait. +What good? one eloquent blush, but one, and straight + The meaning of a life was known; for art + Is often foiled in playing nature's part, +And time holds nothing long inviolate. +Earth's buried seed springs up--slowly, or fast: +The ring came home, that one in ages past + Flung to the keeping of unfathomed seas: + And golden apples on the mystic trees +Were sought and found, and borne away at last, + Though watched of the divine Hesperides. + + +FAILURE. + +We are much bound to them that do succeed; + But, in a more pathetic sense, are bound +To such as fail. They all our loss expound; +They comfort us for work that will not speed, +And life--itself a failure. + Ay, his deed, +Sweetest in story, who the dusk profound + Of Hades flooded with entrancing sound, +Music's own tears, was failure. Doth it read + Therefore the worse? Ah, no! so much, to dare, + He fronts the regnant Darkness on its throne.-- +So much to do; impetuous even there, + He pours out love's disconsolate sweet moan-- +He wins; but few for that his deed recall: +Its power is in the look which costs him all. + + + + +A BIRTHDAY WALK. + + +(WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND'S BIRTHDAY.) + +"_The days of our life are threescore years and ten_." + + +A birthday:--and a day that rose + With much of hope, with meaning rife-- +A thoughtful day from dawn to close: + The middle day of human life. + +In sloping fields on narrow plains, + The sheep were feeding on their knees +As we went through the winding lanes, + Strewed with red buds of alder-trees. + +So warm the day--its influence lent + To flagging thought a stronger wing; +So utterly was winter spent, + So sudden was the birth of spring. + +Wild crocus flowers in copse and hedge-- + In sunlight, clustering thick below, +Sighed for the firwood's shaded ledge, + Where sparkled yet a line of snow. + +And crowded snowdrops faintly hung + Their fair heads lower for the heat, +While in still air all branches flung + Their shadowy doubles at our feet. + +And through the hedge the sunbeams crept, + Dropped through the maple and the birch; +And lost in airy distance slept + On the broad tower of Tamworth Church. + +Then, lingering on the downward way, + A little space we resting stood, +To watch the golden haze that lay + Adown that river by the wood. + +A distance vague, the bloom of sleep + The constant sun had lent the scene, +A veiling charm on dingles deep + Lay soft those pastoral hills between. + +There are some days that die not out, + Nor alter by reflection's power, +Whose converse calm, whose words devout, + For ever rest, the spirit's dower. + +And they are days when drops a veil-- + A mist upon the distance past; +And while we say to peace--"All hail!" + We hope that always it shall last. + +Times when the troubles of the heart + Are hushed--as winds were hushed that day-- +And budding hopes begin to start, + Like those green hedgerows on our way: + +When all within and all around + Like hues on that sweet landscape blend, +And Nature's hand has made to sound + The heartstrings that her touch attend: + +When there are rays within, like those + That streamed through maple and through birch, +And rested in such calm repose + On the broad tower of Tamworth Church. + + + + +NOT IN VAIN I WAITED. + + + She was but a child, a child, + And I a man grown; + Sweet she was, and fresh, and wild, + And, I thought, my own. +What could I do? The long grass groweth, + The long wave floweth with a murmur on: +The why and the wherefore of it all who knoweth? + Ere I thought to lose her she was grown--and gone. +This day or that day in warm spring weather. +The lamb that was tame will yearn to break its tether. +"But if the world wound thee," I said, "come back to me, +Down in the dell wishing--wishing, wishing for thee." + + The dews hang on the white may, + Like a ghost it stands, + All in the dusk before day + That folds the dim lands: + +Dark fell the skies when once belated, + Sad, and sorrow-fated, I missed the sun; +But wake, heart, and sing, for not in vain I waited. + O clear, O solemn dawning, lo, the maid is won! +Sweet dews, dry early on the grass and clover, +Lest the bride wet her feet while she walks over; +Shine to-day, sunbeams, and make all fair to see: +Down the dell she's coming--coming, coming with me. + + + + +A GLEANING SONG. + + +"Whither away, thou little eyeless rover? + (Kind Roger's true) +Whither away across yon bents and clover, + Wet, wet with dew?" + "Roger here, Roger there-- + Roger--O, he sighed, + Yet let me glean among the wheat, + Nor sit kind Roger's bride." + +"What wilt thou do when all the gleaning's ended, + What wilt thou do? +The cold will come, and fog and frost-work blended + (Kind Roger's true)." + "Sleet and rain, cloud and storm, + When they cease to frown + I'll bind me primrose bunches sweet, + And cry them up the town." + +"What if at last thy careless heart awaking + This day thou rue?" +"I'll cry my flowers, and think for all its breaking, + Kind Roger's true; + Roger here, Roger there, + O, my true love sighed, + Sigh once, once more, I'll stay my feet + And rest kind Roger's bride." + + + + +WITH A DIAMOND. + + +While Time a grim old lion gnawing lay, + And mumbled with his teeth yon regal tomb, +Like some immortal tear undimmed for aye, + This gem was dropped among the dust of doom. + +Dropped, haply, by a sad, forgotten queen, + A tear to outlast name, and fame, and tongue: +Her other tears, and ours, all tears terrene, + For great new griefs to be hereafter sung. + +Take it,--a goddess might have wept such tears, + Or Dame Electra changed into a star, +That waxed so dim because her children's years + In leaguered Troy were bitter through long war. + +Not till the end to end grow dull or waste,-- + Ah, what a little while the light we share! +Hand after hand shall yet with this be graced, + Signing the Will that leaves it to an heir. + + + + +MARRIED LOVERS. + + +Come away, the clouds are high, +Put the flashing needles by. +Many days are not to spare, +Or to waste, my fairest fair! +All is ready. Come to-day, +For the nightingale her lay, +When she findeth that the whole +Of her love, and all her soul, +Cannot forth of her sweet throat, +Sobs the while she draws her breath, +And the bravery of her note +In a few days altereth. + +Come, ere she despond, and see +In a silent ecstasy +Chestnuts heave for hours and hours +All the glory of their flowers +To the melting blue above, +That broods over them like love. +Leave the garden walls, where blow +Apple-blossoms pink, and low +Ordered beds of tulips fine. +Seek the blossoms made divine +With a scent that is their soul. +These are soulless. Bring the white +Of thy gown to bathe in light +Walls for narrow hearts. The whole +Earth is found, and air and sea, +Not too wide for thee and me. + +Not too wide, and yet thy face +Gives the meaning of all space; +And thine eyes, with starbeams fraught, +Hold the measure of all thought; +For of them my soul besought, +And was shown a glimpse of thine-- +A veiled vestal, with divine +Solace, in sweet love's despair, +For that life is brief as fair. +Who hath most, he yearneth most, +Sure, as seldom heretofore, +Somewhere of the gracious more. +Deepest joy the least shall boast, +Asking with new-opened eyes +The remainder; that which lies +O, so fair! but not all conned-- +O, so near! and yet beyond. + +Come, and in the woodland sit, +Seem a wonted part of it. +Then, while moves the delicate air, +And the glories of thy hair +Little flickering sun-rays strike, +Let me see what thou art like; +For great love enthralls me so, +That, in sooth, I scarcely know. +Show me, in a house all green, +Save for long gold wedges' sheen, +Where the flies, white sparks of fire, +Dart and hover and aspire, +And the leaves, air-stirred on high, +Feel such joy they needs must sigh, +And the untracked grass makes sweet +All fair flowers to touch thy feet, +And the bees about them hum. +All the world is waiting. Come! + + + + +A WINTER SONG. + + +Came the dread Archer up yonder lawn-- + Night is the time for the old to die-- +But woe for an arrow that smote the fawn, + When the hind that was sick unscathed went by. + +Father lay moaning, "Her fault was sore + (Night is the time when the old must die), +Yet, ah to bless her, my child, once more, + For heart is failing: the end is nigh." + +"Daughter, my daughter, my girl," I cried + (Night is the time for the old to die), +"Woe for the wish if till morn ye bide"-- + Dark was the welkin and wild the sky. + +Heavily plunged from the roof the snow-- + (Night is the time when the old will die), +She answered, "My mother, 'tis well, I go." + Sparkled the north star, the wrack flew high. + +First at his head, and last at his feet + (Night is the time when the old should die), +Kneeling I watched till his soul did fleet, + None else that loved him, none else were nigh. + +I wept in the night as the desolate weep + (Night is the time for the old to die), +Cometh my daughter? the drifts are deep, + Across the cold hollows how white they lie. + +I sought her afar through the spectral trees + (Night is the time when the old must die), +The fells were all muffled, the floods did freeze, + And a wrathful moon hung red in the sky. + +By night I found her where pent waves steal + (Night is the time when the old should die), +But she lay stiff by the locked mill-wheel, + And the old stars lived in their homes on high. + + + + +BINDING SHEAVES. + + +Hark! a lover binding sheaves + To his maiden sings, +Flutter, flutter go the leaves, + Larks drop their wings. +Little brooks for all their mirth + Are not blythe as he. +"Give me what the love is worth + That I give thee. + +"Speech that cannot be forborne + Tells the story through: +I sowed my love in with the corn, + And they both grew. +Count the world full wide of girth, + And hived honey sweet, +But count the love of more worth + Laid at thy feet. + +"Money's worth is house and land, + Velvet coat and vest. +Work's worth is bread in hand, + Ay, and sweet rest. +Wilt thou learn what love is worth? + Ah! she sits above, +Sighing, 'Weigh me not with earth, + Love's worth is love.'" + + + + +THE MARINER'S CAVE. + + +Once on a time there walked a mariner, + That had been shipwrecked;--on a lonely shore, +And the green water made a restless stir, + And a great flock of mews sped on before. +He had nor food nor shelter, for the tide +Rose on the one, and cliffs on the other side. + +Brown cliffs they were; they seemed to pierce the sky, + That was an awful deep of empty blue, +Save that the wind was in it, and on high + A wavering skein of wild-fowl tracked it through. +He marked them not, but went with movement slow, +Because his thoughts were sad, his courage low. + +His heart was numb, he neither wept nor sighed, + But wearifully lingered by the wave; +Until at length it chanced that he espied, + Far up, an opening in the cliff, a cave, +A shelter where to sleep in his distress, +And lose his sorrow in forgetfulness. + +With that he clambered up the rugged face + Of that steep cliff that all in shadow lay, +And, lo, there was a dry and homelike place, + Comforting refuge for the castaway; +And he laid down his weary, weary head, +And took his fill of sleep till dawn waxed red. + +When he awoke, warm stirring from the south + Of delicate summer air did sough and flow; +He rose, and, wending to the cavern's mouth, + He cast his eyes a little way below +Where on the narrow ledges, sharp and rude, +Preening their wings the blue rock-pigeons cooed. + +Then he looked lower and saw the lavender + And sea-thrift blooming in long crevices, +And the brown wallflower--April's messenger, + The wallflower marshalled in her companies. +Then lower yet he looked adown the steep, +And sheer beneath him lapped the lovely deep. + +The laughing deep;--and it was pacified + As if it had not raged that other day. +And it went murmuring in the morningtide + Innumerable flatteries on its way, +Kissing the cliffs and whispering at their feet +With exquisite advancement, and retreat. + +This when the mariner beheld he sighed, + And thought on his companions lying low. +But while he gazed with eyes unsatisfied + On the fair reaches of their overthow, +Thinking it strange he only lived of all, +But not returning thanks, he heard a call! + +A soft sweet call, a voice of tender ruth, + He thought it came from out the cave. And, lo, +It whispered, "Man, look up!" But he, forsooth, + Answered, "I cannot, for the long waves flow +Across my gallant ship where sunk she lies + With all my riches and my merchandise. + +"Moreover, I am heavy for the fate + Of these my mariners drowned in the deep; +I must lament me for their sad estate + Now they are gathered in their last long sleep. +O! the unpitying heavens upon me frown, +Then how should I look up?--I must look down." + +And he stood yet watching the fair green sea + Till hunger reached him; then he made a fire, +A driftwood fire, and wandered listlessly + And gathered many eggs at his desire, +And dressed them for his meal, and then he lay +And slept, and woke upon the second day. + +Whenas he said, "The cave shall be my home; + None will molest me, for the brown cliffs rise +Like castles of defence behind,--the foam + Of the remorseless sea beneath me lies; +'Tis easy from the cliff my food to win-- +The nations of the rock-dove breed therein. + +"For fuel, at the ebb yon fair expanse + Is strewed with driftwood by the breaking wave, +And in the sea is fish for sustenance. + I will build up the entrance of the cave, +And leave therein a window and a door, +And here will dwell and leave it nevermore." + +Then even so he did: and when his task, + Many long days being over, was complete, +When he had eaten, as he sat to bask + In the red firelight glowing at his feet, +He was right glad of shelter, and he said, +"Now for my comrades am I comforted." + +Then did the voice awake and speak again; + It murmured, "Man, look up!" But he replied, +"I cannot. O, mine eyes, mine eyes are fain + Down on the red wood-ashes to abide +Because they warm me." Then the voice was still, +And left the lonely mariner to his will. + +And soon it came to pass that he got gain. + He had great flocks of pigeons which he fed, +And drew great store of fish from out the main, + And down from eiderducks; and then he said, +"It is not good that I should lead my life +In silence, I will take to me a wife." + +He took a wife, and brought her home to him; + And he was good to her and cherished her +So that she loved him; then when light waxed dim + Gloom came no more; and she would minister +To all his wants; while he, being well content, +Counted her company right excellent. + +But once as on the lintel of the door + She leaned to watch him while he put to sea, +This happy wife, down-gazing at the shore, + Said sweetly, "It is better now with me +Than it was lately when I used to spin +In my old father's house beside the lin." + +And then the soft voice of the cave awoke-- + The soft voice which had haunted it erewhile-- +And gently to the wife it also spoke, + "Woman, look up!" But she, with tender guile, +Gave it denial, answering, "Nay, not so, +For all that I should look on lieth below. + +"The great sky overhead is not so good + For my two eyes as yonder stainless sea, +The source and yielder of our livelihood, + Where rocks his little boat that loveth me." +This when the wife had said she moved away, +And looked no higher than the wave all day. + +Now when the year ran out a child she bore, + And there was such rejoicing in the cave +As surely never had there been before + Since God first made it. Then full, sweet, and grave, +The voice, "God's utmost blessing brims thy cup, +O, father of this child, look up, look up!" + +"Speak to my wife," the mariner replied. + "I have much work--right welcome work 'tis true-- +Another mouth to feed." And then it sighed, + "Woman, look up!" She said, "Make no ado, +For I must needs look down, on anywise, + My heaven is in the blue of these dear eyes." + +The seasons of the year did swiftly whirl, + They measured time by one small life alone; +On such a day the pretty pushing pearl, + That mouth they loved to kiss had sweetly shown, +That smiling mouth, and it had made essay +To give them names on such another day. + +And afterward his infant history, + Whether he played with baubles on the floor, +Or crept to pat the rock-doves pecking nigh, + And feeding on the threshold of the door, +They loved to mark, and all his marvellings dim, +The mysteries that beguiled and baffled him. + +He was so sweet, that oft his mother said, + "O, child, how was it that I dwelt content +Before thou camest? Blessings on thy head, + Thy pretty talk it is so innocent, +That oft for all my joy, though it be deep, +When thou art prattling, I am like to weep." + +Summer and winter spent themselves again, + The rock-doves in their season bred, the cliff +Grew sweet, for every cleft would entertain + Its tuft of blossom, and the mariner's skiff, +Early and late, would linger in the bay, +Because the sea was calm and winds away. + +The little child about that rocky height, + Led by her loving hand who gave him birth, +Might wander in the clear unclouded light, + And take his pastime in the beauteous earth; +Smell the fair flowers in stony cradles swung, +And see God's happy creatures feed their young. + +And once it came to pass, at eventide, + His mother set him in the cavern door, +And filled his lap with grain, and stood aside + To watch the circling rock-doves soar, and soar, +Then dip, alight, and run in circling bands, +To take the barley from his open hands. + +And even while she stood and gazed at him, + And his grave father's eyes upon him dwelt, +They heard the tender voice, and it was dim, + And seemed full softly in the air to melt; +"Father," it murmured, "Mother," dying away, +"Look up, while yet the hours are called to-day." + +"I will," the father answered, "but not now;" + The mother said, "Sweet voice, O speak to me +At a convenient season." And the brow + Of the cliff began to quake right fearfully, +There was a rending crash, and there did leap +A riven rock and plunge into the deep. + +They said, "A storm is coming;" but they slept + That night in peace, and thought the storm had passed, +For there was not a cloud to intercept + The sacred moonlight on the cradle cast; +And to his rocking boat at dawn of day, +With joy of heart the mariner took his way. + +But when he mounted up the path at night, + Foreboding not of trouble or mischance, +His wife came out into the fading light, + And met him with a serious countenance; +And she broke out in tears and sobbings thick, +"The child is sick, my little child is sick." + +They knelt beside him in the sultry dark, + And when the moon looked in his face was pale, +And when the red sun, like a burning barque, + Rose in a fog at sea, his tender wail +Sank deep into their hearts, and piteously +They fell to chiding of their destiny. + +The doves unheeded cooed that livelong day, + Their pretty playmate cared for them no more; +The sea-thrift nodded, wet with glistening spray, + None gathered it; the long wave washed the shore; +He did not know, nor lift his eyes to trace, +The new fallen shadow in his dwelling-place. + +The sultry sun beat on the cliffs all day, + And hot calm airs slept on the polished sea, +The mournful mother wore her time away, + Bemoaning of her helpless misery, +Pleading and plaining, till the day was done, +"O look on me, my love, my little one. + +"What aileth thee, that thou dost lie and moan? + Ah would that I might bear it in thy stead!" +The father made not his forebodings known, + But gazed, and in his secret soul he said, +"I may have sinned, on sin waits punishment, +But as for him, sweet blameless innocent, + +"What has he done that he is stricken down? + O it is hard to see him sink and fade, +When I, that counted him my dear life's crown, + So willingly have worked while he has played; +That he might sleep, have risen, come storm, come heat, +And thankfully would fast that he might eat." + +My God, how short our happy days appear! + How long the sorrowful! They thought it long, +The sultry morn that brought such evil cheer, + And sat, and wished, and sighed for evensong; +It came, and cooling wafts about him stirred, +Yet when they spoke he answered not a word. + +"Take heart," they cried, but their sad hearts sank low + When he would moan and turn his restless head, +And wearily the lagging morns would go, + And nights, while they sat watching by his bed, +Until a storm came up with wind and rain, +And lightning ran along the troubled main. + +Over their heads the mighty thunders brake, + Leaping and tumbling down from rock to rock, +Then burst anew and made the cliffs to quake + As they were living things and felt the shock; +The waiting sea to sob as if in pain, +And all the midnight vault to ring again. + +A lamp was burning in the mariner's cave, + But the blue lightning flashes made it dim; +And when the mother heard those thunders rave, + She took her little child to cherish him; +She took him in her arms, and on her breast +Full wearily she courted him to rest, + +And soothed him long until the storm was spent, + And the last thunder peal had died away, +And stars were out in all the firmament. + Then did he cease to moan, and slumbering lay, +While in the welcome silence, pure and deep, +The care-worn parents sweetly fell asleep. + +And in a dream, enwrought with fancies thick, + The mother thought she heard the rock-doves coo +(She had forgotten that her child was sick), + And she went forth their morning meal to strew; +Then over all the cliff with earnest care +She sought her child, and lo, he was not there! + +But she was not afraid, though long she sought + And climbed the cliff, and set her feet in grass, +Then reached a river, broad and full, she thought, + And at its brink he sat. Alas! alas! +For one stood near him, fair and undefiled, +An innocent, a marvellous man-child. + +In garments white as wool, and O, most fair, + A rainbow covered him with mystic light; +Upon the warmed grass his feet were bare, + And as he breathed, the rainbow in her sight +In passions of clear crimson trembling lay, +With gold and violet mist made fair the day. + +Her little life! she thought, his little hands + Were full of flowers that he did play withal; +But when he saw the boy o' the golden lands, + And looked him in the face, he let them fall, +Held through a rapturous pause in wistful wise +To the sweet strangeness of those keen child-eyes. + +"Ah, dear and awful God, who chastenest me, + How shall my soul to this be reconciled! +It is the Saviour of the world," quoth she, + "And to my child He cometh as a child." +Then on her knees she fell by that vast stream-- +Oh, it was sorrowful, this woman's dream! + +For lo, that Elder Child drew nearer now, + Fair as the light, and purer than the sun. +The calms of heaven were brooding on his brow, + And in his arms He took her little one, +Her child, that knew her, but with sweet demur +Drew back, nor held his hands to come to her. + +With that in mother misery sore she wept-- + "O Lamb of God, I love my child so MUCH! +He stole away to Thee while we two slept, + But give him back, for Thou hast many such; +And as for me I have but one. O deign, +Dear Pity of God, to give him me again." + +His feet were on the river. Oh, his feet + Had touched the river now, and it was great; +And yet He hearkened when she did entreat, + And turned in quietness as He would wait-- +Wait till she looked upon Him, and behold, +There lay a long way off a city of gold. + +Like to a jasper and a sardine stone, + Whelmed in the rainbow stood that fair man-child, +Mighty and innocent, that held her own, + And as might be his manner at home he smiled, +Then while she looked and looked, the vision brake, +And all amazed she started up awake. + +And lo, her little child was gone indeed! + The sleep that knows no waking he had slept, +Folded to heaven's own heart; in rainbow brede + Clothed and made glad, while they two mourned and wept, +But in the drinking of their bitter cup +The sweet voice spoke once more, and sighed, "Look up!" + +They heard, and straightway answered, "Even so: + For what abides that we should look on here? +The heavens are better than this earth below, + They are of more account and far more dear. +We will look up, for all most sweet and fair, +Most pure, most excellent, is garnered there." + + + + +A REVERIE. + + + When I do sit apart + And commune with my heart, +She brings me forth the treasures once my own; + Shows me a happy place + Where leaf-buds swelled apace, +And wasting rims of snow in sunlight shone. + + Rock, in a mossy glade, + The larch-trees lend thee shade, +That just begin to feather with their leaves; + From out thy crevice deep + White tufts of snowdrops peep, +And melted rime drips softly from thine eaves. + + Ah, rock, I know, I know + That yet thy snowdrops grow, +And yet doth sunshine fleck them through the tree, + Whose sheltering branches hide + The cottage at its side, +That nevermore will shade or shelter me. + + I know the stockdoves' note + Athwart the glen doth float: +With sweet foreknowledge of her twins oppressed, + And longings onward sent, + She broods before the event, +While leisurely she mends her shallow nest. + + Once to that cottage door, + In happy days of yore, +My little love made footprints in the snow. + She was so glad of spring, + She helped the birds to sing, +I know she dwells there yet--the rest I do not know. + + They sang, and would not stop, + While drop, and drop, and drop, +I heard the melted rime in sunshine fall; + And narrow wandering rills, + Where leaned the daffodils, +Murmured and murmured on, and that was all. + + I think, but cannot tell, + I think she loved me well, +And some dear fancy with my future twined. + But I shall never know, + Hope faints, and lets it go, +That passionate want forbid to speak its mind. + + + + +DEFTON WOOD. + + +I held my way through Defton Wood, + And on to Wandor Hall; +The dancing leaf let down the light, + In hovering spots to fall. +"O young, young leaves, you match me well," + My heart was merry, and sung-- +"Now wish me joy of my sweet youth; + My love--she, too, is young! + O so many, many, many + Little homes above my head! + O so many, many, many + Dancing blossoms round me spread! + O so many, many, many + Maidens sighing yet for none! + Speed, ye wooers, speed with any-- + Speed with all but one." + +I took my leave of Wandor Hall, + And trod the woodland ways. +"What shall I do so long to bear + The burden of my days?" +I sighed my heart into the boughs + Whereby the culvers cooed; +For only I between them went + Unwooing and unwooed. + "O so many, many, many + Lilies bending stately heads! + O so many, many, many + Strawberries ripened on their beds! + O so many, many, many + Maids, and yet my heart undone! + What to me are all, are any-- + I have lost my--one." + + + + +THE LONG WHITE SEAM. + + +As I came round the harbor buoy, + The lights began to gleam, +No wave the land-locked water stirred, + The crags were white as cream; +And I marked my love by candle-light + Sewing her long white seam. + It's aye sewing ashore, my dear, + Watch and steer at sea, + It's reef and furl, and haul the line, + Set sail and think of thee. + +I climbed to reach her cottage door; + O sweetly my love sings! +Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, + My soul to meet it springs +As the shining water leaped of old, + When stirred by angel wings. + Aye longing to list anew, + Awake and in my dream, + But never a song she sang like this, + Sewing her long white seam. + +Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights, + That brought me in to thee, +And peace drop down on that low roof + For the sight that I did see, + And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear + All for the love of me. + For O, for O, with brows bent low + By the candle's flickering gleam, + Her wedding gown it was she wrought, + Sewing the long white seam. + + + + +AN OLD WIFE'S SONG. + + +And what will ye hear, my daughters dear?-- + Oh, what will ye hear this night? +Shall I sing you a song of the yuletide cheer, + Or of lovers and ladies bright? + +"Thou shalt sing," they say (for we dwell far away + From the land where fain would we be), +"Thou shalt sing us again some old-world strain + That is sung in our own countrie. + +"Thou shalt mind us so of the times long ago, + When we walked on the upland lea, +While the old harbor light waxed faint in the white, + Long rays shooting out from the sea; + +"While lambs were yet asleep, and the dew lay deep + On the grass, and their fleeces clean and fair. +Never grass was seen so thick nor so green + As the grass that grew up there! + +"In the town was no smoke, for none there awoke-- + At our feet it lay still as still could be; +And we saw far below the long river flow, + And the schooners a-warping out to sea. + +"Sing us now a strain shall make us feel again + As we felt in that sacred peace of morn, +When we had the first view of the wet sparkling dew, + In the shyness of a day just born." + +So I sang an old song--it was plain and not long-- + I had sung it very oft when they were small; +And long ere it was done they wept every one: + Yet this was all the song--this was all:-- + +The snow lies white, and the moon gives light, + I'll out to the freezing mere, +And ease my heart with one little song, + For none will be nigh to hear. + And it's O my love, my love! + And it's O my dear, my dear! +It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring, + When nobody's nigh to hear. + +My love is young, she is young, is young; + When she laughs the dimple dips. +We walked in the wind, and her long locks blew + Till sweetly they touched my lips. + And I'll out to the freezing mere, + Where the stiff reeds whistle so low. +And I'll tell my mind to the friendly wind, + Because I have loved her so. + +Ay, and she's true, my lady is true! + And that's the best of it all; +And when she blushes my heart so yearns + That tears are ready to fall. + And it's O my love, my love! + And it's O my dear, my dear! +It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring, + When nobody's nigh to hear. + + + + +COLD AND QUIET. + + +Cold, my dear,--cold and quiet. + In their cups on yonder lea, +Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet; + So the moss enfoldeth thee. +"Plant me, plant me, O love, a lily flower-- + Plant at my head, I pray you, a green tree; +And when our children sleep," she sighed, "at the dusk hour, + And when the lily blossoms, O come out to me!" + + Lost, my dear? Lost! nay deepest + Love is that which loseth least; + Through the night-time while thou sleepest, + Still I watch the shrouded east. +Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye liveth, + "Lost" is no word for such a love as mine; +Love from her past to me a present giveth, + And love itself doth comfort, making pain divine. + Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showeth + That which was, and not in vain + Sacred have I kept, God knoweth, + Love's last words atween us twain. +"Hold by our past, my only love, my lover; + Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of me!" +Boughs from our garden, white with bloom hang over. + Love, now the children slumber, I come out to thee. + + + + +SLEDGE BELLS. + + +The logs burn red; she lifts her head, + For sledge-bells tinkle and tinkle, O lightly swung. +"Youth was a pleasant morning, but ah! to think 'tis fled, + Sae lang, lang syne," quo' her mother, "I, too, was young." + +No guides there are but the North star, + And the moaning forest tossing wild arms before, +The maiden murmurs, "O sweet were yon bells afar, + And hark! hark! hark! for he cometh, he nears the door." + +Swift north-lights show, and scatter and go. + How can I meet him, and smile not, on this cold shore? +Nay, I will call him, "Come in from the night and the snow, + And love, love, love in the wild wood, wander no more." + + + + +MIDSUMMER NIGHT, NOT DARK, NOT LIGHT. + + +Midsummer night, not dark, not light, + Dusk all the scented air, +I'll e'en go forth to one I love, + And learn how he doth fare. +O the ring, the ring, my dear, for me, + The ring was a world too fine, +I wish it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea, + Or ever thou mad'st it mine. + +Soft falls the dew, stars tremble through, + Where lone he sits apart, +Would I might steal his grief away + To hide in mine own heart. +Would, would 'twere shut in yon blossom fair, + The sorrow that bows thy head, +Then--I would gather it, to thee unaware, + And break my heart in thy stead. + +That charmed flower, far from thy bower, + I'd bear the long hours through, +Thou should'st forget, and my sad breast + The sorrows twain should rue. +O sad flower, O sad, sad ring to me. + The ring was a world too fine; +And would it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea, + Ere the morn that made it mine. + + + + +THE BRIDEGROOM TO HIS BRIDE. + + + Fairest fair, best of good, + Too high for hope that stood; +White star of womanhood shining apart + O my liege lady, + And O my one lady, +And O my loved lady, come down to my heart. + + Reach me life's wine and gold, + What is man's best all told, +If thou thyself withhold, sweet, from thy throne? + O my liege lady, + And O my loved lady, +And O my heart's lady, come, reign there alone. + + + + +THE FAIRY WOMAN'S SONG. + + +The fairy woman maketh moan, + "Well-a-day, and well-a-day, +Forsooth I brought thee one rose, one, + And thou didst cast my rose away." +Hark! Oh hark, she mourneth yet, + "One good ship--the good ship sailed, +One bright star, at last it set, + One, one chance, forsooth it failed." + +Clear thy dusk hair from thy veiled eyes, + Show thy face as thee beseems, +For yet is starlight in the skies, + Weird woman piteous through my dreams. +"Nay," she mourns, "forsooth not now, + Veiled I sit for evermore, +Rose is shed, and charmed prow + Shall not touch the charmed shore." + +There thy sons that were to be, + Thy small gamesome children play; +There all loves that men foresee + Straight as wands enrich the way. +Dove-eyed, fair, with me they worm + Where enthroned I reign a queen, +In the lovely realms foregone, + In the lives that might have been. + + + + +ABOVE THE CLOUDS.[1] + + +And can this be my own world? + 'Tis all gold and snow, +Save where scarlet waves are hurled + Down yon gulf below. +'Tis thy world, 'tis my world, + City, mead, and shore, +For he that hath his own world + Hath many worlds more. + +[Footnote 1: "Above the Clouds," and thirteen poems following, are from +"Mopsa the Fairy."] + + + + +SLEEP AND TIME. + + +"Wake, baillie, wake! the crafts are out; + Wake!" said the knight, "be quick! +For high street, bye street, over the town + They fight with poker and stick." +Said the squire, "A fight so fell was ne'er + In all my bailliewick." +What said the old clock in the tower? + "Tick, tick, tick!" + +"Wake, daughter, wake! the hour draws on; + Wake!" quoth the dame, "be quick! +The meats are set, the guests are coming, + The fiddler waxing his stick." +She said, "The bridegroom waiting and waiting + To see thy face is sick." +What said the new clock in her bower? + "Tick, tick, tick!" + + + + +BEES AND OTHER FELLOW-CREATURES. + + +The dove laid some little sticks, + Then began to coo; +The gnat took his trumpet up + To play the day through; +The pie chattered soft and long-- + But that she always does; +The bee did all he had to do, + And only said, "Buzz." + + + + +THE GYPSY'S SELLING SONG. + + +My good man--he's an old, old man-- + And my good man got a fall, +To buy me a bargain so fast he ran + When he heard the gypsies call: + "Buy, buy brushes, + Baskets wrought o' rushes. + Buy them, buy them, take them, try them, + Buy, dames all." + +My old man, he has money and land, + And a young, young wife am I. +Let him put the penny in my white hand + When he hears the gypsies cry: + "Buy, buy laces, + Veils to screen your faces. + Buy them, buy them, take and try them. + Buy, maids, buy." + + + + +A WOOING SONG. + + +My fair lady's a dear, dear lady-- + I walked by her side to woo. +In a garden alley, so sweet and shady, + She answered, "I love not you, + John, John Brady," + Quoth my dear lady, +"Pray now, pray now, go your way now, + Do, John, do!" + +Yet my fair lady's my own, own lady, + For I passed another day; +While making her moan, she sat all alone, + And thus, and thus did she say: + "John, John Brady," + Quoth my dear lady, +"Do now, do now, once more woo now. + Pray, John, pray!" + + + + +A COURTING SONG. + + +"Master," quoth the auld hound + "Where will ye go?" +"Over moss, over muir, + To court my new jo." +"Master, though the night be merk, + I'se follow through the snow. + +"Court her, master, court her, + So shall ye do weel; +But and ben she'll guide the house, + I'se get milk and meal. +Ye'se get lilting while she sits + With her rock and reel." + +"For, oh! she has a sweet tongue, + And een that look down, +A gold girdle for her waist, + And a purple gown. +She has a good word forbye + Fra a' folk in the town." + + + + +LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD. + + +In the night she told a story, + In the night and all night through, +While the moon was in her glory, + And the branches dropped with dew. + +'Twas my life she told, and round it + Rose the years as from a deep; +In the world's great heart she found it, + Cradled like a child asleep. + +In the night I saw her weaving + By the misty moonbeam cold, +All the weft her shuttle cleaving + With a sacred thread of gold. + +Ah! she wept me tears of sorrow, + Lulling tears so mystic sweet; +Then she wove my last to-morrow, + And her web lay at my feet. + +Of my life she made the story: + I must weep--so soon 'twas told! +But your name did lend it glory, + And your love its thread of gold! + + + + +THE LEAVES OF LIGN ALOES. + + +Drop, drop from the leaves of lign aloes, + O honey-dew! drop from the tree. +Float up through your clear river shallows, + White lilies, beloved of the bee. + +Let the people, O Queen! say, and bless thee, + Her bounty drops soft as the dew, +And spotless in honor confess thee, + As lilies are spotless in hue. + +On the roof stands yon white stork awaking, + His feathers flush rosy the while, +For, lo! from the blushing east breaking, + The sun sheds the bloom of his smile. + +Let them boast of thy word, "It is certain; + We doubt it no more," let them say, +"Than to-morrow that night's dusky curtain + Shall roll back its folds for the day." + + + + +THE DAYS WITHOUT ALLOY. + + +When I sit on market-days amid the comers and the goers, + Oh! full oft I have a vision of the days without alloy, +And a ship comes up the river with a jolly gang of towers, + And a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!" + +There is busy talk around me, all about mine ears it hummeth, + But the wooden wharves I look on, and a dancing, heaving buoy, +For 'tis tidetime in the river, and she cometh--oh, she cometh! + With a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!" + +Then I hear the water washing, never golden waves were brighter, + And I hear the capstan creaking--'tis a sound that cannot cloy. +Bring her to, to ship her lading, brig or schooner, sloop or lighter, + With a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!" + +"Will ye step aboard, my dearest? for the high seas lie before us." + So I sailed adown the river in those days without alloy. +We are launched! But when, I wonder, shall a sweeter sound float o'er us + Than yon "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!" + + + + +FEATHERS AND MOSS. + + +The marten flew to the finch's nest, + Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay: +"The arrow it sped to thy brown mate's breast; + Low in the broom is thy mate to-day." + +"Liest thou low, love? low in the broom? + Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay, +Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom." + She beateth her wings, and away, away. + +"Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told + (Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay)! +Thine eyes are dim, and the eggs grow cold. + O mournful morrow! O dark to-day!" + +The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest, + Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay, +Mine is the trouble that rent her breast, + And home is silent, and love is clay. + + + + +ON THE ROCKS BY ABERDEEN. + + +On the rocks by Aberdeen, +Where the whislin' wave had been, +As I wandered and at e'en + Was eerie; + +There I saw thee sailing west, +And I ran with joy opprest-- +Ay, and took out all my best, + My dearie. + +Then I busked mysel' wi' speed, +And the neighbors cried "What need? +'Tis a lass in any weed + Aye bonny!" + +Now my heart, my heart is sair. +What's the good, though I be fair, +For thou'lt never see me mair, + Man Johnnie! + + + + +LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT. + + +It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye, +All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay. +Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride! +All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side. + +What's the world, my lass, my love!--what can it do? +I am thine, and thou art mine; life is sweet and new. +If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by, +For we two have gotten leave, and once more we'll try. + +Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride! +It's we two, it's we two, happy side by side. +Take a kiss from me thy man; now the song begins: +"All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins." + +When the darker days come, and no sun will shine, +Thou shalt dry my tears, lass, and I'll dry thine. +It's we two, it's we two, while the world's away, +Sitting by the golden sheaves on our wedding-day. + + + + +SONG FOR A BABE. + + +Little babe, while burns the west, +Warm thee, warm thee in my breast; +While the moon doth shine her best, + And the dews distil not. + +All the land so sad, so fair-- +Sweet its toils are, blest its care. +Child, we may not enter there! + Some there are that will not. + +Fain would I thy margins know, +Land of work, and land of snow; +Land of life, whose rivers flow + On, and on, and stay not. + +Fain would I thy small limbs fold, +While the weary hours are told, +Little babe in cradle cold. + Some there are that may not. + + + + +GIVE US LOVE AND GIVE US PEACE. + + +One morning, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, +All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they would cease; +'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, "Hear the story, hear the story!" + And the lark sang, "Give us glory!" + And the dove said, "Give us peace!" + +Then I listened, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, +To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my dear, the dove; +When the nightingale came after, "Give us fame to sweeten duty!" + When the wren sang, "Give us beauty!" + She made answer, "Give us love!" + +Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my beloved, my beloved; +Now for us doth spring, doth morning, wait upon the year's increase, +And my prayer goes up, "Oh, give us, crowned in youth with marriage glory, + Give for all our life's dear story, + Give us love, and give us peace!" + + + + +THE TWO MARGARETS. + + +I. + +MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. + +Lying imbedded in the green champaign + That gives no shadow to thy silvery face, +Open to all the heavens, and all their train, + The marshalled clouds that cross with stately pace, +No steadfast hills on thee reflected rest, +Nor waver with the dimpling of thy breast. + +O, silent Mere! about whose marges spring + Thick bulrushes to hide the reed-bird's nest; +Where the shy ousel dips her glossy wing, + And balanced in the water takes her rest: +While under bending leaves, all gem-arrayed, +Blue dragon-flies sit panting in the shade: + +Warm, stilly place, the sundew loves thee well, + And the green sward comes creeping to thy brink, +And golden saxifrage and pimpernel + Lean down to thee their perfumed heads to drink; +And heavy with the weight of bees doth bend +White clover, and beneath thy wave descend: + +While the sweet scent of bean-fields, floated wide + On a long eddy of the lightsome air +Over the level mead to thy lone side, + Doth lose itself among thy zephyrs rare, +With wafts from hawthorn bowers and new-cut hay, +And blooming orchards lying far away. + +Thou hast thy Sabbaths, when a deeper calm + Descends upon thee, quiet Mere, and then +There is a sound of bells, a far off psalm + From gray church towers, that swims across the fen; +And the light sigh where grass and waters meet, +Is thy meek welcome to the visit sweet. + +Thou hast thy lovers. Though the angler's rod + Dimple thy surface seldom; though the oar +Fill not with silvery globes thy fringing sod, + Nor send long ripples to thy lonely shore; +Though few, as in a glass, have cared to trace +The smile of nature moving on thy face; + +Thou hast thy lovers truly. 'Mid the cold + Of northern tarns the wild-fowl dream of thee, +And, keeping thee in mind, their wings unfold, + And shape their course, high soaring, till they see +Down in the world, like molten silver, rest +Their goal, and screaming plunge them in thy breast. + +Fair Margaret, who sittest all day long + On the gray stone beneath the sycamore, +The bowering tree with branches lithe and strong, + The only one to grace the level shore, +Why dost thou wait? for whom with patient cheer +Gaze yet so wistfully adown the Mere? + +Thou canst not tell, thou dost not know, alas! + Long watchings leave behind them little trace; +And yet how sweetly must the mornings pass, + That bring that dreamy calmness to thy face! +How quickly must the evenings come that find +Thee still regret to leave the Mere behind! + +Thy cheek is resting on thy hand; thine eyes + Are like twin violets but half unclosed, +And quiet as the deeps in yonder skies. + Never more peacefully in love reposed +A mother's gaze upon her offspring dear, +Than thine upon the long far-stretching Mere. + +Sweet innocent! Thy yellow hair floats low + In rippling undulations on thy breast, +Then stealing down the parted love-locks flow, + Bathed in a sunbeam on thy knees to rest, +And touch those idle hands that folded lie, +Having from sport and toil a like immunity. + +Through thy life's dream with what a touching grace + Childhood attends thee, nearly woman grown; +Her dimples linger yet upon thy face, + Like dews upon a lily this day blown; +Thy sighs are born of peace, unruffled, deep; +So the babe sighs on mother's breast asleep. + +It sighs, and wakes,--but thou! thy dream is all, + And thou wert born for it, and it for thee; +Morn doth not take thy heart, nor evenfall + Charm out its sorrowful fidelity, +Nor noon beguile thee from the pastoral shore, +And thy long watch beneath the sycamore. + +No, down the Mere as far as eye can see, + Where its long reaches fade into the sky, +Thy constant gaze, fair child, rests lovingly; + But neither thou nor any can descry +Aught but the grassy banks, the rustling sedge, +And flocks of wild-fowl splashing at their edge. + +And yet 'tis not with expectation hushed + That thy mute rosy mouth doth pouting close; +No fluttering hope to thy young heart e'er rushed, + Nor disappointment troubled its repose; +All satisfied with gazing evermore +Along the sunny Mere and reedy shore. + +The brooding wren flies pertly near thy seat, + Thou wilt not move to mark her glancing wing; +The timid sheep browse close before thy feet, + And heedless at thy side do thrushes sing. +So long amongst them thou hast spent thy days, +They know that harmless hand thou wilt not raise. + +Thou wilt not lift it up--not e'en to take + The foxglove bells that nourish in the shade, +And put them in thy bosom; not to make + A posy of wild hyacinth inlaid +Like bright mosaic in the mossy grass, +With freckled orchis and pale sassafras. + +Gaze on;--take in the voices of the Mere. + The break of shallow water at thy feet, +Its plash among long weeds and grasses sere, + And its weird sobbing,--hollow music meet +For ears like thine; listen and take thy till, +And dream on it by night when all is still. + +Full sixteen years have slowly passed away, + Young Margaret, since thy fond mother here +Came down, a six month's wife, one April day, + To see her husband's boat go down the Mere, +And track its course, till, lost in distance blue, +In mellow light it faded from her view. + +It faded, and she never saw it more;-- + Nor any human eye;--oh, grief! oh, woe! +It faded,--and returned not to the shore; + But far above it still the waters flow-- +And none beheld it sink, and none could tell +Where coldly slept the form she loved so well! + +But that sad day, unknowing of her fate, + She homeward turn'd her still reluctant feet; +And at her wheel she spun, till dark and late +The evening fell--the time when they should meet; +Till the stars paled that at deep midnight burned-- +And morning dawned, and he was not returned. + +And the bright sun came up--she thought too soon-- +And shed his ruddy light along the Mere; +And day wore on too quickly, and at noon +She came and wept beside the waters clear. +"How could he be so late?"--and then hope fled; +And disappointment darkened into dread. + +He NEVER came, and she with weepings sore +Peered in the water-nags unceasingly; +Through all the undulations of the shore, +Looking for that which most she feared to see. +And then she took home sorrow to her heart, +And brooded over its cold cruel smart. + +And after, desolate she sat alone +And mourned, refusing to be comforted, +On the gray stone, the moss-embroidered stone, +With the great sycamore above her head; +Till after many days a broken oar +Hard by her seat was drifted to the shore. + +It came,--a token of his fate,--the whole, +The sum of her misfortune to reveal; +As if sent up in pity to her soul, +The tidings of her widowhood to seal; +And put away the pining hope forlorn, +That made her grief more bitter to be borne. + +And she was patient; through the weary day + She toiled; though none was there her work to bless; +And did not wear the sullen months away, + Nor call on death to end her wretchedness, +But lest the grief should overflow her breast, +She toiled as heretofore, and would not rest. + +But, her work done, what time the evening star + Rose over the cool water, then she came +To the gray stone, and saw its light from far + Drop down the misty Mere white lengths of flame, +And wondered whether there might be the place +Where the soft ripple wandered o'er HIS face. + +Unfortunate! In solitude forlorn + She dwelt, and thought upon her husband's grave, +Till when the days grew short a child was born + To the dead father underneath the wave; +And it brought back a remnant of delight, +A little sunshine to its mother's sight; + +A little wonder to her heart grown numb, + And a sweet yearning pitiful and keen: +She took it as from that poor father come, + Her and the misery to stand between; +Her little maiden babe, who day by day +Sucked at her breast and charmed her woes away. + +But years flew on; the child was still the same, + Nor human language she had learned to speak: +Her lips were mute, and seasons went and came, + And brought fresh beauty to her tender cheek; +And all the day upon the sunny shore +She sat and mused beneath the sycamore. + +Strange sympathy! she watched and wearied not, + Haply unconscious what it was she sought; +Her mother's tale she easily forgot, + And if she listened no warm tears it brought; +Though surely in the yearnings of her heart +The unknown voyager must have had his part. + +Unknown to her; like all she saw unknown, + All sights were fresh as when they first began, +All sounds were new; each murmur and each tone + And cause and consequence she could not scan, +Forgot that night brought darkness in its train, +Nor reasoned that the day would come again. + +There is a happiness in past regret; + And echoes of the harshest sound are sweet. +The mother's soul was struck with grief, and yet, + Repeated in her child, 'twas not unmeet +That echo-like the grief a tone should take +Painless, but ever pensive for her sake. + +For her dear sake, whose patient soul was linked +By ties so many to the babe unborn; +Whose hope, by slow degrees become extinct, + For evermore had left her child forlorn, +Yet left no consciousness of want or woe, +Nor wonder vague that these things should be so. + +Truly her joys were limited and few, + But they sufficed a life to satisfy, +That neither fret nor dim foreboding knew, + But breathed the air in a great harmony +With its own place and part, and was at one +With all it knew of earth and moon and sun. + +For all of them were worked into the dream,-- + The husky sighs of wheat-fields in it wrought; +All the land-miles belonged to it; the stream + That fed the Mere ran through it like a thought. +It was a passion of peace, and loved to wait +'Neath boughs with fair green light illuminate. + +To wait with her alone; always alone: + For any that drew near she heeded not, +Wanting them little as the lily grown + Apart from others in a shady plot, +Wants fellow-lilies of like fair degree, +In her still glen to bear her company. + +Always alone: and yet, there was a child + Who loved this child, and, from his turret towers, +Across the lea would roam to where, in-isled + And fenced in rapturous silence, went her hours, +And, with slow footsteps drawn anear the place +Where mute she sat, would ponder on her face, + +And wonder at her with a childish awe, + And come again to look, and yet again, +Till the sweet rippling of the Mere would draw + His longing to itself; while in her train +The water-hen, come forth, would bring her brood +From slumbering in the rushy solitude; + +Or to their young would curlews call and clang + Their homeless young that down the furrows creep; +Or the wind-hover in the blue would hang, + Still as a rock set in the watery deep. +Then from her presence he would break away, +Unmarked, ungreeted yet, from day to day. + +But older grown, the Mere he haunted yet, + And a strange joy from its sweet wildness caught; +Whilst careless sat alone maid Margaret, + And "shut the gates" of silence on her thought, +All through spring mornings gemmed with melted rime, +All through hay-harvest and through gleaning time. + +O pleasure for itself that boyhood makes, + O happiness to roam the sighing shore, +Plough up with elfin craft the water-flakes, + And track the nested rail with cautious oar; +Then floating lie and look with wonder new +Straight up in the great dome of light and blue. + +O pleasure! yet they took him from the wold, + The reedy Mere, and all his pastime there, +The place where he was born, and would grow old + If God his life so many years should spare; +From the loved haunts of childhood and the plain +And pasture-lands of his own broad domain. + +And he came down when wheat was in the sheaf, + And with her fruit the apple-branch bent low, +While yet in August glory hung the leaf, + And flowerless aftermath began to grow; +He came from his gray turrets to the shore, +And sought the maid beneath the sycamore. + +He sought her, not because her tender eyes + Would brighten at his coming, for he knew +Full seldom any thought of him would rise + In her fair breast when he had passed from view; +But for his own love's sake, that unbeguiled +Drew him in spirit to the silent child. + +For boyhood in its better hour is prone + To reverence what it hath not understood; +And he had thought some heavenly meaning shone + From her clear eyes, that made their watchings good: +While a great peacefulness of shade was shed +Like oil of consecration on her head. + +A fishing wallet from his shoulder slung, + With bounding foot he reached the mossy place, +A little moment gently o'er her hung, + Put back her hair and looked upon her face, +Then fain from that deep dream to wake her yet, +He "Margaret!" low murmured, "Margaret! + +"Look at me once before I leave the land, + For I am going,--going, Margaret." +And then she sighed, and, lifting up her hand, + Laid it along his young fresh cheek, and set +Upon his face those blue twin-deeps, her eyes, +And moved it back from her in troubled wise, + +Because he came between her and her fate, + The Mere. She sighed again as one oppressed; +The waters, shining clear, with delicate + Reflections wavered on her blameless breast; +And through the branches dropt, like flickerings fair, +And played upon her hands and on her hair. + +And he, withdrawn a little space to see, + Murmured in tender ruth that was not pain, +"Farewell, I go; but sometimes think of me, + Maid Margaret;" and there came by again +A whispering in the reed-beds and the sway +Of waters: then he turned and went his way. + +And wilt thou think on him now he is gone? + No; thou wilt gaze: though thy young eyes grow dim, +And thy soft cheek become all pale and wan, + Still thou wilt gaze, and spend no thought on him; +There is no sweetness in his laugh for thee--No +beauty in his fresh heart's gayety. + +But wherefore linger in deserted haunts? + Why of the past, as if yet present, sing? +The yellow iris on the margin flaunts, + With hyacinth the banks are blue in spring, +And under dappled clouds the lark afloat +Pours all the April-tide from her sweet throat. + +But Margaret--ah! thou art there no more, + And thick dank moss creeps over thy gray stone +Thy path is lost that skirted the low shore, + With willow-grass and speedwell overgrown; +Thine eye has closed for ever, and thine ear +Drinks in no more the music of the Mere. + +The boy shall come--shall come again in spring, + Well pleased that pastoral solitude to share, +And some kind offering in his hand will bring + To cast into thy lap, O maid most fair-- +Some clasping gem about thy neck to rest, +Or heave and glimmer on thy guileless breast. + +And he shall wonder why thou art not here + The solitude with "smiles to entertain," +And gaze along the reaches of the Mere; + But he shall never see thy face again-- +Shall never see upon the reedy shore +Maid Margaret beneath her sycamore. + + +II. + +MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. + +["Concerning this man (Robert Delacour), little further is known +than that he served in the king's army, and was wounded in the +battle of Marston Moor, being then about twenty-seven years of age. +After the battle of Nazeby, finding himself a marked man, he quitted +the country, taking with him the child whom he had adopted; and +he made many voyages between the different ports of the Mediterranean +and Levant."] + +Resting within his tent at turn of day, + A wailing voice his scanty sleep beset: +He started up--it did not flee away-- + 'Twas no part of his dream, but still did fret +And pine into his heart, "Ah me! ah me!" +Broken with heaving sobs right mournfully. + +Then he arose, and, troubled at this thing, + All wearily toward the voice he went +Over the down-trod bracken and the ling, + Until it brought him to a soldier's tent, +Where, with the tears upon her face, he found +A little maiden weeping on the ground; + +And backward in the tent an aged crone + Upbraided her full harshly more and more, +But sunk her chiding to an undertone + When she beheld him standing at the door, +And calmed her voice, and dropped her lifted hand, +And answered him with accent soft and bland. + +No, the young child was none of hers, she said, + But she had found her where the ash lay white +About a smouldering tent; her infant head + All shelterless, she through the dewy night +Had slumbered on the field,--ungentle fate +For a lone child so soft and delicate. + +"And I," quoth she, "have tended her with care, + And thought to be rewarded of her kin, +For by her rich attire and features fair + I know her birth is gentle: yet within +The tent unclaimed she doth but pine and weep, +A burden I would fain no longer keep." + +Still while she spoke the little creature wept, + Till painful pity touched him for the flow +Of all those tears, and to his heart there crept + A yearning as of fatherhood, and lo! +Reaching his arms to her, "My sweet," quoth he, +"Dear little madam, wilt thou come with me?" + +Then she left off her crying, and a look + Of wistful wonder stole into her eyes. +The sullen frown her dimpled face forsook, + She let him take her, and forgot her sighs, +Contented in his alien arms to rest, +And lay her baby head upon his breast. + +Ah, sure a stranger trust was never sought + By any soldier on a battle-plain. +He brought her to his tent, and soothed his voice, + Rough with command; and asked, but all in vain, +Her story, while her prattling tongue rang sweet, +She playing, as one at home, about his feet. + +Of race, of country, or of parentage, + Her lisping accents nothing could unfold;-- +No questioning could win to read the page + Of her short life;--she left her tale untold, +And home and kin thus early to forget, +She only knew,--her name was--Margaret. + +Then in the dusk upon his arm it chanced + That night that suddenly she fell asleep; +And he looked down on her like one entranced, + And listened to her breathing still and deep, +As if a little child, when daylight closed, +With half-shut lids had ne'er before reposed. + +Softly he laid her down from off his arm, + With earnest care and new-born tenderness: +Her infancy, a wonder-working charm, + Laid hold upon his love; he stayed to bless +The small sweet head, then went he forth that night +And sought a nurse to tend this new delight. + +And day by day his heart she wrought upon, + And won her way into its inmost fold-- +A heart which, but for lack of that whereon + To fix itself, would never have been cold; +And, opening wide, now let her come to dwell +Within its strong unguarded citadel. + +She, like a dream, unlocked the hidden springs + Of his past thoughts, and set their current free +To talk with him of half-forgotten things-- + The pureness and the peace of infancy, +"Thou also, thou," to sigh, "wert undefiled +(O God, the change!) once, as this little child." + +The baby-mistress of a soldier's heart, + She had but friendlessness to stand her friend, +And her own orphanhood to plead her part, + When he, a wayfarer, did pause, and bend, +And bear with him the starry blossom sweet +Out of its jeopardy from trampling feet. + +A gleam of light upon a rainy day, + A new-tied knot that must be sever'd soon, +At sunrise once before his tent at play, + And hurried from the battle-field at noon, +While face to face in hostile ranks they stood, +Who should have dwelt in peace and brotherhood. + +But ere the fight, when higher rose the sun, + And yet were distant far the rebel bands, +She heard at intervals a booming gun, + And she was pleased, and laughing clapped her hands; +Till he came in with troubled look and tone, +Who chose her desolate to be his own. + +And he said, "Little madam, now farewell, + For there will be a battle fought ere night. +God be thy shield, for He alone can tell + Which way may fall the fortune of the fight. +To fitter hands the care of thee pertain, +My dear, if we two never meet again." + +Then he gave money shortly to her nurse, + And charged her straitly to depart in haste, +And leave the plain, whereon the deadly curse + Of war should light with ruin, death, and waste, +And all the ills that must its presence blight, +E'en if proud victory should bless the right. + +"But if the rebel cause should prosper, then + It were not good among the hills to wend; +But journey through to Boston in the fen, + And wait for peace, if peace our God shall send; +And if my life is spared, I will essay," +Quoth he, "to join you there as best I may." + +So then he kissed the child, and went his way; + But many troubles rolled above his head; +The sun arose on many an evil day, + And cruel deeds were done, and tears were shed; +And hope was lost, and loyal hearts were fain +In dust to hide,--ere they two met again. + +So passed the little child from thought, from view-- + (The snowdrop blossoms, and then is not there, +Forgotten till men welcome it anew), + He found her in his heavy days of care, +And with her dimples was again beguiled, +As on her nurse's knee she sat and smiled. + +And he became a voyager by sea, + And took the child to share his wandering state; +Since from his native land compelled to flee, + And hopeless to avert her monarch's fate; +For all was lost that might have made him pause, +And, past a soldier's help, the royal cause. + +And thus rolled on long days, long months and years, + And Margaret within the Xebec sailed; +The lulling wind made music in her ears, + And nothing to her life's completeness failed. +Her pastime 'twas to see the dolphins spring, +And wonderful live rainbows glimmering. + +The gay sea-plants familiar were to her, + As daisies to the children of the land; +Red wavy dulse the sunburnt mariner + Raised from its bed to glisten in her hand; +The vessel and the sea were her life's stage-- +Her house, her garden, and her hermitage. + +Also she had a cabin of her own, + For beauty like an elfin palace bright, +With Venice glass adorned, and crystal stone + That trembled with a many-colored light; +And there with two caged ringdoves she did play, +And feed them carefully from day to day. + +Her bed with silken curtains was enclosed, + White as the snowy rose of Guelderland; +On Turkish pillows her young head reposed, + And love had gathered with a careful hand +Fair playthings to the little maiden's side, +From distant ports, and cities parted wide. + +She had two myrtle-plants that she did tend, + And think all trees were like to them that grew; +For things on land she did confuse and blend, + And chiefly from the deck the land she knew, +And in her heart she pitied more and more +The steadfast dwellers on the changeless shore. + +Green fields and inland meadows faded out + Of mind, or with sea-images were linked; +And yet she had her childish thoughts about + The country she had left--though indistinct +And faint as mist the mountain-head that shrouds, +Or dim through distance as Magellan's clouds. + +And when to frame a forest scene she tried, + The ever-present sea would yet intrude, +And all her towns were by the water's side, + It murmured in all moorland solitude, +Where rocks and the ribbed sand would intervene, +And waves would edge her fancied village green; + +Because her heart was like an ocean shell, + That holds (men say) a message from the deep, +And yet the land was strong, she knew its spell, + And harbor lights could draw her in her sleep; +And minster chimes from pierced towers that swim, +Were the land-angels making God a hymn. + +So she grew on, the idol of one heart, + And the delight of many--and her face, +Thus dwelling chiefly from her sex apart, + Was touched with a most deep and tender grace-- +A look that never aught but nature gave, +Artless, yet thoughtful; innocent, yet grave. + +Strange her adornings were, and strangely blent: + A golden net confined her nut-brown hair; +Quaint were the robes that divers lands had lent, + And quaint her aged nurse's skill and care; +Yet did they well on the sea-maiden meet, +Circle her neck, and grace her dimpled feet. + +The sailor folk were glad because of her, + And deemed good fortune followed in her wake; +She was their guardian saint, they did aver-- + Prosperous winds were sent them for her sake; +And strange rough vows, strange prayers, they nightly made, +While, storm or calm, she slept, in nought afraid. + +Clear were her eyes, that daughter of the sea, + Sweet, when uplifted to her aged nurse, +She sat, and communed what the world could be; + And rambling stories caused her to rehearse +How Yule was kept, how maidens tossed the hay, +And how bells rang upon a wedding day. + +But they grew brighter when the evening star + First trembled over the still glowing wave, +That bathed in ruddy light, mast, sail, and spar; + For then, reclined in rest that twilight gave, +With him who served for father, friend, and guide, +She sat upon the deck at eventide. + +Then turned towards the west, that on her hair + And her young cheek shed down its tender glow, +He taught her many things with earnest care + That he thought fitting a young maid should know, +Told of the good deeds of the worthy dead, +And prayers devout, by faithful martyrs said. + +And many psalms he caused her to repeat + And sing them, at his knees reclined the while, +And spoke with her of all things good and meet, + And told the story of her native isle, +Till at the end he made her tears to flow, +Rehearsing of his royal master's woe. + +And of the stars he taught her, and their names, + And how the chartless mariner they guide; +Of quivering light that in the zenith flames, + Of monsters in the deep sea caves that hide; +Then changed the theme to fairy records wild, +Enchanted moor, elf dame, or changeling child. + +To her the Eastern lands their strangeness spread, + The dark-faced Arab in his long blue gown, +The camel thrusting down a snake-like head + To browse on thorns outside a walled white town. +Where palmy clusters rank by rank upright +Float as in quivering lakes of ribbed light. + +And when the ship sat like a broad-winged bird + Becalmed, lo, lions answered in the night +Their fellows, all the hollow dark was stirred + To echo on that tremulous thunder's flight, +Dying in weird faint moans;--till look: the sun +And night, and all the things of night, were done. + +And they, toward the waste as morning brake, + Turned, where, in-isled in his green watered land, +The Lybian Zeus lay couched of old, and spake, + Hemmed in with leagues of furrow-faced sand-- +Then saw the moon (like Joseph's golden cup +Come back) behind some ruined roof swim up. + +But blooming childhood will not always last, + And storms will rise e'en on the tideless sea; +His guardian love took fright, she grew so fast, + And he began to think how sad 'twould be +If he should die, and pirate hordes should get +By sword or shipwreck his fair Margaret. + +It was a sudden thought; but he gave way, + For it assailed him with unwonted force; +And, with no more than one short week's delay, + For English shores he shaped the vessel's course; +And ten years absent saw her landed now, +With thirteen summers on her maiden brow. + +And so he journeyed with her, far inland, + Down quiet lanes, by hedges gemmed with dew, +Where wonders met her eye on every hand, + And all was beautiful and strange and new-- +All, from the forest trees in stately ranks, +To yellow cowslips trembling on the banks. + +All new--the long-drawn slope of evening shades, + The sweet solemnities of waxing light, +The white-haired boys, the blushing rustic maids, + The ruddy gleam through cottage casements bright, +The green of pastures, bloom of garden nooks, +And endless bubbling of the water-brooks. + +So far he took them on through this green land, + The maiden and her nurse, till journeying +They saw at last a peaceful city stand + On a steep mount, and heard its clear bells ring. +High were the towers and rich with ancient state, +In its old wall enclosed and massive gate. + +There dwelt a worthy matron whom he knew, + To whom in time of war he gave good aid, +Shielding her household from the plundering crew + When neither law could bind nor worth persuade, +And to her house he brought his care and pride, +Aweary with the way and sleepy-eyed. + +And he, the man whom she was fain to serve, + Delayed not shortly his request to make, +Which was, if aught of her he did deserve, + To take the maid, and rear her for his sake, +To guard her youth, and let her breeding be +In womanly reserve and modesty. + +And that same night into the house he brought + The costly fruits of all his voyages-- +Rich Indian gems of wandering craftsmen wrought, + Long ropes of pearls from Persian palaces, +With ingots pure and coins of Venice mould, +And silver bars and bags of Spanish gold; + +And costly merchandise of far-off lands, + And golden stuffs and shawls of Eastern dye, +He gave them over to the matron's hands, + With jewelled gauds, and toys of ivory, +To be her dower on whom his love was set,-- +His dearest child, fair Madam Margaret. + +Then he entreated, that if he should die, + She would not cease her guardian mission mild. +Awhile, as undecided, lingered nigh, + Beside the pillow of the sleeping child, +Severed one wandering lock of wavy hair, +Took horse that night, and left her unaware. + +And it was long before he came again-- + So long that Margaret was woman grown; +And oft she wished for his return in vain, + Calling him softly in an undertone; +Repeating words that he had said the while, +And striving to recall his look and smile. + +If she had known--oh, if she could have known-- + The toils, the hardships of those absent years-- +How bitter thraldom forced the unwilling groan-- + How slavery wrung out subduing tears, +Not calmly had she passed her hours away, +Chiding half pettishly the long delay. + +But she was spared. She knew no sense of harm, + While the red flames ascended from the deck; +Saw not the pirate band the crew disarm, + Mourned not the floating spars, the smoking wreck. +She did not dream, and there was none to tell, +That fetters bound the hands she loved so well. + +Sweet Margaret--withdrawn from human view, + She spent long hours beneath the cedar shade, +The stately trees that in the garden grew, + And, overtwined, a towering shelter made; +She mused among the flowers, and birds, and bees, +In winding walks, and bowering canopies; + +Or wandered slowly through the ancient rooms, + Where oriel windows shed their rainbow gleams; +And tapestried hangings, wrought in Flemish looms, + Displayed the story of King Pharaoh's dreams; +And, come at noon because the well was deep, +Beautiful Rachel leading down her sheep. + +At last she reached the bloom of womanhood, + After five summers spent in growing fair; +Her face betokened all things dear and good, + The light of somewhat yet to come was there +Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, +When childish thoughts, like flowers, would drift away. + +O! we are far too happy while they last; + We have our good things first, and they cost naught; +Then the new splendor comes unfathomed, vast, + A costly trouble, ay, a sumptuous thought, +And will not wait, and cannot be possessed, +Though infinite yearnings fold it to the breast. + +And time, that seemed so long, is fleeting by, + And life is more than life; love more than love; +We have not found the whole--and we must die-- + And still the unclasped glory floats above. +The inmost and the utmost faint from sight, +For ever secret in their veil of light. + +Be not too hasty in your flow, you rhymes, + For Margaret is in her garden bower; +Delay to ring, you soft cathedral chimes, + And tell not out too soon the noontide hour: +For one draws nearer to your ancient town, +On the green mount down settled like a crown. + +He journeyed on, and, as he neared the gate, + He met with one to whom he named the maid, +Inquiring of her welfare and her state. + And of the matron in whose house she stayed. +"The maiden dwelt there yet," the townsman said; +"But, for the ancient lady,--she was dead." + +He further said, she was but little known, + Although reputed to be very fair, +And little seen (so much she dwelt alone) + But with her nurse at stated morning prayer; +So seldom passed her sheltering garden wall, +Or left the gate at quiet evening fall. + +Flow softly, rhymes--his hand is on the door; + Ring out, ye noonday bells, his welcoming-- +"He went out rich, but he returneth poor;" + And strong--now something bowed with suffering. +And on his brow are traced long furrowed lines, +Earned in the fight with pirate Algerines. + +Her aged nurse comes hobbling at his call; + Lifts up her withered hand in dull surprise, +And, tottering, leads him through the pillared hall; + "What! come at last to bless my lady's eyes! +Dear heart, sweet heart, she's grown a likesome maid-- +Go, seek her where she sitteth in the shade." + +The noonday chime had ceased--she did not know + Who watched her, while her ringdoves fluttered near: +While, under the green boughs, in accents low + She sang unto herself. She did not hear +His footstep till she turned, then rose to meet +Her guest with guileless blush and wonder sweet. + +But soon she knew him, came with quickened pace, + And put her gentle hands about his neck; +And leaned her fair cheek to his sun-burned face, + As long ago upon the vessel's deck: +As long ago she did in twilight deep, +When heaving waters lulled her infant sleep. + +So then he kissed her, as men kiss their own, + And, proudly parting her unbraided hair, +He said: "I did not think to see thee grown + So fair a woman,"--but a touch of care +The deep-toned voice through its caressing kept, +And, hearing it, she turned away and wept. + +Wept,--for an impress on the face she viewed-- + The stamp of feelings she remembered not; +His voice was calmer now, but more subdued, + Not like the voice long loved and unforgot! +She felt strange sorrow and delightful pain-- +Grief for the change, joy that he came again. + +O pleasant days, that followed his return, + That made his captive years pass out of mind; +If life had yet new pains for him to learn, + Not in the maid's clear eyes he saw it shrined; +And three full weeks he stayed with her, content +To find her beautiful and innocent. + +It was all one in his contented sight + As though she were a child, till suddenly, +Waked of the chimes in the dead time of the night, + He fell to thinking how the urgency +Of Fate had dealt with him, and could but sigh +For those best things wherein she passed him by. + +Down the long river of life how, cast adrift, + She urged him on, still on, to sink or swim; +And all at once, as if a veil did lift, + In the dead time of the night, and bare to him +The want in his deep soul, he looked, was dumb, +And knew himself, and knew his time was come. + +In the dead time of the night his soul did sound + The dark sea of a trouble unforeseen, +For that one sweet that to his life was bound + Had turned into a want--a misery keen: +Was born, was grown, and wounded sorely cried +All 'twixt the midnight and the morning tide. + +He was a brave man, and he took this thing + And cast it from him with a man's strong hand; +And that next morn, with no sweet altering + Of mien, beside the maid he took his stand, +And copied his past self till ebbing day +Paled its deep western blush, and died away. + +And then he told her that he must depart + Upon the morrow, with the earliest light; +And it displeased and pained her at the heart, + And she went out to hide her from his sight +Aneath the cedar trees, where dusk was deep, +And be apart from him awhile to weep + +And to lament, till, suddenly aware + Of steps, she started up as fain to flee, +And met him in the moonlight pacing there, + Who questioned with her why her tears might be, +Till she did answer him, all red for shame, +"Kind sir, I weep--the wanting of a name." + +"A name!" quoth he, and sighed. "I never knew + Thy father's name; but many a stalwart youth +Would give thee his, dear child, and his love too, + And count himself a happy man forsooth. +Is there none here who thy kind thought hath won?" +But she did falter, and made answer, "None." + +Then, as in father-like and kindly mood, + He said, "Dear daughter, it would please me well +To see thee wed; for know it is not good + That a fair woman thus alone should dwell." +She said, "I am content it should be so, +If when you journey I may with you go." + +This when he heard, he thought, right sick at heart, + Must I withstand myself, and also thee? +Thou, also thou! must nobly do thy part; + That honor leads thee on which holds back me. +No, thou sweet woman; by love's great increase, +I will reject thee for thy truer peace. + +Then said he, "Lady!--look upon my face; + Consider well this scar upon my brow; +I have had all misfortune but disgrace; + I do not look for marriage blessings now. +Be not thy gratitude deceived. I know +Thou think'st it is thy duty--I will go! + +"I read thy meaning, and I go from hence, + Skilled in the reason; though my heart be rude, +I will not wrong thy gentle innocence, + Nor take advantage of thy gratitude. +But think, while yet the light these eyes shall bless, +The more for thee--of woman's nobleness." + +Faultless and fair, all in the moony light, + As one ashamed, she looked upon the ground, +And her white raiment glistened in his sight. + And, hark! the vesper chimes began to sound, +Then lower yet she drooped her young, pure cheek, +And still was she ashamed, and could not speak. + +A swarm of bells from that old tower o'erhead, + They sent their message sifting through the boughs +Of cedars; when they ceased his lady said, + "Pray you forgive me," and her lovely brows +She lifted, standing in her moonlit place, +And one short moment looked him in the face. + +Then straight he cried, "O sweetheart, think all one + As no word yet were said between us twain, +And know thou that in this I yield to none-- + love thee, sweetheart, love thee!" So full fain, +While she did leave to silence all her part, +He took the gleaming whiteness to his heart-- + +The white-robed maiden with the warm white throat, + The sweet white brow, and locks of umber flow, +Whose murmuring voice was soft as rock-dove's note, + Entreating him, and saying, "Do not go!" +"I will not, sweetheart; nay, not now," quoth he, +"By faith and troth, I think thou art for me!" + +And so she won a name that eventide, + Which he gave gladly, but would ne'er bespeak, +And she became the rough sea-captain's bride, + Matching her dimples to his sunburnt cheek; +And chasing from his voice the touch of care, +That made her weep when first she heard it there. + +One year there was, fulfilled of happiness, + But O! it went so fast, too fast away. +Then came that trouble which full oft doth bless-- + It was the evening of a sultry day, +There was no wind the thread-hung flowers to stir, +Or float abroad the filmy gossamer. + +Toward the trees his steps the mariner bent, + Pacing the grassy walks with restless feet: +And he recalled, and pondered as he went, + All her most duteous love and converse sweet, +Till summer darkness settled deep and dim, +And dew from bending leaves dropt down on him. + +The flowers sent forth their nightly odors faint-- + Thick leaves shut out the starlight overhead; +While he told over, as by strong constraint + Drawn on, her childish life on shipboard led, +And beauteous youth, since first low kneeling there, +With folded hands she lisped her evening prayer. + +Then he remembered how, beneath the shade, + She wooed him to her with her lovely words, +While flowers were closing, leaves in moonlight played, + And in dark nooks withdrew the silent birds. +So pondered he that night in twilight dim, +While dew from bending leaves dropt down on him. + +The flowers sent forth their nightly odors faint-- + When, in the darkness waiting, he saw one +To whom he said--"How fareth my sweet saint?" + Who answered--"She hath borne to you a son;" +Then, turning, left him,--and the father said, +"God rain down blessings on his welcome head!" + +But Margaret!--_she_ never saw the child, + Nor heard about her bed love's mournful wails; +But to the last, with ocean dreams beguiled, + Murmured of troubled seas and swelling sails-- +Of weary voyages, and rocks unseen, +And distant hills in sight, all calm and green.... + +Woe and alas!--the times of sorrow come, + And make us doubt if we were ever glad! +So utterly that inner voice is dumb, + Whose music through our happy days we had! +So, at the touch of grief, without our will, +The sweet voice drops from us, and all is still. + +Woe and alas! for the sea-captain's wife-- + That Margaret who in the Xebec played-- +She spent upon his knee her baby life; + Her slumbering head upon his breast she laid. +How shall he learn alone his years to pass? +How in the empty house?--woe and alas! + +She died, and in the aisle, the minster aisle, + They made her grave; and there, with fond intent, +Her husband raised, his sorrow to beguile, + A very fair and stately monument: +Her tomb (the careless vergers show it yet), +The mariner's wife, his love, his Margaret. + +A woman's figure, with the eyelids closed, + The quiet head declined in slumber sweet; +Upon an anchor one fair hand reposed, + And a long ensign folded at her feet, +And carved upon the bordering of her vest +The motto of her house--"_He giveth rest."_ + +There is an ancient window richly fraught + And fretted with all hues most rich, most bright, +And in its upper tracery enwrought + An olive-branch and dove wide-winged and white, +An emblem meet for her, the tender dove, +Her heavenly peace, her duteous earthly love. + +Amid heraldic shields and banners set, + In twisted knots and wildly-tangled bands, +Crimson and green, and gold and violet, + Fall softly on the snowy sculptured hands; +And, when the sunshine comes, full sweetly rest +The dove and olive-branch upon her breast. + + + + +A STORY OF DOOM. + + +BOOK I. + +Niloiya said to Noah, "What aileth thee, +My master, unto whom is my desire, +The father of my sons?" He answered her, +"Mother of many children, I have heard +The Voice again." "Ah, me!" she saith, "ah, me! +What spake it?" and with that Niloiya sighed. + +This when the Master-builder heard, his heart +Was sad in him, the while he sat at home +And rested after toil. The steady rap +O' the shipwright's hammer sounding up the vale +Did seem to mock him; but her distaff down +Niloiya laid, and to the doorplace went, +Parted the purple covering seemly hung +Before it, and let in the crimson light +Of the descending sun. Then looked he forth,-- +Looked, and beheld the hollow where the ark +Was a-preparing; where the dew distilled +All night from leaves of old lign aloe-trees, +Upon the gliding river; where the palm, +The almug, and the gophir shot their heads +Into the crimson brede that dyed the world: +And lo! he marked--unwieldy, dark, and huge--The +ship, his glory and his grief,--too vast +For that still river's floating,--building far +From mightier streams, amid the pastoral dells +Of shepherd kings. + + Niloiya spake again: +"What said the Voice, thou well-beloved man?" +He, laboring with his thought that troubled him, +Spoke on behalf of God: "Behold," said he, +"A little handful of unlovely dust +He fashioned to a lordly grace, and when +He laughed upon its beauty, it waxed warm, +And with His breath awoke a living soul. + +"Shall not the Fashioner command His work? +And who am I, that, if He whisper, 'Rise, +Go forth upon Mine errand,' should reply, +'Lord, God, I love the woman and her sons,--I +love not scorning: I beseech Thee, God, +Have me excused.'" + + She answered him, "Tell on." +And he continuing, reasoned with his soul: +"What though I,--like some goodly lama sunk +In meadow grass, eating her way at ease, +Unseen of them that pass, and asking not +A wider prospect than of yellow-flowers +That nod above her head,--should lay me down, +And willingly forget this high behest, +There should be yet no tarrying. Furthermore, +Though I went forth to cry against the doom, +Earth crieth louder, and she draws it down: +It hangeth balanced over us; she crieth, +And it shall fall. O! as for me, my life +Is bitter, looking onward, for I know +That in the fulness of the time shall dawn +That day: my preaching shall not bring forth fruit, +Though for its sake I leave thee. I shall float +Upon the abhorred sea, that mankind hate, +With thee and thine." + She answered: "God forbid! +For, sir, though men be evil, yet the deep +They dread, and at the last will surely turn +To Him, and He long-suffering will forgive. +And chide the waters back to their abyss, +To cover the pits where doleful creatures feed. +Sir, I am much afraid: I would not hear +Of riding on the waters: look you, sir, +Better it were to die with you by hand +Of them that hate us, than to live, ah me! +Rolling among the furrows of the unquiet, +Unconsecrate, unfriendly, dreadful sea." + +He saith again: "I pray thee, woman, peace, +For thou wilt enter, when that day appears, +The fateful ship." + + "My lord," quoth she, "I will. +But O, good sir, be sure of this, be sure +The Master calleth; for the time is long +That thou hast warned the world: thou art but here +Three days; the song of welcoming but now +Is ended. I behold thee, I am glad; +And wilt thou go again? Husband, I say, +Be sure who 't is that calleth; O, be sure, +Be sure. My mother's ghost came up last night, +Whilst I thy beard, held in my hands did kiss, +Leaning anear thee, wakeful through my love, +And watchful of thee till the moon went down. + +"She never loved me since I went with thee +To sacrifice among the hills: she smelt +The holy smoke, and could no more divine +Till the new moon. I saw her ghost come up; +It had a snake with a red comb of fire +Twisted about its waist,--the doggish head +Lolled on its shoulder, and so leered at me. +'This woman might be wiser,' quoth the ghost; +'Shall there be husbands for her found below, +When she comes down to us? O, fool! O, fool! +She must not let her man go forth, to leave +Her desolate, and reap the whole world's scorn, +A harvest for himself.' With that they passed." + +He said, "My crystal drop of perfectness, +I pity thee; it was an evil ghost: +Thou wilt not heed the counsel?" "I will not," +Quoth she; "I am loyal to the Highest. Him +I hold by even as thou, and deem Him best. +Sir, am I fairer than when last we met?" + + "God add," said he, "unto thy much yet more, +As I do think thou art." "And think you, sir," +Niloiya saith, "that I have reached the prime?" +He answering, "Nay, not yet." "I would 't were so," +She plaineth, "for the daughters mock at me: +Her locks forbear to grow, they say, so sore +She pineth for the master. Look you, sir, +They reach but to the knee. But thou art come, +And all goes merrier. Eat, my lord, of all +My supper that I set, and afterward +Tell me, I pray thee, somewhat of thy way; +Else shall I be despised as Adam was, +Who compassed not the learning of his sons, +But, grave and silent, oft would lower his head +And ponder, following of great Isha's feet, +When she would walk with her fair brow upraised, +Scorning the children that she bare to him." + +"Ay," quoth the Master; "but they did amiss +When they despised their father: knowest thou that?" + +"Sure he was foolisher," Niloiya saith, +"Than any that came after. Furthermore, +He had not heart nor courage for to rule: +He let the mastery fall from his slack hand. +Had not our glorious mother still borne up +His weakness, chid with him, and sat apart, +And listened, when the fit came over him +To talk on his lost garden, he had sunk +Into the slave of slaves." + + "Nay, thou must think +How he had dwelt long, God's loved husbandman, +And looked in hope among the tribes for one +To be his fellow, ere great Isha, once +Waking, he found at his left side, and knew +The deep delight of speech." So Noah, and thus +Added, "And therefore was his loss the more; +For though the creatures he had singled out +His favorites, dared for him the fiery sword +And followed after him,--shall bleat of lamb +Console one for the foregone talk of God? +Or in the afternoon, his faithful dog, +Fawning upon him, make his heart forget +At such a time, and such a time, to have heard +What he shall hear no more? + + "O, as for him, +It was for this that he full oft would stop, +And, lost in thought, stand and revolve that deed, +Sad muttering, Woman! we reproach thee not; +Though thou didst eat mine immortality; +Earth, be not sorry; I was free to choose. +Wonder not, therefore, if he walked forlorn. +Was not the helpmeet given to raise him up +From his contentment with the lower things? +Was she not somewhat that he could not rule +Beyond the action, that he could not have +By the mere holding, and that still aspired +And drew him after her? So, when deceived +She fell by great desire to rise, he fell +By loss of upward drawing, when she took +An evil tongue to be her counsellor: +'Death is not as the death of lower things, +Rather a glorious change, begrudged of Heaven, +A change to being as gods,'--he from her hand, +Upon reflection, took of death that hour, +And ate it (not the death that she had dared); +He ate it knowing. Then divisions came. +She, like a spirit strayed who lost the way, +Too venturesome, among the farther stars, +And hardly cares, because it hardly hopes +To find the path to heaven; in bitter wise +Did bear to him degenerate seed, and he, +Once having felt her upward drawing, longed, +And yet aspired, and yearned to be restored, +Albeit she drew no more." + + "Sir, ye speak well," +Niloiya saith, "but yet the mother sits +Higher than Adam. He did understand +Discourse of birds and all four-footed things, +But she had knowledge of the many tribes +Of angels and their tongues; their playful ways +And greetings when they met. Was she not wise? +They say she knew much that she never told, +And had a voice that called to her as thou." + +"Nay," quoth the Master-shipwright, "who am I +That I should answer? As for me, poor man, +Here is my trouble: 'if there be a Voice,' +At first I cried, 'let me behold the mouth +That uttereth it,' Thereon it held its peace. +But afterward, I, journeying up the hills, +Did hear it hollower than an echo fallen +Across some clear abyss; and I did stop, +And ask of all my company, 'What cheer? +If there be spirits abroad that call to us, +Sirs, hold your peace and hear,' So they gave heed, +And one man said, 'It is the small ground-doves +That peck upon the stony hillocks': one, +'It is the mammoth in yon cedar swamp +That cheweth in his dream': and one, 'My lord, +It is the ghost of him that yesternight +We slew, because he grudged to yield his wife +To thy great father, when he peaceably +Did send to take her,' Then I answered, 'Pass,' +And they went on; and I did lay mine ear +Close to the earth; but there came up therefrom +No sound, nor any speech; I waited long. +And in the saying, 'I will mount my beast +And on,' I was as one that in a trance +Beholdeth what is coming, and I saw +Great waters and a ship; and somewhat spake, +'Lo, this shall be; let him that heareth it, +And seeth it, go forth to warn his kind, +For I will drown the world,'" + + Niloiya saith, +"Sir, was that all that ye went forth upon?" +The master, he replieth, "Ay, at first, +That same was all; but many days went by, +While I did reason with my heart and hope +For more, and struggle to remain, and think. +'Let me be certain'; and so think again, +'The counsel is but dark; would I had more! +When I have more to guide me, I will go,' +And afterward, when reasoned on too much, +It seemed remoter, then I only said, +'O, would I had the same again'; and still +I had it not. + + "Then at the last I cried, +'If the unseen be silent, I will speak +And certify my meaning to myself. +Say that He spoke, then He will make that good +Which He hath spoken. Therefore it were best +To go, and do His bidding. All the earth +Shall hear the judgment so, and none may cry +When the doom falls, "Thou God art hard on us; +We knew not Thou wert angry. O! we are lost, +Only for lack of being warned." + + "'But say +That He spoke not, and merely it befell +That I being weary had a dream. Why, so +He could not suffer damage; when the time +Was past, and that I threatened had not come, +Men would cry out on me, haply me kill, +For troubling their content. They would not swear, +"God, that did send this man, is proved untrue," +But rather, "Let him die; he lied to us; +God never sent him." Only Thou, great King, +Knowest if Thou didst speak or no. I leave +The matter here. If Thou wilt speak again, +I go in gladness; if Thou wilt not speak, +Nay, if Thou never didst, I not the less +Shall go, because I have believed, what time +I seemed to hear Thee, and the going stands +With memory of believing,' Then I washed, +And did array me in the sacred gown, +And take a lamb." + + "Ay, sir," Niloiya sighed, +"I following, and I knew not anything +Till, the young lamb asleep in thy two arms, +We, moving up among the silent hills, +Paused in a grove to rest; and many slaves +Came near to make obeisance, and to bring +Wood for the sacrifice, and turf and fire. +Then in their hearing thou didst say to me, +'Behold, I know thy good fidelity, +And theirs that are about us; they would guard +The mountain passes, if it were my will +Awhile to leave thee'; and the pygmies laughed +For joy, that thou wouldst trust inferior things; +And put their heads down, as their manner is, +To touch our feet. They laughed, but sore I wept; +Sir, I could weep now; ye did ill to go +If that was all your bidding; I had thought +God drave thee, and thou couldst not choose but go." + +Then said the son of Lamech, "Afterward, +When I had left thee, He whom I had served +Met with me in the visions of the night, +To comfort me for that I had withdrawn +From thy dear company. He sware to me +That no man should molest thee, no, nor touch +The bordering of mine outmost field. I say, +When I obeyed, He made His matters plain. +With whom could I have left thee, but with them, +Born in thy mother's house, and bound thy slaves?" + +She said, "I love not pygmies; they are naught." +And he, "Who made them pygmies?" Then she pushed +Her veiling hair back from her round, soft eyes, +And answered, wondering, "Sir, my mothers did, +Ye know it." And he drew her near to sit +Beside him on the settle, answering, "Ay." +And they went on to talk as writ below, +If any one shall read: + + "Thy mother did, +And they that went before her. Thinkest thou +That they did well?" + + "They had been overcome; +And when the angered conquerors drave them out, +Behoved them find some other way to rule,-- +They did but use their wits. Hath not man aye +Been cunning in dominion, among beasts +To breed for size or swiftness, or for sake +Of the white wool he loveth, at his choice? +What harm if coveting a race of men +That could but serve, they sought among their thralls, +Such as were low of stature, men and maids; +Ay, and of feeble will and quiet mind? +Did they not spend much gear to gather out +Such as I tell of, and for matching them +One with another for a thousand years? +What harm, then, if there came of it a race, +Inferior in their wits, and in their size, +And well content to serve?" + + "'What harm?' thou sayest. +My wife doth ask, 'What harm? '" + + "Your pardon, sir. +I do remember that there came one day, +Two of the grave old angels that God made, +When first He invented life (right old they were, +And plain, and venerable); and they said, +Rebuking of my mother as with hers +She sat, 'Ye do not well, you wives of men, +To match your wit against the Maker's will, +And for your benefit to lower the stamp +Of His fair image, which He set at first +Upon man's goodly frame; ye do not well +To treat his likeness even as ye treat +The bird and beast that perish.'" + + "Said they aught +To appease the ancients, or to speak them fair?" + + "How know I? 'T was a slave that told it me. +My mother was full old when I was born, +And that was in her youth. What think you, sir? +Did not the giants likewise ill?" + + "To that +I have no answer ready. If a man, +When each one is against his fellow, rule, +Or unmolested dwell, or unreproved, +Because, for size and strength, he standeth first, +He will thereof be glad; and if he say, +'I will to wife choose me a stately maid, +And leave a goodly offspring'; 'sooth, I think, +He sinneth not; for good to him and his +He would be strong and great. Thy people's fault +Was, that for ill to others, they did plot +To make them weak and small." + + "But yet they steal +Or take in war the strongest maids, and such +As are of highest stature; ay, and oft +They fight among themselves for that same cause. +And they are proud against the King of heaven: +They hope in course of ages they shall come +To be as strong as He." + + The Master said, +"I will not hear thee talk thereof; my heart +Is sick for all this wicked world. Fair wife, +I am right weary. Call thy slaves to thee, +And bid that they prepare the sleeping place. +O would that I might rest! I fain would rest, +And, no more wandering, tell a thankless world +My never-heeded tale!" + With that she called. +The moon was up, and some few stars were out, +While heavy at the heart he walked abroad +To meditate before his sleep. And yet +Niloiya pondered, "Shall my master go? +And will my master go? What 'vaileth it, +That he doth spend himself, over the waste +A wandering, till he reach outlandish folk, +That mock his warning? O, what 'vaileth it, +That he doth lavish wealth to build yon ark, +Whereat the daughters, when they eat with me, +Laugh? O my heart! I would the Voice were stilled. +Is not he happy? Who, of all the earth, +Obeyed like to me? Have not I learned +From his dear mouth to utter seemly words, +And lay the powers my mother gave me by? +Have I made offerings to the dragon? Nay, +And I am faithful, when he leaveth me +Lonely betwixt the peaked mountain tops +In this long valley, where no stranger foot +Can come without my will. He shall not go. +Not yet, not yet! But three days--only three-- +Beside me, and a muttering on the third, +'I have heard the Voice again.' Be dull, O dull, +Mind and remembrance! Mother, ye did ill; +'T is hard unlawful knowledge not to use. +Why, O dark mother! opened ye the way?" +Yet when he entered, and did lay aside +His costly robe of sacrifice, the robe +Wherein he had been offering, ere the sun +Went down; forgetful of her mother's craft, +She lovely and submiss did mourn to him: +"Thou wilt not go,--I pray thee, do not go, +Till thou hast seen thy children." And he said, +"I will not. I have cried, and have prevailed: +To-morrow it is given me by the Voice +Upon a four days' journey to proceed, +And follow down the river, till its waves +Are swallowed in the sand, where no flesh dwells. + +"'There,' quoth the Unrevealed, 'we shall meet, +And I will counsel thee; and thou shalt turn +And rest thee with the mother, and with them +She bare.' Now, therefore, when the morn appears, +Thou fairest among women, call thy slaves, +And bid them yoke the steers, and spread thy car +With robes, the choicest work of cunning hands; +Array thee in thy rich apparel, deck +Thy locks with gold; and while the hollow vale +I thread beside yon river, go thou forth +Atween the mountains to my father's house, +And let thy slaves make all obeisance due, +And take and lay an offering at his feet. +Then light, and cry to him, 'Great king, the son +Of old Methuselah, thy son hath sent +To fetch the growing maids, his children, home.'" + +"Sir," quoth the woman, "I will do this thing, +So thou keep faith with me, and yet return. +But will the Voice, think you, forbear to chide, +Nor that Unseen, who calleth, buffet thee, +And drive thee on?" + He saith, "It will keep faith. +Fear not. I have prevailed, for I besought, +And lovingly it answered. I shall rest, +And dwell with thee till after my three sons +Come from the chase." She said, "I let them forth +In fear, for they are young. Their slaves are few. +The giant elephants be cunning folk; +They lie in ambush, and will draw men on +To follow,--then will turn and tread them down." +"Thy father's house unwisely planned," said he, +"To drive them down upon the growing corn +Of them that were their foes; for now, behold, +They suffer while the unwieldy beasts delay +Retirement to their lands, and, meanwhile, pound +The damp, deep meadows, to a pulpy mash; +Or wallowing in the waters foul them; nay, +Tread down the banks, and let them forth to flood +Their cities; or, assailed and falling, shake +The walls, and taint the wind, ere thirty men, +Over the hairy terror piling stones +Or earth, prevail to cover it." + She said, +"Husband, I have been sorry, thinking oft +I would my sons were home; but now so well +Methinks it is with me, that I am fain +To wish they might delay, for thou wilt dwell +With me till after they return, and thou +Hast set thine eyes upon them. Then,--ah, me! +I must sit joyless in my place; bereft, +As trees that suddenly have dropped their leaves, +And dark as nights that have no moon." + She spake: +The hope o' the world did hearken, but reply +Made none. He left his hand on her fair locks +As she lay sobbing; and the quietness +Of night began to comfort her, the fall +Of far-off waters, and the winged wind +That went among the trees. The patient hand, +Moreover, that was steady, wrought with her, +Until she said, "What wilt thou? Nay, I know. +I therefore answer what thou utterest not. +_Thou lovest me well, and not for thine own will +Consentest to depart_. What more? Ay, this: +_I do avow that He which calleth thee, +Hath right to call; and I do swear, the Voice +Shall have no let of me, to do Its will_." + + +BOOK II + +Now ere the sunrise, while the morning star +Hung yet behind the pine bough, woke and prayed +The world's great shipwright, and his soul was glad +Because the Voice was favorable. Now +Began the tap o' the hammer, now ran forth +The slaves preparing food. They therefore ate +In peace together; then Niloiya forth +Behind the milk-white steers went on her way; +And the great Master-builder, down the course +Of the long river, on his errand sped, +And as he went, he thought: + [They do not well +Who, walking up a trodden path, all smooth +With footsteps of their fellows, and made straight +From town to town, will scorn at them that worm +Under the covert of God's eldest trees +(Such as He planted with His hand, and fed +With dew before rain fell, till they stood close +And awful; drank the light up as it dropt, +And kept the dusk of ages at their roots); +They do not well who mock at such, and cry, +"We peaceably, without or fault or fear, +Proceed, and miss not of our end; but these +Are slow and fearful: with uncertain pace, +And ever reasoning of the way, they oft, +After all reasoning, choose the worser course, +And plunged in swamp, or in the matted growth +Nigh smothered struggle, all to reach a goal +Not worth their pains." Nor do they well whose work +Is still to feed and shelter them and theirs, +Get gain, and gathered store it, to think scorn +Of those who work for a world (no wages paid +By a Master hid in light), and sent alone +To face a laughing multitude, whose eyes +Are full of damaging pity, that forbears +To tell the harmless laborer, "Thou art mad."] + +And as he went, he thought: "They counsel me, +Ay, with a kind of reason in their talk, +'Consider; call thy soberer thought to aid; +Why to but one man should a message come? +And why, if but to one, to thee? Art thou +Above us, greater, wiser? Had He sent, +He had willed that we should heed. Then since He knoweth +That such as thou, a wise man cannot heed, +He did not send.' My answer, 'Great and wise, +If He had sent with thunder, and a voice +Leaping from heaven, ye must have heard; but so +Ye had been robbed of choice, and, like the beasts, +Yoked to obedience. God makes no men slaves,' +They tell me, 'God is great above thy thought: +He meddles not: and this small world is ours, +These many hundred years we govern it; +Old Adam, after Eden, saw Him not.' +Then I, 'It may be He is gone to knead +More clay. But look, my masters; one of you +Going to warfare, layeth up his gown, +His sickle, or his gold, and thinks no more +Upon it, till young trees have waxen great; +At last, when he returneth, he will seek +His own. And God, shall He not do the like? +And having set new worlds a-rolling, come +And say, "I will betake Me to the earth +That I did make": and having found it vile, +Be sorry. Why should man be free, you wise, +And not the Master?' Then they answer, 'Fool! +A man shall cast a stone into the air +For pastime, or for lack of heed,--but He! +Will He come fingering of His ended work, +Fright it with His approaching face, or snatch +One day the rolling wonder from its ring, +And hold it quivering, as a wanton child +Might take a nestling from its downy bed, +And having satisfied a careless wish, +Go thrust it back into its place again?' +To such I answer, and, that doubt once mine, +I am assured that I do speak aright: +'Sirs, the significance of this your doubt +Lies in the reason of it; ye do grudge +That these your lands should have another Lord; +Ye are not loyal, therefore ye would fain +Your King would bide afar. But if ye looked +For countenance and favor when He came, +Knowing yourselves right worthy, would ye care, +With cautious reasoning, deep and hard, to prove +That He would never come, and would your wrath +Be hot against a prophet? Nay, I wot +That as a flatterer you would look on him,-- +Full of sweet words thy mouth is: if He come,-- +We think not that He will,--but if He come, +Would it might be to-morrow, or to-night, +Because we look for praise.'" + + Now, as he went, +The noontide heats came on, and he grew faint; +But while he sat below an almug-tree, +A slave approached with greeting. "Master, hail!" +He answered, "Hail! what wilt thou?" Then she said, +"The palace of thy fathers standeth nigh." +"I know it," quoth he; and she said again, +"The Elder, learning thou wouldst pass, hath sent +To fetch thee"; then he rose and followed her. +So first they walked beneath a lofty roof +Of living bough and tendril, woven on high +To let no drop of sunshine through, and hung +With gold and purple fruitage, and the white +Thick cups of scented blossom. Underneath, +Soft grew the sward and delicate, and flocks +Of egrets, ay, and many cranes, stood up. +Fanning their wings, to agitate and cool +The noonday air, as men with heed and pains +Had taught them, marshalling and taming them +To bear the wind in, on their moving wings. +So long time as a nimble slave would spend +In milking of her cow, they walked at ease; +Then reached the palace, all of forest trunks, +Brought whole, and set together, made. Therein +Had dwelt old Adam, when his mighty sons +Had finished it, and up to Eden gate +Had journeyed for to fetch him. "Here," they said +"Mother and father, ye may dwell, and here +Forget the garden wholly." + So he came +Under the doorplace, and the women sat, +Each with her finger on her lips; but he, +Having been called, went on, until he reached +The jewelled settle, wrought with cunning work +Of gold and ivory, whereon they wont +To set the Elder. All with sleekest skins, +That striped and spotted creatures of the wood +Had worn, the seat was covered, but thereon +The Elder was not; by the steps thereof, +Upon the floor, whereto his silver beard +Did reach, he sat, and he was in his trance. +Upon the settle many doves were perched, +That set the air a going with their wings: +These opposite, the world's great shipwright stood +To wait the burden; and the Elder spake: +"Will He forget me? Would He might forget! +Old, old! The hope of old Methuselah +Is all in His forgetfulness." With that, +A slave-girl took a cup of wine, and crept +Anear him, saying, "Taste"; and when his lips +Had touched it, lo, he trembled, and he cried, +"Behold, I prophesy." + Then straight they fled +That were about him, and did stand apart +And stop their ears. For he, from time to time, +Was plagued with that same fate to prophesy, +And spake against himself, against his day +And time, in words that all men did abhor. +Therefore, he warning them what time the fit +Came on him, saved them, that they heard it not +So while they fled, he cried: "I saw the God +Reach out of heaven His wonderful right hand. +Lo, lo! He dipped it in the unquiet sea, +And in its curved palm behold the ark, +As in a vast calm lake, came floating on. +Ay, then, His other hand--the cursing hand-- +He took and spread between us and the sun. +And all was black; the day was blotted out, +And horrible staggering took the frighted earth. +I heard the water hiss, and then methinks +The crack as of her splitting. Did she take +Their palaces that are my brothers dear, +And huddle them with all their ancientry +Under into her breast? If it was black, +How could this old man see? There was a noise +I' the dark, and He drew back His hand again. +I looked,--It was a dream,--let no man say +It was aught else. There, so--the fit goes by. +Sir, and my daughters, is it eventide?-- +Sooner than that, saith old Methuselah, +Let the vulture lay his beak to my green limbs. +What! art Thou envious?--are the sons of men +Too wise to please Thee, and to do Thy will? +Methuselah, he sitteth on the ground, +Clad in his gown of age, the pale white gown, +And goeth not forth to war; his wrinkled hands +He claspeth round his knees: old, very old. +Would he could steal from Thee one secret more-- +The secret of Thy youth! O, envious God! +We die. The words of old Methuselah +And his prophecy are ended." + + Then the wives, +Beholding how he trembled, and the maids +And children, came anear, saying, "Who art thou +That standest gazing on the Elder? Lo, +Thou dost not well: withdraw; for it was thou +Whose stranger presence troubled him, and brought +The fit of prophecy." And he did turn +To look upon them, and their majesty +And glorious beauty took away his words; +And being pure among the vile, he cast +In his thought a veil of snow-white purity +Over the beauteous throng. "Thou dost not well," +They said. He answered: "Blossoms o' the world, +Fruitful as fair, never in watered glade, +Where in the youngest grass blue cups push forth, +And the white lily reareth up her head, +And purples cluster, and the saffron flower +Clear as a flame of sacrifice breaks out, +And every cedar bough, made delicate +With climbing roses, drops in white and red,-- +Saw I (good angels keep you in their care) +So beautiful a crowd." + + With that, they stamped, +Gnashed their white teeth, and turning, fled and spat +Upon the floor. The Elder spake to him, +Yet shaking with the burden, "Who art thou?" +He answered, "I, the man whom thou didst send +To fetch through this thy woodland, do forbear +To tell my name; thou lovest it not, great sire,-- +No, nor mine errand. To thy house I spake, +Touching their beauty." "Wherefore didst thou spite," +Quoth he, "the daughters?" and it seemed he lost +Count of that prophecy, for very age, +And from his thin lips dropt a trembling laugh. +"Wicked old man," quoth he, "this wise old man +I see as 't were not I. Thou bad old man, +What shall be done to thee? for thou didst burn +Their babes, and strew the ashes all about, +To rid the world of His white soldiers. Ay, +Scenting of human sacrifice, they fled. +Cowards! I heard them winnow their great wings: +They went to tell Him; but they came no more. +The women hate to hear of them, so sore +They grudged their little ones; and yet no way +There was but that. I took it; I did well." + +With that he fell to weeping. "Son," said he, +"Long have I hid mine eyes from stalwart men, +For it is hard to lose the majesty +And pride and power of manhood: but to-day, +Stand forth into the light, that I may look +Upon thy strength, and think, EVEN THUS DID I, +IN THE GLORY OF MY YOUTH, MORE LIKE TO GOD +THAN LIKE HIS SOLDIERS, FACE THE VASSAL WORLD." + +Then Noah stood forward in his majesty, +Shouldering the golden billhook, wherewithal +He wont to cut his way, when tangled in +The matted hayes. And down the opened roof +Fell slanting beams upon his stately head, +And streamed along his gown, and made to shine +The jewelled sandals on his feet. + + And, lo, +The Elder cried aloud: "I prophesy. +Behold, my son is as a fruitful field +When all the lands are waste. The archers drew,-- +They drew the bow against him; they were fain +To slay: but he shall live,--my son shall live, +And I shall live by him in the other days. +Behold the prophet of the Most High God: +Hear him. Behold the hope o' the world, what time +She lieth under. Hear him; he shall save +A seed alive, and sow the earth with man. +O, earth! earth! earth! a floating shell of wood +Shall hold the remnant of thy mighty lords +Will this old man be in it? Sir, and you +My daughters, hear him! Lo, this white old man +He sitteth on the ground. (Let be, let be: +Why dost Thou trouble us to make our tongue +Ring with abhorred words?) The prophecy +Of the Elder, and the vision that he saw, +They both are ended." + + Then said Noah: "The life +Of this my lord is low for very age: +Why then, with bitter words upon thy tongue, +Father-of Lamech, dost thou anger Him? +Thou canst not strive against Him now." He said: +"Thy feet are toward the valley, where lie bones +Bleaching upon the desert. Did I love +The lithe strong lizards that I yoked and set +To draw my car? and were they not possessed? +Yea, all of them were liars. I loved them well. +What did the Enemy, but on a day +When I behind my talking team went forth, +They sweetly lying, so that all men praised +Their flattering tongues and mild persuasive eyes,-- +What did the Enemy but send His slaves, +Angels, to cast down stones upon their heads +And break them? Nay, I could not stir abroad +But havoc came; they never crept or flew +Beyond the shelter that I builded here. +But straight the crowns I had set upon their heads +Were marks for myrmidons that in the clouds +Kept watch to crush them. Can a man forgive +That hath been warred on thus? I will not. Nay, +I swear it,--I, the man Methuselah." +The Master-shipwright, he replied, "'Tis true, +Great loss was that; but they that stood thy friends, +The wicked spirits, spoke upon their tongues, +And cursed the God of heaven. What marvel, sir, +If He was angered?" But the Elder cried, +"They all are dead,--the toward beasts I loved; +My goodly team, my joy, they all are dead; +Their bones lie bleaching in the wilderness: +And I will keep my wrath for evermore +Against the Enemy that slew them. Go, +Thou coward servant of a tyrant King, +Go down the desert of the bones, and ask, +'My King, what bones are these? Methuselah, +The white old man that sitteth on the ground, +Sendeth a message, "Bid them that they live, +And let my lizards run up every path +They wont to take when out of silver pipes, +The pipes that Tubal wrought into my roof, +I blew a sweeter cry than song-bird's throat +Hath ever formed; and while they laid their heads +Submiss upon my threshold, poured away +Music that welled by heartsful out, and made +The throats of men that heard to swell, their breasts +To heave with the joy of grief; yea, caused the lips +To laugh of men asleep. + Return to me +The great wise lizards; ay, and them that flew +My pursuivants before me. Let me yoke +Again that multitude; and here I swear +That they shall draw my car and me thereon +Straight to the ship of doom. So men shall know +My loyalty, that I submit, and Thou +Shalt yet have honor. O mine Enemy, +By me. The speech of old Methuselah."'" +Then Noah made answer, "By the living God, +That is no enemy to men, great sire, +I will not take thy message; hear thou Him. +'Behold (He saith that suffereth thee), behold, +The earth that I made green cries out to Me, +Red with the costly blood of beauteous man. +I am robbed, I am robbed (He saith); they sacrifice +To evil demons of My blameless flocks, +That I did fashion with My hand. Behold, +How goodly was the world! I gave it thee +Fresh from its finishing. What hast thou done? +I will cry out to the waters, _Cover it_, +_And hide it from its Father. Lo, Mine eyes_ +_Turn from it shamed._'" + + With that the old man laughed +Full softly. "Ay," quoth he, "a goodly world, +And we have done with it as we did list. +Why did He give it us? Nay, look you, son: +Five score they were that died in yonder waste; +And if He crieth, 'Repent, be reconciled,' +I answer, 'Nay, my lizards'; and again, +If He will trouble me in this mine age, +'Why hast Thou slain my lizards?' Now my speech +Is cut away from all my other words, +Standing alone. The Elder sweareth it, +The man of many days, Methuselah." +Then answered Noah, "My Master, hear it not; +But yet have patience"; and he turned himself, +And down betwixt the ordered trees went forth, +And in the light of evening made his way +Into the waste to meet the Voice of God. + + +BOOK III. + +Above the head of great Methuselah +There lay two demons in the opened roof +Invisible, and gathered up his words; +For when the Elder prophesied, it came +About, that hidden things were shown to them, +And burdens that he spake against his time. + +(But never heard them, such as dwelt with him; +Their ears they stopped, and willed to live at ease +In all delight; and perfect in their youth, +And strong, disport them in the perfect world.) + +Now these were fettered that they could not fly, +For a certain disobedience they had wrought +Against the ruler of their host; but not +The less they loved their cause; and when the feet +O' the Master-builder were no longer heard, +They, slipping to the sward, right painfully +Did follow, for the one to the other said, +"Behoves our master know of this; and us, +Should he be favorable, he may loose +From these our bonds." + + And thus it came to pass, +That while at dead of night the old dragon lay +Coiled in the cavern where he dwelt, the watch +Pacing before it saw in middle air +A boat, that gleamed like fire, and on it came, +And rocked as it drew near, and then it burst +And went to pieces, and there fell therefrom, +Close at the cavern's mouth, two glowing balls. + +Now there was drawn a curtain nigh the mouth +Of that deep cave, to testify of wrath. +The dragon had been wroth with some that served, +And chased them from him; and his oracles, +That wont to drop from him, were stopped, and men +Might only pray to him through that fell web +That hung before him. Then did whisper low +Some of the little spirits that bat-like clung +And clustered round the opening. "Lo," they said, +While gazed the watch upon those glowing balls, +"These are like moons eclipsed; but let them lie +Red on the moss, and sear its dewy spires, +Until our lord give leave to draw the web, +And quicken reverence by his presence dread, +For he will know and call to them by name, +And they will change. At present he is sick, +And wills that none disturb him." So they lay, +And there was silence, for the forest tribes +Came never near that cave. Wiser than men, +They fled the serpent hiss that oft by night +Came forth of it, and feared the wan dusk forms +That stalked among the trees, and in the dark +Those whiffs of flame that wandered up the sky +And made the moonlight sickly. + + Now, the cave +Was marvellous for beauty, wrought with tools +Into the living rock, for there had worked +All cunning men, to cut on it with signs +And shows, yea, all the manner of mankind. +The fateful apple-tree was there, a bough +Bent with the weight of him that us beguiled; +And lilies of the field did seem to blow +And bud in the storied stone. There Tubal sat, +Who from his harp delivered music, sweet +As any in the spheres. Yea, more; +Earth's latest wonder, on the walls appeared, +Unfinished, workmen clustering on its ribs; +And farther back, within the rock hewn out, +Angelic figures stood, that impious hands +Had fashioned; many golden lamps they held +By golden chains depending, and their eyes +All tended in a reverend quietude +Toward the couch whereon the dragon lay. +The floor was beaten gold; the curly lengths +Of his last coils lay on it, hid from sight +With a coverlet made stiff with crusting gems, +Fire opals shooting, rubies, fierce bright eyes +Of diamonds, or the pale green emerald, +That changed their lustre when he breathed. + + His head +Feathered with crimson combs, and all his neck, +And half-shut fans of his admired wings, +That in their scaly splendor put to shame +Or gold or stone, lay on his ivory couch +And shivered; for the dragon suffered pain: +He suffered and he feared. It was his doom, +The tempter, that he never should depart +From the bright creature that in Paradise +He for his evil purpose erst possessed, +Until it died. Thus only, spirit of might +And chiefest spirit of ill, could he be free. + +But with its nature wed, as souls of men +Are wedded to their clay, he took the dread +Of death and dying, and the coward heart +Of the beast, and craven terrors of the end +Sank him that habited within it to dread +Disunion. He, a dark dominion erst +Rebellious, lay and trembled, for the flesh +Daunted his immaterial. He was sick +And sorry. Great ones of the earth had sent +Their chief musicians for to comfort him, +Chanting his praise, the friend of man, the god +That gave them knowledge, at so great a price +And costly. Yea, the riches of the mine, +And glorious broidered work, and woven gold, +And all things wisely made, they at his feet +Laid daily; for they said, "This mighty one, +All the world wonders after him. He lieth +Sick in his dwelling; he hath long foregone +(To do us good) dominion, and a throne, +And his brave warfare with the Enemy, +So much he pitieth us that were denied +The gain and gladness of this knowledge. Now +Shall he be certified of gratitude, +And smell the sacrifice that most he loves." + +The night was dark, but every lamp gave forth +A tender, lustrous beam. His beauteous wings +The dragon fluttered, cursed awhile, then turned +And moaned with lamentable voice, "I thirst, +Give me to drink." Thereon stepped out in haste, +From inner chambers, lovely ministrants, +Young boys, with radiant locks and peaceful eyes, +And poured out liquor from their cups, to cool +His parched tongue, and kneeling held it nigh +In jewelled basins sparkling; and he lapped, +And was appeased, and said, "I will not hide +Longer, my much desired face from men. +Draw back the web of separation." Then +With cries of gratulation ran they forth, +And flung it wide, and all the watch fell low, +Each on his face, as drunk with sudden joy. +Thus marked he, glowing on the branched moss, +Those red rare moons, and let his serpent eyes +Consider them full subtly, "What be these?" +Enquiring: and the little spirits said, +"As we for thy protection (having heard +That wrathful sons of darkness walk, to-night, +Such as do oft ill use us), clustered here, +We marked a boat a-fire that sailed the skies, +And furrowed up like spray a billowy cloud, +And, lo, it went to pieces, scattering down +A rain of sparks and these two angry moons." +Then said the dragon, "Let my guard, and you, +Attendant hosts, recede"; and they went back, +And formed about the cave a widening ring, +Then halting, stood afar; and from the cave +The snaky wonder spoke, with hissing tongue, +"If ye were Tartis and Deleisonon, +Be Tartis and Deleisonon once more." + +Then egg-like cracked the glowing balls, and forth +Started black angels, trampling hard to free +Their fettered feet from out the smoking shell. + +And he said, "Tartis and Deleisonon, +Your lord I am: draw nigh." "Thou art our lord," +They answered, and with fettered limbs full low +They bent, and made obeisance. Furthermore, +"O fiery flying serpent, after whom +The nations go, let thy dominion last," +They said, "forever." And the serpent said, +"It shall: unfold your errand." They replied, +One speaking for a space, and afterward +His fellow taking up the word with fear +And panting, "We were set to watch the mouth +Of great Methuselah. There came to him +The son of Lamech two days since. My lord, +They prophesied, the Elder prophesied, +Unwitting, of the flood of waters,--ay, +A vision was before him, and the lands +Lay under water drowned: he saw the ark,-- +It floated in the Enemy's right hand." +Lord of the lost, the son of Lamech fled +Into the wilderness to meet His voice +That reigneth; and we, diligent to hear +Aught that might serve thee, followed, but, forbid +To enter, lay upon its boundary cliff, +And wished for morning. + + "When the dawn was red, +We sought the man, we marked him; and he prayed,-- +Kneeling, he prayed in the valley, and he said--" +"Nay," quoth the serpent, "spare me, what devout +He fawning grovelled to the All-powerful; +But if of what shall hap he aught let fall, +Speak that." They answered, "He did pray as one +That looketh to outlive mankind,--and more, +We are certified by all his scattered words, +That HE will take from men their length of days, +And cut them off like grass in its first flower: +From henceforth this shall be." + + That when he heard, +The dragon made to the night his moan. + + "And more," +They said, "that He above would have men know +That He doth love them, whoso will repent, +To that man he is favorable, yea, +Will be his loving Lord." + + The dragon cried, +"The last is worse than all. O, man, thy heart +Is stout against His wrath. But will He love? +I heard it rumored in the heavens of old, +(And doth He love?) Thou wilt not, canst not, stand +Against the love of God. Dominion fails; +I see it float from me, that long have worn +Fetters of flesh to win it. Love of God! +I cry against thee; thou art worse than all." +They answered, "Be not moved, admired chief +And trusted of mankind"; and they went on, +And fed him with the prophecies that fell +From the Master-shipwright in his prayer. + + But prone +He lay, for he was sick: at every word +Prophetic cowering. As a bruising blow, +It fell upon his head and daunted him, +Until they ended, saying, "Prince, behold, +Thy servants have revealed the whole." + + Thereon +He out of snaky lips did hiss forth thanks. +Then said he, "Tartis and Deleisonon, +Receive your wages." So their fetters fell; +And they retiring, lauded him, and cried, +"King, reign forever." Then he mourned, "Amen." + +And he,--being left alone,--he said: "A light! +I see a light,--a star among the trees,-- +An angel." And it drew toward the cave, +But with its sacred feet touched not the grass, +Nor lifted up the lids of its pure eyes, +But hung a span's length from that ground pollute, +At the opening of the cave. + + And when he looked, +The dragon cried, "Thou newly-fashioned thing, +Of name unknown, thy scorn becomes thee not. +Doth not thy Master suffer what thine eyes +Thou countest all too clean to open on?" +But still it hovered, and the quietness +Of holy heaven was on the drooping lids; +And not as one that answereth, it let fall +The music from its mouth, but like to one +That doth not hear, or, hearing, doth not heed. + +"A message: 'I have heard thee, while remote +I went My rounds among the unfinished stars.' +A message: 'I have left thee to thy ways, +And mastered all thy vileness, for thy hate +I have made to serve the ends of My great love. +Hereafter will I chain thee down. To-day +One thing thou art forbidden; now thou knowest +The name thereof: I told it thee in heaven, +When thou wert sitting at My feet. Forbear +To let that hidden thing be whispered forth: +For man, ungrateful (and thy hope it was, +That so ungrateful he might prove), would scorn, +And not believe it, adding so fresh weight +Of condemnation to the doomed world. +Concerning that, thou art forbid to speak; +Know thou didst count it, falling from My tongue, +A lovely song, whose meaning was unknown, +Unknowable, unbearable to thought, +But sweeter in the hearing than all harps +Toned in My holy hollow. Now thine ears +Are opened, know it, and discern and fear, +Forbearing speech of it for evermore.'" + +So said, it turned, and with a cry of joy, +As one released, went up: and it was dawn, +And all boughs dropped with dew, and out of mist +Came the red sun and looked into the cave. + +But the dragon, left a-tremble, called to him, +From the nether kingdom, certain of his friends,-- +Three whom he trusted, councillors accursed. +A thunder-cloud stooped low and swathed the place +In its black swirls, and out of it they rushed, +And hid them in recesses of the cave, +Because they could not look upon the sun, +Sith light is pure. And Satan called to them,-- +All in the dark, in his great rage he spake: +"Up," quoth the dragon; "it is time to work, +Or we are all undone." And he did hiss, +And there came shudderings over land and trees, +A dimness after dawn. The earth threw out +A blinding fog, that crept toward the cave, +And rolled up blank before it like a veil,-- +curtain to conceal its habiters. +Then did those spirits move upon the floor, +Like pillars of darkness, and with eyes aglow. +One had a helm for covering of the scars +That seamed what rested of a goodly face; +He wore his vizor up, and all his words +Were hollower than an echo from the hills: +He was hight Make. And, lo, his fellow-fiend +Came after, holding down his dastard head, +Like one ashamed: now this for craft was great; +The dragon honored him. A third sat down +Among them, covering with his wasted hand +Somewhat that pained his breast. + + And when the fit +Of thunder, and the sobbings of the wind, +Were lulled, the dragon spoke with wrath and rage, +And told them of his matters: "Look to this, +If ye be loyal"; adding, "Give your thoughts, +And let me have your counsel in this need." + +One spirit rose and spake, and all the cave +Was full of sighs, "The words of Make the Prince, +Of him once delegate in Betelgeux: +Whereas of late the manner is to change, +We know not where 't will end; and now my words +Go thus: give way, be peaceable, lie still +And strive not, else the world that we have won +He may, to drive us out, reduce to naught. + +"For while I stood in mine obedience yet, +Steering of Betelgeux my sun, behold, +A moon, that evil ones did fill, rolled up +Astray, and suddenly the Master came, +And while, a million strong, like rooks they rose, +He took and broke it, flung it here and there, +And called a blast to drive the powder forth; +And it was fine as dust, and blurred the skies +Farther than 'tis from hence to this young sun. +Spirits that passed upon their work that day, +Cried out, 'How dusty 'tis.' Behoves us, then, +That we depart, as leaving unto Him +This goodly world and goodly race of man. +Not all are doomed; hereafter it may be +That we find place on it again. But if, +Too zealous to preserve it, and the men +Our servants, we oppose Him, He may come +And choosing rather to undo His work +Than strive with it for aye, make so an end." + +He sighing paused. Lo, then the serpent hissed +In impotent rage, "Depart! and how depart! +Can flesh be carried down where spirits wonn? +Or I, most miserable, hold my life +Over the airless, bottomless gulf, and bide +The buffetings of yonder shoreless sea? +O death, thou terrible doom: O death, thou dread +Of all that breathe." + A spirit rose and spake; +"Whereas in Heaven is power, is much to fear; +For this admired country we have marred. +Whereas in Heaven is love (and there are days +When yet I can recall what love was like), +Is naught to fear. A threatening makes the whole, +And clogged with strong conditions: 'O, repent, +Man, and I turn,' He, therefore, powerful now, +And more so, master, that ye bide in clay, +Threateneth that He may save. They shall not die." + +The dragon said, "I tremble, I am sick." +He said with pain of heart, "How am I fallen! +For I keep silence; yea, I have withdrawn +From haunting of His gates, and shouting up +Defiance. Wherefore doth He hunt me out +From this small world, this little one, that I +Have been content to take unto myself, +I here being loved and worshipped? He knoweth +How much I have foregone; and must He stoop +To whelm the world, and heave the floors o' the deep, +Of purpose to pursue me from my place? +And since I gave men knowledge, must He take +Their length of days whereby they perfect it? +So shall He scatter all that I have stored, +And get them by degrading them. I know +That in the end it is appointed me +To fade. I will not fade before the time." + +A spirit rose, the third, a spirit ashamed +And subtle, and his face he turned aside: +"Whereas," said he, "we strive against both power +And love, behoves us that we strive aright. +Now some of old my comrades, yesterday +I met, as they did journey to appear +In the Presence; and I said, 'My master lieth +Sick yonder, otherwise (for no decree +There stands against it) he would also come +And make obeisance with the sons of God.' +They answered, naught denying. Therefore, lord, +'Tis certain that ye have admittance yet; +And what doth hinder? Nothing but this breath. +Were it not well to make an end, and die, +And gain admittance to the King of kings? +What if thy slaves by thy consent should take +And bear thee on their wings above the earth, +And suddenly let fall,--how soon 't were o'er! +We should have fear and sinking at the heart; +But in a little moment we should see, +Rising majestic from a ruined heap, +The stately spirit that we served of yore." + +The serpent turned his subtle deadly eyes +Upon the spirit, and hissed; and sick with shame, +It bowed itself together, and went back +With hidden face. "This counsel is not good," +The other twain made answer; "look, my lord, +Whereas 'tis evil in thine eyes, in ours +'Tis evil also; speak, for we perceive +That on thy tongue the words of counsel sit, +Ready to fly to our right greedy ears, +That long for them." And Satan, flattered thus +(Forever may the serpent kind be charmed, +With soft sweet words, and music deftly played), +Replied, "Whereas I surely rule the world, +Behoves that ye prepare for me a path, +And that I, putting of my pains aside, +Go stir rebellion in the mighty hearts +O' the giants; for He loveth them, and looks +Full oft complacent on their glorious strength. +He willeth that they yield, that He may spare; +But, by the blackness of my loathed den, +I say they shall not, no, they shall not yield; +Go, therefore, take to you some harmless guise, +And spread a rumor that I come. I, sick, +Sorry, and aged, hasten. I have heard +Whispers that out of heaven dropped unaware. +I caught them up, and sith they bode men harm, +I am ready for to comfort them; yea, more, +To counsel, and I will that they drive forth +The women, the abhorred of my soul; +Let not a woman breathe where I shall pass, +Lest the curse fall, and that she bruise my head. +Friends, if it be their mind to send for me +An army, and triumphant draw me on +In the golden car ye wot of, and with shouts, +I would not that ye hinder them. Ah, then +Will I make hard their hearts, and grieve Him sore, +That loves them, O, by much too well to wet +Their stately heads, and soil those locks of strength +Under the fateful brine. Then afterward, +While He doth reason vainly with them, I +Will offer Him a pact: 'Great King, a pact, +And men shall worship Thee, I say they shall, +For I will bid them do it, yea, and leave +To sacrifice their kind, so Thou my name +Wilt suffer to be worshipped after Thine.'" + +"Yea, my lord Satan," quoth they, "do this thing, +And let us hear thy words, for they are sweet." + +Then he made answer, "By a messenger +Have I this day been warned. There is a deed +I may not tell of, lest the people add +Scorn to a Coming Greatness to their faults. +Why this? Who careth when about to slay, +And slay indeed, how well they have deserved +Death, whom he slayeth? Therefore yet is hid +A meaning of some mercy that will rob +The nether world. Now look to it,--'Twere vain +Albeit this deluge He would send indeed, +That we expect the harvest; He would yet +Be the Master-reaper; for I heard it said, +Them that be young and know Him not, and them +That are bound and may not build, yea, more, their wives, +Whom, suffering not to hear the doom, they keep +Joyous behind the curtains, every one +With maidens nourished in the house, and babes +And children at her knees,--(then what remain!) +He claimeth and will gather for His own. +Now, therefore, it were good by guile to work, +Princes, and suffer not the doom to fall. +There is no evil like to love. I heard +Him whisper it. Have I put on this flesh +To ruin his two children beautiful, +And shall my deed confound me in the end, +Through awful imitation? Love of God, +I cry against thee; thou art worst of all." + + +BOOK IV. + +Now while these evil ones took counsel strange, +The son of Lamech journeyed home; and, lo! +A company came down, and struck the track +As he did enter it. There rode in front +Two horsemen, young and noble, and behind +Were following slaves with tent gear; others led +Strong horses, others bare the instruments +O' the chase, and in the rear dull camels lagged, +Sighing, for they were burdened, and they loved +The desert sands above that grassy vale. + +And as they met, those horsemen drew the rein, +And fixed on him their grave untroubled eyes; +He in his regal grandeur walked alone, +And had nor steed nor follower, and his mien +Was grave and like to theirs. He said to them, +"Fair sirs, whose are ye?" They made answer cold, +"The beautiful woman, sir, our mother dear, +Niloiya, bear us to great Lamech's son." +And he, replying, "I am he." They said, +"We know it, sir. We have remembered you +Through many seasons. Pray you let us not; +We fain would greet our mother." And they made +Obeisance and passed on; then all their train, +Which while they spoke had halted, moved apace, +And, while the silent father stood, went by, +He gazing after, as a man that dreams; +For he was sick with their cold, quiet scorn, +That seemed to say, "Father, we own you not. +We love you not, for you have left us long,-- +So long, we care not that you come again." + +And while the sullen camels moved, he spake +To him that led the last, "There are but two +Of these my sons; but where doth Japhet ride? +For I would see him." And the leader said, +"Sir, ye shall find him, if ye follow up +Along the track. Afore the noonday meal +The young men, even our masters, bathed; (there grows +A clump of cedars by the bend of yon +Clear river)--there did Japhet, after meat, +Being right weary, lay him down and sleep. +There, with a company of slaves and some +Few camels, ye shall find him." + + And the man +The father of these three, did let him pass, +And struggle and give battle to his heart, +Standing as motionless as pillar set +To guide a wanderer in a pathless waste; +But all his strength went from him, and he strove +Vainly to trample out and trample down +The misery of his love unsatisfied,-- +Unutterable love flung in his face. + +Then he broke out in passionate words, that cried +Against his lot, "I have lost my own, and won +None other; no, not one! Alas, my sons! +That I have looked to for my solacing, +In the bitterness to come. My children dear!" +And when from his own lips he heard those words, +With passionate stirring of the heart, he wept. + +And none came nigh to comfort him. His face +Was on the ground; but, having wept, he rose +Full hastily, and urged his way to find +The river; and in hollow of his hand +Raised up the water to his brow: "This son, +This other son of mine," he said, "shall see +No tears upon my face." And he looked on, +Beheld the camels, and a group of slaves +Sitting apart from some one fast asleep, +Where they had spread out webs of broidery work +Under a cedar-tree; and he came on, +And when they made obeisance he declared +His name, and said, "I will beside my son +Sit till he wakeneth." So Japhet lay +A-dreaming, and his father drew to him. +He said, "This cannot scorn me yet"; and paused, +Right angry with himself, because the youth, +Albeit of stately growth, so languidly +Lay with a listless smile upon his mouth, +That was full sweet and pure; and as he looked, +He half forgot his trouble in his pride. +"And is this mine?" said he, "my son! mine own! +(God, thou art good!) O, if this turn away, +That pang shall be past bearing. I must think +That all the sweetness of his goodly face +Is copied from his soul. How beautiful +Are children to their fathers! Son, my heart +Is greatly glad because of thee; my life +Shall lack of no completeness in the days +To come. If I forget the joy of youth, +In thee shall I be comforted; ay, see +My youth, a dearer than my own again." + +And when he ceased, the youth, with sleep content, +Murmured a little, turned himself and woke. + +He woke, and opened on his father's face +The darkness of his eyes; but not a word +The Master-shipwright said,--his lips were sealed; +He was not ready, for he feared to see +This mouth curl up with scorn. And Japhet spoke, +Full of the calm that cometh after sleep: +"Sir, I have dreamed of you. I pray you, sir, +What is your name?" and even with his words +His countenance changed. The son of Lamech said, +"Why art thou sad? What have I done to thee?" +And Japhet answered, "O, methought I fled +In the wilderness before a maddened beast, +And you came up and slew it; and I thought +You were my father; but I fear me, sir, +My thoughts were vain." With that his father said, +"Whatever of blessing Thou reserv'st for me, +God! if Thou wilt not give to both, give here: +Bless him with both Thy hands"; and laid his own +On Japhet's head. + Then Japhet looked on him, +Made quiet by content, and answered low, +With faltering laughter, glad and reverent: "Sir, +You are my father?" "Ay," quoth he, "I am! +Kiss me, my son; and let me hear my name, +My much desired name, from your dear lips." + +Then after, rested, they betook them home: +And Japhet, walking by the Master, thought, +"I did not will to love this sire of mine; +But now I feel as if I had always known +And loved him well; truly, I see not why, +But I would rather serve him than go free +With my two brethren." And he said to him, +"Father!"--who answered, "I am here, my son." +And Japhet said, "I pray you, sir, attend +To this my answer: let me go with you, +For, now I think on it, I do not love +The chase, nor managing the steed, nor yet +The arrows and the bow; but rather you, +For all you do and say, and you yourself, +Are goodly and delightsome in mine eyes. +I pray you, sir, when you go forth again, +That I may also go." And he replied, +"I will tell thy speech unto the Highest; He +Shall answer it. But I would speak to thee +Now of the days to come. Know thou, most dear +To this thy father, that the drenched world, +When risen clean washed from water, shall receive +From thee her lordliest governors, from thee +Daughters of noblest soul." + So Japhet said, +"Sir, I am young, but of my mother straight +I will go ask a wife, that this may be. +I pray you, therefore, as the manner is +Of fathers, give me land that I may reap +Corn for sustaining of my wife, and bruise +The fruit of the vine to cheer her." But he said, +"Dost thou forget? or dost thou not believe, +My son?" He answered, "I did ne'er believe, +My father, ere to-day; but now, methinks, +Whatever thou believest I believe, +For thy beloved sake. If this then be +As thou (I hear) hast said, and earth doth bear +The last of her wheat harvests, and make ripe +The latest of her grapes; yet hear me, sir, +None of the daughters shall be given to me +If I be landless." Then his father said, +"Lift up thine eyes toward the north, my son" +And so he did. "Behold thy heritage!" +Quoth the world's prince and master, "far away +Upon the side o' the north, where green the field +Lies every season through, and where the dews +Of heaven are wholesome, shall thy children reign; +I part it to them, for the earth is mine; +The Highest gave it me: I make it theirs. +Moreover, for thy marriage gift, behold +The cedars where thou sleepedst! There are vines; +And up the rise is growing wheat. I give +(For all, alas! is mine),--I give thee both +For dowry, and my blessing." + And he said, +"Sir, you are good, and therefore the Most High +Shall bless me also. Sir, I love you well." + + +BOOK V. + +And when two days were over, Japhet said, +"Mother, so please you, get a wife for me." +The mother answered, "Dost thou mock me, son? +'Tis not the manner of our kin to wed +So young. Thou knowest it; art thou not ashamed? +Thou carest not for a wife." And the youth blushed, +And made for answer: "This, my father, saith +The doom is nigh; now therefore find a maid, +Or else shall I be wifeless all my days. +And as for me, I care not; but the lands +Are parted, and the goodliest share is mine. +And lo! my brethren are betrothed; their maids +Are with thee in the house. Then why not mine? +Didst thou not diligently search for these +Among the noblest born of all the earth, +And bring them up? My sisters, dwell they not +With women that bespake them for their sons? +Now, therefore, let a wife be found for me, +Fair as the day, and gentle to my will +As thou art to my father's." When she heard, +Niloiya sighed, and answered, "It is well." +And Japhet went out from her presence. + Then +Quoth the great Master: "Wherefore sought ye not, +Woman, these many days, nor tired at all, +Till ye had found, a maiden for my son? +In this ye have done ill." Niloiya said: +"Let not my lord be angry. All my soul +Is sad: my lord hath walked afar so long, +That some despise thee; yea, our servants fail +Lately to bring their stint of corn and wood. +And, sir, thy household slaves do steal away +To thy great father, and our lands lie waste,-- +None till them: therefore think the women scorn +To give me,--whatsoever gems I send, +And goodly raiment,--(yea, I seek afar, +And sue with all desire and humbleness +Through every master's house, but no one gives)-- +A daughter for my son." With that she ceased. + +Then said the Master: "Some thou hast with thee, +Brought up among thy children, dutiful +And fair; thy father gave them for my slaves,-- +Children of them whom he brought captive forth +From their own heritage." And she replied, +Right scornfully: "Shall Japhet wed a slave?" +Then said the Master: "He shall wed: look thou +To that. I say not he shall wed a slave; +But by the might of One that made him mine, +I will not quit thee for my doomed way +Until thou wilt betroth him. Therefore, haste, +Beautiful woman, loved of me and mine, +To bring a maiden, and to say, 'Behold +A wife for Japhet.'" Then she answered, "Sir, +It shall be done." + And forth Niloiya sped. +She gathered all her jewels,--all she held +Of costly or of rich,--and went and spake +With some few slaves that yet abode with her, +For daily they were fewer; and went forth, +With fair and flattering words, among her feres, +And fain had wrought with them: and she had hope +That made her sick, it was so faint; and then +She had fear, and after she had certainty, +For all did scorn her. "Nay," they cried. "O fool! +If this be so, and on a watery world +Ye think to rock, what matters if a wife +Be free or bond? There shall be none to rule, +If she have freedom: if she have it not, +None shall there be to serve." + And she alit, +The time being done, desponding at her door, +And went behind a screen, where should have wrought +The daughters of the captives; but there wrought +One only, and this rose from off the floor, +Where she the river rush full deftly wove, +And made obeisance. Then Niloiya said, +"Where are thy fellows?" And the maid replied, +"Let not Niloiya, this my lady loved, +Be angry; they are fled since yesternight." +Then said Niloiya, "Amarant, my slave, +When have I called thee by thy name before?" +She answered, "Lady, never"; and she took +And spread her broidered robe before her face. +Niloiya spoke thus: "I am come to woe, +And thou to honor." Saying this, she wept +Passionate tears; and all the damsel's soul +Was full of yearning wonder, and her robe +Slipped from her hand, and her right innocent face +Was seen betwixt her locks of tawny hair +That dropped about her knees, and her two eyes, +Blue as the much-loved flower that rims the beck, +Looked sweetly on Niloiya; but she knew +No meaning in her words; and she drew nigh, +And kneeled and said, "Will this my lady speak? +Her damsel is desirous of her words." +Then said Niloiya, "I, thy mistress, sought +A wife for Japhet, and no wife is found." +And yet again she wept with grief of heart, +Saying, "Ah me, miserable! I must give +A wife: the Master willeth it: a wife, +Ah me! unto the high-born. He will scorn +His mother and reproach me. I must give-- +None else have I to give--a slave,--even thee." +This further spake Niloiya: "I was good,-- +Had rue on thee, a tender sucking child, +When they did tear thee from thy mother's breast; +I fed thee, gave thee shelter, and I taught +Thy hands all cunning arts that women prize. +But out on me! my good is turned to ill. +O, Japhet, well-beloved!" And she rose up, +And did restrain herself, saying, "Dost thou heed? +Behold, this thing shall be." The damsel sighed, +"Lady, I do." Then went Niloiya forth. + +And Amarant murmured in her deep amaze, +"Shall Japhet's little children kiss my mouth? +And will he sometimes take them from my arms, +And almost care for me for their sweet sake? +I have not dared to think I loved him,--now +I know it well: but O, the bitterness +For him!" And ending thus, the damsel rose, +For Japhet entered. And she bowed herself +Meekly and made obeisance, but her blood +Ran cold about her heart, for all his face +Was colored with his passion. + Japhet spoke: +He said, "My father's slave"; and she replied, +Low drooping her fair head, "My master's son." +And after that a silence fell on them, +With trembling at her heart, and rage at his. +And Japhet, mastered of his passion, sat +And could not speak. O! cruel seemed his fate,-- +So cruel her that told it, so unkind. +His breast was full of wounded love and wrath +Wrestling together; and his eyes flashed out +Indignant lights, as all amazed he took +The insult home that she had offered him, +Who should have held his honor dear. + And, lo, +The misery choked him and he cried in pain, +"Go, get thee forth"; but she, all white and still, +Parted her lips to speak, and yet spake not, +Nor moved. And Japhet rose up passionate, +With lifted arm as one about to strike; +But she cried out and met him, and she held +With desperate might his hand, and prayed to him, +"Strike not, or else shall men from henceforth say, +'Japhet is like to us.'" And he shook off +The damsel, and he said, "I thank thee, slave; +For never have I stricken yet or child +Or woman. Not for thy sake am I glad, +Nay, but for mine. Get hence. Obey my words." +Then Japhet lifted up his voice, and wept. + +And no more he restrained himself, but cried, +With heavings of the heart, "O hateful day! +O day that shuts the door upon delight. +A slave! to wed a slave! O loathed wife, +Hated of Japhet's soul." And after, long, +With face between his hands, he sat, his thoughts +Sullen and sore; then scorned himself, and saying, +"I will not take her, I will die unwed, +It is but that"; lift up his eyes and saw +The slave, and she was sitting at his feet; +And he, so greatly wondering that she dared +The disobedience, looked her in the face +Less angry than afraid, for pale she was +As lily yet unsmiled on by the sun; +And he, his passion being spent, sighed out, +"Low am I fallen indeed. Hast thou no fear, +That thou dost flout me?" but she gave to him +The sighing echo of his sigh, and mourned, +"No." + And he wondered, and he looked again, +For in her heart there was a new-born pang, +That cried; but she, as mothers with their young, +Suffered, yet loved it; and there shone a strange +Grave sweetness in her blue unsullied eyes. +And Japhet, leaning from the settle, thought, +"What is it? I will call her by her name, +To comfort her, for also she is naught +To blame; and since I will not her to wife, +She falls back from the freedom she had hoped." +Then he said "Amarant"; and the damsel drew +Her eyes down slowly from the shaded sky +Of even, and she said, "My master's son, +Japhet"; and Japhet said, "I am not wroth +With thee, but wretched for my mother's deed, +Because she shamed me." + And the maiden said, +"Doth not thy father love thee well, sweet sir?" +"Ay," quoth he, "well." She answered, "Let the heart +Of Japhet, then, be merry. Go to him +And say, 'The damsel whom my mother chose, +Sits by her in the house; but as for me, +Sir, ere I take her, let me go with you +To that same outland country. Also, sir, +My damsel hath not worked as yet the robe +Of her betrothal'; now, then, sith he loves, +He will not say thee nay. Herein for awhile +Is respite, and thy mother far and near +Will seek again: it may be she will find +A fair, free maiden." + Japhet said, "O maid, +Sweet are thy words; but what if I return, +And all again be as it is to-day?" +Then Amarant answered, "Some have died in youth; +But yet, I think not, sir, that I shall die. +Though ye shall find it even as I had died,-- +Silent, for any words I might have said; +Empty, for any space I might have filled. +Sir, I will steal away, and hide afar; +But if a wife be found, then will I bide +And serve." He answered, "O, thy speech is good; +Now therefore (since my mother gave me thee), +I will reward it; I will find for thee +A goodly husband, and will make him free +Thee also." + Then she started from his feet, +And, red with shame and anger, flashed on him +The passion of her eyes; and put her hands +With catching of the breath to her fair throat, +And stood in her defiance lost to fear, +Like some fair hind in desperate danger turned +And brought to bay, and wild in her despair. +But shortly, "I remember," quoth she, low, +With raining down of tears and broken sighs, +"That I am Japhet's slave; beseech you, sir, +As ye were ever gentle, ay, and sweet +Of language to me, be not harder now. +Sir, I was yours to take; I knew not, sir, +That also ye might give me. Pray you, sir, +Be pitiful,--be merciful to me, +A slave." He said, "I thought to do thee good, +For good hath been thy counsel"; but she cried, +"Good master, be you therefore pitiful +To me, a slave." And Japhet wondered much +At her, and at her beauty, for he thought, +"None of the daughters are so fair as this, +Nor stand with such a grace majestical; +She in her locks is like the travelling sun, +Setting, all clad in coifing clouds of gold. +And would she die unmatched?" He said to her, +"What! wilt thou sail alone in yonder ship, +And dwell alone hereafter?" "Ay," she said, +"And serve my mistress." + "It is well," quoth he, +And held his hand to her, as is the way +Of masters. Then she kissed it, and she said, +"Thanks for benevolence," and turned herself, +Adding, "I rest, sir, on your gracious words"; +Then stepped into the twilight and was gone. + +And Japhet, having found his father, said, +"Sir, let me also journey when ye go." +Who answered, "Hath thy mother done her part?" + +He said, "Yea, truly, and my damsel sits +Before her in the house; and also, sir, +She said to me, 'I have not worked, as yet, +The garment of betrothal.'" And he said, +"'Tis not the manner of our kin to speak +Concerning matters that a woman rules; +But hath thy mother brought a damsel home, +And let her see thy face, then all is one +As ye were wed." He answered, "Even so, +It matters nothing; therefore hear me, sir: +The damsel being mine, I am content +To let her do according to her will; +And when we shall return, so surely, sir, +As I shall find her by my mother's side, +Then will I take her"; and he left to speak; +His father answering, "Son, thy words are good." + + +BOOK VI. + +Night. Now a tent was pitched, and Japhet sat +In the door and watched, for on a litter lay +The father of his love. And he was sick +To death; but daily he would rouse him up, +And stare upon the light, and ever say, +"On, let us journey"; but it came to pass +That night, across their path a river ran, +And they who served the father and the son +Had pitched the tents beside it, and had made +A fire, to scare away the savagery +That roamed in that great forest, for their way +Had led among the trees of God. + The moon +Shone on the river, like a silver road +To lead them over; but when Japhet looked, +He said, "We shall not cross it. I shall lay +This well-beloved head low in the leaves,-- +Not on the farther side." From time to time, +The water-snakes would stir its glassy flow +With curling undulations, and would lay +Their heads along the bank, and, subtle-eyed, +Consider those long spirting flames, that danced, +When some red log would break and crumble down; +And show his dark despondent eyes, that watched, +Wearily, even Japhet's. But he cared +Little; and in the dark, that was not dark, +But dimness of confused incertitude, +Would move a-near all silently, and gaze +And breathe, and shape itself, a maned thing +With eyes; and still he cared not, and the form +Would falter, then recede, and melt again +Into the farther shade. And Japhet said: +"How long? The moon hath grown again in heaven, +After her caving twice, since we did leave +The threshold of our home; and now what 'vails +That far on tumbled mountain snow we toiled, +Hungry, and weary, all the day; by night +Waked with a dreadful trembling underneath, +To look, while every cone smoked, and there ran +Red brooks adown, that licked the forest up, +While in the pale white ashes wading on +We saw no stars?--what 'vails if afterward, +Astonished with great silence, we did move +Over the measureless, unknown desert mead; +While all the day, in rents and crevices, +Would lie the lizard and the serpent kind, +Drowsy; and in the night take fearsome shapes, +And oft-times woman-faced and woman-haired +Would trail their snaky length, and curse and mourn; +Or there would wander up, when we were tired, +Dark troops of evil ones, with eyes morose, +Withstanding us, and staring;--O! what 'vails +That in the dread deep forest we have fought +With following packs of wolves? These men of might, +Even the giants, shall not hear the doom +My father came to tell them of. Ah, me! +If God indeed had sent him, would he lie +(For he is stricken with a sore disease) +Helpless outside their city?" + Then he rose, +And put aside the curtains of the tent, +To look upon his father's face; and lo! +The tent being dark, he thought that somewhat sat +Beside the litter; and he set his eyes +To see it, and saw not; but only marked +Where, fallen away from manhood and from power, +His father lay. Then he came forth again, +Trembling, and crouched beside the dull red fire, +And murmured, "Now it is the second time: +An old man, as I think (but scarcely saw). +Dreadful of might. Its hair was white as wool: +I dared not look; perhaps I saw not aught, +But only knew that it was there: the same +Which walked beside us once when he did pray." +And Japhet hid his face between his hands +For fear, and grief of heart, and weariness +Of watching; and he slumbered not, but mourned +To himself, a little moment, as it seemed, +For sake of his loved father: then he lift +His eyes, and day had dawned. Right suddenly +The moon withheld her silver, and she hung +Frail as a cloud. The ruddy flame that played, +By night on dim, dusk trees, and on the flood, +Crept red amongst the logs, and all the world +And all the water blushed and bloomed. The stars +Were gone, and golden shafts came up, and touched +The feathered heads of palms, and green was born +Under the rosy cloud, and purples flew +Like veils across the mountains; and he saw, +Winding athwart them, bathed in blissful peace, +And the sacredness of morn, the battlements +And out-posts of the giants; and there ran +On the other side the river, as it were, +White mounds of marble, tabernacles fair, +And towers below a line of inland cliff: +These were their fastnesses, and here their homes. + +In valleys and the forest, all that night, +There had been woe; in every hollow place, +And under walls, like drifted flowers, or snow, +Women lay mourning; for the serpent lodged +That night within the gates, and had decreed, +"I will (or ever I come) that ye drive out +The women, the abhorred of my soul." +Therefore, more beauteous than all climbing bloom, +Purple and scarlet, cumbering of the boughs, +Or flights of azure doves that lit to drink +The water of the river; or, new born, +The quivering butterflies in companies, +That slowly crept adown the sandy marge, +Like living crocus beds, and also drank, +And rose an orange cloud; their hollowed hands +They dipped between the lilies, or with robes +Full of ripe fruitage, sat and peeled and ate, +Weeping; or comforting their little ones, +And lulling them with sorrowful long hymns +Among the palms. + So went the earlier morn. +Then came a messenger, while Japhet sat +Mournfully, and he said, "The men of might +Are willing; let thy master, youth, appear." +And Japhet said, "So be it"; and he thought, +"Now will I trust in God"; and he went in +And stood before his father, and he said, +"My father"; but the Master answered not, +But gazed upon the curtains of his tent, +Nor knew that one had called him. He was clad +As ready for the journey, and his feet +Were sandalled, and his staff was at his side; +And Japhet took the gown of sacrifice +And spread it on him, and he laid his crown +Upon his knees, and he went forth, and lift +His hand to heaven, and cried, "My father's God!" +But neither whisper came nor echo fell +When he did listen. Therefore he went on: +"Behold, I have a thing to say to thee. +My father charged thy servant, 'Let not ruth +Prevail with thee, to turn and bear me hence, +For God appointed me my task, to preach +Before the mighty.' I must do my part +(O! let it not displease thee), for he said +But yesternight, 'When they shall send for me, +Take me before them.' And I sware to him. +I pray thee, therefore, count his life and mine +Precious; for I that sware, I will perform." + +Then cried he to his people, "Let us hence: +Take up the litter." And they set their feet +Toward the raft whereby men crossed that flood. +And while they journeyed, lo, the giants sat +Within the fairest hall where all were fair, +Each on his carven throne, o'er-canopied +With work of women. And the dragon lay +In a place of honor; and with subtlety +He counselled them, for they did speak by turns; +And they being proud, might nothing master them, +But guile alone: and he did fawn on them; +And when the younger taunted him, submiss +He testified great humbleness, and cried, +"A cruel God, forsooth! but nay, O nay, +I will not think it of Him, that He meant +To threaten these. O, when I look on them, +How doth my soul admire." + + And one stood forth, +The youngest; of his brethren, named "the Rock." +"Speak out," quoth he, "thou toothless slavering thing, +What is it? thinkest thou that such as we +Should be afraid? What is this goodly doom?" +And Satan laughed upon him. "Lo," said he, +"Thou art not fully grown, and every one +I look on, standeth higher by the head, +Yea, and the shoulders, than do other men; +Forsooth, thy servant thought not thou wouldst fear, +Thou and thy fellows." Then with one accord, +"Speak," cried they; and with mild persuasive eyes, +And flattering tongue, he spoke. + + "Ye mighty ones, +It hath been known to you these many days +How that for piety I am much famed. +I am exceeding pious: if I lie, +As hath been whispered, it is but for sake +Of God, and that ye should not think Him hard, +For I am all for God. Now some have thought +that He hath also (and it, may be so +Or yet may not be so) on me been hard; +Be not ye therefore wroth, for my poor sake; +I am contented to have earned your weal, +Though I must therefore suffer. + + "Now to-day +One cometh, yea, an harmless man, a fool, +Who boasts he hath a message from our God, +And lest that you, for bravery of heart +And stoutness, being angered with his prate, +Should lift a hand, and kill him, I am here." + +Then spoke the Leader, "How now, snake? Thy words +Ring false. Why ever liest thou, snake, to us? +Thou coward! none of us will see thee harmed. +I say thou liest. The land is strewed with slain; +Myself have hewn down companies, and blood +Makes fertile all the field. Thou knowest it well; +And hast thou, driveller, panting sore for age, +Come with a force to bid us spare one fool?" + +And Satan answered, "Nay you! be not wroth; +Yet true it is, and yet not all the truth. +Your servant would have told the rest, if now +(For fulness of your life being fretted sore +At mine infirmities, which God in vain +I supplicate to heal) ye had not caused +My speech to stop." And he they called "the Oak" +Made answer, "'Tis a good snake; let him be. +Why would ye fright the poor old craven beast? +Look how his lolling tongue doth foam for fear. +Ye should have mercy, brethren, on the weak. +Speak, dragon, thou hast leave; make stout thy heart. +What! hast thou lied to this great company? +It was, we know it was, for humbleness; +Thou wert not willing to offend with truth." + +"Yea, majesties," quoth Satan, "thus it was," +And lifted up appealing eyes, and groaned; +"O, can it be, compassionate as brave, +And housed in cunning works themselves have reared, +And served in gold, and warmed with minivere, +And ruling nobly,--that He, not content +Unless alone He reigneth, looks to bend +O break them in, like slaves to cry to Him, +'What is Thy will with us, O Master dear?' +Or else to eat of death? + + "For my part, lords, +I cannot think it: for my piety +And reason, which I also share with you, +Are my best lights, and ever counsel me, +'Believe not aught against thy God; believe, +Since thou canst never reach to do Him wrong, +That He will never stoop to do thee wrong. +Is He not just and equal, yea, and kind?' +Therefore, O majesties, it is my mind +Concerning him ye wot of, thus to think +The message is not like what I have learned +By reason and experience, of the God. +Therefore no message 'tis. The man is mad." +Thereat the great Leader laughed for scorn. "Hold, snake; +If God be just, there SHALL be reckoning days. +We rather would He were a partial God, +And being strong, He sided with the strong. +Turn now thy reason to the other side, +And speak for that; for as to justice, snake, +We would have none of it." + + And Satan fawned: +"My lord is pleased to mock at my poor wit; +Yet in my pious fashion I must talk: +For say that God was wroth with man, and came +And slew him, that should make an empty world, +But not a bettor nation." + + This replied, +"Truth, dragon, yet He is not bound to mean +A better nation; may be, He designs, +If none will turn again, a punishment +Upon an evil one." + And Satan cried, +"Alas! my heart being full of love for men, +I cannot choose but think of God as like +To me; and yet my piety concludes, +Since He will have your fear, that love alone +Sufficeth not, and I admire, and say, +'Give me, O friends, your love, and give to God +Your fear.'" But they cried out in wrath and rage, +"We are not strong that any we will fear, +Nor specially a foe that means us ill." + + +BOOK VII. + +And while he spoke there was a noise without; +The curtains of the door were flung aside, +And some with heavy feet bare in, and set +A litter on the floor. + The Master lay +Upon it, but his eyes were dimmed and set; +And Japhet, in despairing weariness, +Leaned it beside. He marked the mighty ones, +Silent for pride of heart, and in his place +The jewelled dragon; and the dragon laughed, +And subtly peered at him, till Japhet shook +With rage and fear. The snaky wonder cried, +Hissing, "Thou brown-haired youth, come up to me; +I fain would have thee for my shrine afar, +To serve among an host as beautiful +As thou: draw near." It hissed, and Japhet felt +Horrible drawings, and cried out in fear, +"Father! O help, the serpent draweth me!" +And struggled and grew faint, as in the toils +A netted bird. But still his father lay +Unconscious, and the mighty did not speak, +But half in fear and half for wonderment +Beheld. And yet again the dragon laughed, +And leered at him and hissed; and Japhet strove +Vainly to take away his spell-set eyes, +And moved to go to him, till piercingly +Crying out, "God! forbid it, God in heaven!" +The dragon lowered his head, and shut his eyes +As feigning sleep; and, suddenly released, +He fell back staggering; and at noise of it, +And clash of Japhet's weapons on the floor, +And Japhet's voice crying out, "I loathe thee, snake! +I hate thee! O, I hate thee!" came again, +The senses of the shipwright; and he, moved, +And looking, as one 'mazed, distressfully +Upon the mighty, said, "One called on God: +Where is my God? If God have need of me, +Let Him come down and touch my lips with strength, +Or dying I shall die." + + It came to pass, +While he was speaking, that the curtains swayed; +A rushing wind did move throughout the place, +And all the pillars shook, and on the head +Of Noah the hair was lifted, and there played +A somewhat, as it were a light, upon +His breast; then fell a darkness, and men heard +A whisper as of one that spake. With that, +The daunted mighty ones kept silent watch +Until the wind had ceased and darkness fled. +When it grew light, there curled a cloud of smoke +From many censers where the dragon lay. +It hid him. He had called his ministrants, +And bid them veil him thus, that none might look; +Also the folk who came with Noah had fled. + +But Noah was seen, for he stood up erect, +And leaned on Japhet's hand. Then, after pause, +The Leader said, "My brethren, it were well +(For naught we fear) to let this sorcerer speak." +And they did reach toward the man their staves, +And cry with loud accord, "Hail, sorcerer, hail!" + +And he made answer, "Hail! I am a man +That is a shipwright. I was born afar +To Lamech, him that reigns a king, to wit, +Over the land of Jalal. Majesties, +I bring a message,--lay you it to heart; +For there is wrath in heaven: my God is wroth. +'Prepare your houses, or I come,' saith He, +'A Judge.' Now, therefore, say not in your hearts, +'What have we done?' Your dogs may answer that, +To make whom fiercer for the chase, ye feed +With captives whom ye slew not in the war, +But saved alive, and living throw to them +Daily. Your wives may answer that, whose babes +Their firstborn ye do take and offer up +To this abhorred snake, while yet the milk +Is in their innocent mouths,--your maiden babes +Tender. Your slaves may answer that,--the gangs +Whose eyes ye did put out to make them work +By night unwitting (yea, by multitudes +They work upon the wheel in chains). Your friends +May answer that,--(their bleached bones cry out.) +For ye did, wickedly, to eat their lands, +Turn on their valleys, in a time of peace, +The rivers, and they, choking in the night, +Died unavenged. But rather (for I leave +To tell of more, the time would be so long +To do it, and your time, O mighty ones, +Is short),--but rather say, 'We sinners know +Why the Judge standeth at the door,' and turn +While yet there may be respite, and repent. + +"'Or else,' saith He that formed you, 'I swear, +By all the silence of the times to come, +By the solemnities of death,--yea, more,. +By Mine own power and love which ye have scorned, +That I will come. I will command the clouds, +And raining they shall rain; yea, I will stir +With all my storms the ocean for your sake, +And break for you the boundary of the deep. + +"'Then shall the mighty mourn. + Should I forbear, +That have been patient? I will not forbear! +For yet,' saith He, 'the weak cry out; for yet +The little ones do languish; and the slave +Lifts up to Me his chain. I therefore, I +Will hear them. I by death will scatter you; +Yea, and by death will draw them to My breast, +And gather them to peace. + "'But yet,' saith He, +'Repent, and turn you. Wherefore will ye die?' + +"Turn then, O turn, while yet the enemy +Untamed of man fatefully moans afar; +For if ye will not turn, the doom is near. +Then shall the crested wave make sport, and beat +You mighty at your doors. Will ye be wroth? +Will ye forbid it? Monsters of the deep +Shall suckle in your palaces their young, +And swim atween your hangings, all of them +Costly with broidered work, and rare with gold +And white and scarlet (there did ye oppress,-- +There did ye make you vile); but ye shall lie +Meekly, and storm and wind shall rage above, +And urge the weltering wave. + + "'Yet,' saith thy God, +'Son,' ay, to each of you He saith, 'O son, +Made in My image, beautiful and strong, +Why wilt thou die? Thy Father loves thee well. +Repent and turn thee from thine evil ways, +O son! and no more dare the wrath of love. +Live for thy Father's sake that formed thee. +Why wilt thou die?' Here will I make an end." + +Now ever on his dais the dragon lay, +Feigning to sleep; and all the mighty ones +Were wroth, and chided, some against the woe, +And some at whom the sorcerer they had named,-- +Some at their fellows, for the younger sort,-- +As men the less acquaint with deeds of blood, +And given to learning and the arts of peace +(Their fathers having crushed rebellion out +Before their time)--lent favorable ears. +They said, "A man, or false or fanatic, +May claim good audience if he fill our ears +With what is strange: and we would hear again." + +The Leader said, "An audience hath been given. +The man hath spoken, and his words are naught; +A feeble threatener, with a foolish threat, +And it is not our manner that we sit +Beyond the noonday"; then they grandly rose, +A stalwart crowd, and with their Leader moved +To the tones of harping, and the beat of shawms, +And the noise of pipes, away. But some were left +About the Master; and the feigning snake +Couched on his dais. + Then one to Japhet said, +One called "the Cedar-Tree," "Dost thou, too, think +To reign upon our lands when we lie drowned?" +And Japhet said, "I think not, nor desire, +Nor in my heart consent, but that ye swear +Allegiance to the God, and live." He cried, +To one surnamed "the Pine,"--"Brother, behooves +That deep we cut our names in yonder crag. +Else when this youth returns, his sons may ask +Our names, and he may answer, 'Matters not, +For my part I forget them.'" + Japhet said, +"They might do worse than that, they might deny +That such as you have ever been." With that +They answered, "No, thou dost not think it, no!" +And Japhet, being chafed, replied in heat, +"And wherefore? if ye say of what is sworn, +'He will not do it,' shall it be more hard +For future men, if any talk on it, +To say, 'He did not do it'?" They replied, +With laughter, "Lo you! he is stout with us. +And yet he cowered before the poor old snake. +Sirrah, when you are saved, we pray you now +To bear our might in mind,--do, sirrah, do; +And likewise tell your sons, '"The Cedar Tree" +Was a good giant, for he struck me not, +Though he was young and full of sport, and though +I taunted him.'" + With that they also passed. +But there remained who with the shipwright spoke: +"How wilt thou certify to us thy truth?" +And he related to them all his ways +From the beginning: of the Voice that called; +Moreover, how the ship of doom was built. + +And one made answer, "Shall the mighty God +Talk with a man of wooden beams and bars? +No, thou mad preacher, no. If He, Eterne, +Be ordering of His far infinitudes, +And darkness cloud a world, it is but chance, +As if the shadow of His hand had fallen +On one that He forgot, and troubled it." +Then said the Master, "Yet,--who told thee so?" + +And from his dais the feigning serpent hissed: +"Preacher, the light within, it was that shined, +And told him so. The pious will have dread +Him to declare such as ye rashly told. +The course of God is one. It likes not us +To think of Him as being acquaint with change: +It were beneath Him. Nay, the finished earth +Is left to her great masters. They must rule; +They do; and I have set myself between,-- +A visible thing for worship, sith His face +(For He is hard) He showeth not to men. +Yea, I have set myself 'twixt God and man, +To be interpreter, and teach mankind +A pious lesson by my piety, +He loveth not, nor hateth, nor desires,-- +It were beneath Him." + And the Master said, +"Thou liest. Thou wouldst lie away the world, +If He, whom thou hast dared speak against, +Would suffer it." "I may not chide with thee," +It answered, "NOW; but if there come such time +As thou hast prophesied, as I now reign +In all men's sight, shall my dominion then +Reach to be mighty in their souls. Thou too +Shalt feel it, prophet." And he lowered his head. + +Then quoth the Leader of the young men: "Sir, +We scorn you not; speak further; yet our thought +First answer. Not but by a miracle +Can this thing be. The fashion of the world +We heretofore have never known to change; +And will God change it now?" + He then replied: +"What is thy thought? THERE is NO MIRACLE? +There is a great one, which thou hast not read. +And never shalt escape. Thyself, O man, +Thou art the miracle. Lo, if thou sayest, +'I am one, and fashioned like the gracious world, +Red clay is all my make, myself, my whole, +And not my habitation,' then thy sleep +Shall give thee wings to play among the rays +O' the morning. If thy thought be, 'I am one,-- +A spirit among spirits,--and the world +A dream my spirit dreameth of, my dream +Being all,' the dominating mountains strong +Shall not for that forbear to take thy breath, +And rage with all their winds, and beat thee back, +And beat thee down when thou wouldst set thy feet +Upon their awful crests. Ay, thou thyself, +Being in the world and of the world, thyself +Hast breathed in breath from Him that made the world. +Thou dost inherit, as thy Maker's son, +That which He is, and that which He hath made: +Thou art thy Father's copy of Himself,-- +THOU art thy FATHER'S MIRACLE. + Behold +He buildeth up the stars in companies; +He made for them a law. To man He said, +'Freely I give thee freedom.' What remains? +O, it remains, if thou, the image of God, +Wilt reason well, that thou shalt know His ways; +But first thou must be loyal,--love, O man, +Thy Father,--hearken when He pleads with thee, +For there is something left of Him e'en now,-- +A witness for thy Father in thy soul, +Albeit thy better state thou hast foregone. + +"Now, then, be still, and think not in thy soul, +'The rivers in their course forever run, +And turn not from it. He is like to them +Who made them,' Think the rather, 'With my foot +I have turned the rivers from their ancient way, +To water grasses that were fading. What! +Is God my Father as the river wave, +That yet descendeth, like the lesser thing +He made, and not like me, a living son, +That changed the watercourse to suit his will?' + +"Man is the miracle in nature. God +Is the ONE MIRACLE to man. Behold, +'There is a God,' thou sayest. Thou sayest well: +In that thou sayest all. To Be is more +Of wonderful, than being, to have wrought, +Or reigned, or rested. +Hold then there, content; +Learn that to love is the one way to know, +Or God or man: it is not love received +That maketh man to know the inner life +Of them that love him; his own love bestowed +Shall do it. Love thy Father, and no more +His doings shall be strange. Thou shalt not fret +At any counsel, then, that He will send,-- +No, nor rebel, albeit He have with thee +Great reservations. Know, to Be is more +Than to have acted; yea, or after rest +And patience, to have risen and been wroth, +Broken the sequence of an ordered earth, +And troubled nations." + Then the dragon sighed. +"Poor fanatic," quoth he, "thou speakest well. +Would I were like thee, for thy faith is strong, +Albeit thy senses wander. Yea, good sooth, +My masters, let us not despise, but learn +Fresh loyalty from this poor loyal soul. +Let us go forth--(myself will also go +To head you)--and do sacrifice; for that, +We know, is pleasing to the mighty God: +But as for building many arks of wood, +O majesties! when He shall counsel you +HIMSELF, then build. What say you, shall it be +An hundred oxen,--fat, well liking, white? +An hundred? why, a thousand were not much +To such as you." Then Noah lift up his arms +To heaven, and cried, "Thou aged shape of sin, +The Lord rebuke thee." + + +BOOK VIII. + +Then one ran, crying, while Niloiya wrought, +"The Master cometh!" and she went within +To adorn herself for meeting him. And Shem +Went forth and talked with Japhet in the field, +And said, "Is it well, my brother?" He replied, +"Well! and, I pray you, is it well at home?" + +But Shem made answer, "Can a house be well, +If he that should command it bides afar? +Yet well is thee, because a fair free maid +Is found to wed thee; and they bring her in +This day at sundown. Therefore is much haste +To cover thick with costly webs the floor, +And pluck and cover thick the same with leaves +Of all sweet herbs,--I warrant, ye shall hear +No footfall where she treadeth; and the seats +Are ready, spread with robes; the tables set +With golden baskets, red pomegranates shred +To fill them; and the rubied censers smoke, +Heaped up with ambergris and cinnamon, +And frankincense and cedar." + Japhet said, +"I will betroth her to me straight"; and went +(Yet labored he with sore disquietude) +To gather grapes, and reap and bind the sheaf +For his betrothal. And his brother spake, +"Where is our father? doth he preach to-day?" +And Japhet answered, "Yea. He said to me, +'Go forward; I will follow when the folk +By yonder mountain-hold I shall have warned.'" + +And Shem replied, "How thinkest thou?--thine ears +Have heard him oft." He answered, "I do think +These be the last days of this old fair world." + +Then he did tell him of the giant folk: +How they, than he, were taller by the head; +How one must stride that will ascend the steps +That lead to their wide halls; and how they drave, +With manful shouts, the mammoth to the north; +And how the talking dragon lied and fawned, +They seated proudly on their ivory thrones, +And scorning him: and of their peaked hoods, +And garments wrought upon, each with the tale +Of him that wore it,--all his manful deeds +(Yea, and about their skirts were effigies +Of kings that they had slain; and some, whose swords +Many had pierced, wore vestures all of red, +To signify much blood): and of their pride +He told, but of the vision in the tent +He told him not. + And when they reached the house, +Niloiya met them, and to Japhet cried, +"All hail, right fortunate! Lo, I have found +A maid. And now thou hast done well to reap +The late ripe corn." So he went in with her, +And she did talk with him right motherly: +"It hath been fully told me how ye loathed +To wed thy father's slave; yea, she herself, +Did she not all declare to me?" + He said, +"Yet is thy damsel fair, and wise of heart." +"Yea," quoth his mother; "she made clear to me +How ye did weep, my son, and ye did vow, +'I will not take her!' Now it was not I +That wrought to have it so." And he replied, +"I know it." Quoth the mother, "It is well; +For that same cause is laughter in my heart." +"But she is sweet of language," Japhet said. +"Ay," quoth Niloiya, "and thy wife no less +Whom thou shalt wed anon,--forsooth, anon,-- +It is a lucky hour. Thou wilt?" He said, +"I will." And Japhet laid the slender sheaf +From off his shoulder, and he said, "Behold, +My father!" Then Niloiya turned herself, +And lo! the shipwright stood. "All hail!" quoth she. +And bowed herself, and kissed him on the mouth; +But while she spake with him, sorely he sighed; +And she did hang about his neck the robe +Of feasting, and she poured upon his hands +Clear water, and anointed him, and set +Before him bread. + And Japhet said to him, +"My father, my beloved, wilt thou yet +Be sad because of scorning? Eat this day; +For as an angel in their eyes thou art +Who stand before thee." But he answered, "Peace! +Thy words are wide." + And when Niloiya heard, +She said, "Is this a time for mirth of heart +And wine? Behold, I thought to wed my son, +Even this Japhet; but is this a time, +When sad is he to whom is my desire, +And lying under sorrow as from God?" + +He answered, "Yea, it is a time of times; +Bring in the maid." Niloiya said, "The maid +That first I spoke on, shall not Japhet wed; +It likes not her, nor yet it likes not me. +But I have found another; yea, good sooth, +The damsel will not tarry, she will come +With all her slaves by sundown." + And she said, +"Comfort thy heart, and eat: moreover, know +How that thy great work even to-day is done. +Sir, thy great ship is finished, and the folk +(For I, according to thy will, have paid +All that was left us to them for their wage,) +Have brought, as to a storehouse, flour of wheat, +Honey and oil,--much victual; yea, and fruits, +Curtains and household gear. And, sir, they say +It is thy will to take it for thy hold +Our fastness and abode." He answered, "Yea, +Else wherefore was it built?" She said, "Good sir, +I pray you make us not the whole earth's scorn. +And now, to-morrow in thy father's house +Is a great feast, and weddings are toward; +Let be the ship, till after, for thy words +Have ever been, 'If God shall send a flood, +There will I dwell'; I pray you therefore wait +At least till He DOTH send it." + And he turned, +And answered nothing. Now the sun was low +While yet she spake; and Japhet came to them +In goodly raiment, and upon his arm +The garment of betrothal. And with that +A noise, and then brake in a woman slave +And Amarant. This, with folding of her hands, +Did say full meekly, "If I do offend, +Yet have not I been willing to offend; +For now this woman will not be denied +Herself to tell her errand." + And they sat. +Then spoke the woman, "If I do offend, +Pray you forgive the bondslave, for her tongue +Is for her mistress. 'Lo!' my mistress saith, +'Put off thy bravery, bridegroom; fold away, +Mother, thy webs of pride, thy costly robes +Woven of many colors. We have heard +Thy master. Lo, to-day right evil things +He prophesied to us, that were his friends; +Therefore, my answer:--God do so to me; +Yea, God do so to me, more also, more +Than He did threaten, if my damsel's foot +Ever draw nigh thy door.'" + And when she heard, +Niloiya sat amazed, in grief of soul. +But Japhet came unto the slave, where low +She bowed herself for fear. He said, "Depart; +Say to thy mistress, 'It is well.'" With that +She turned herself, and she made haste to flee, +Lest any, for those evil words she brought, +Would smite her. But the bondmaid of the house +Lift up her hand and said, "If I offend, +It was not of my heart: thy damsel knew +Naught of this matter." And he held to her +His hand and touched her, and said, "Amarant!" +And when she looked upon him, she did take +And spread before her face her radiant locks, +Trembling. And Japhet said, "Lift up thy face, +O fairest of the daughters, thy fair face; +For, lo! the bridegroom standeth with the robe +Of thy betrothal! "--and he took her locks +In his two hands to part them from her brow, +And laid them on her shoulders; and he said, +"Sweet are the blushes of thy face," and put +The robe upon her, having said, "Behold, +I have repented me; and oft by night, +In the waste wilderness, while all things slept, +I thought upon thy words, for they were sweet. + +"For this I make thee free. And now thyself +Art loveliest in mine eyes; I look, and lo! +Thou art of beauty more than any thought +I had concerning thee. Let, then, this robe, +Wrought on with imagery of fruitful bough, +And graceful leaf, and birds with tender eyes, +Cover the ripples of thy tawny hair." +So when she held her peace, he brought her nigh +To hear the speech of wedlock; ay, he took +The golden cup of wine to drink with her, +And laid the sheaf upon her arms. He said, +"Like as my fathers in the older days +Led home the daughters whom they chose, do I; +Like as they said, 'Mine honor have I set +Upon thy head!' do I. Eat of my bread, +Rule in my house, be mistress of my slaves, +And mother of my children." + And he brought +The damsel to his father, saying, "Behold +My wife! I have betrothed her to myself; +I pray you, kiss her." And the Master did: +He said, "Be mother of a multitude, +And let them to their father even so +Be found, as he is found to me." + With that +She answered, "Let this woman, sir, find grace +And favor in your sight." + And Japhet said, +"Sweet mother, I have wed the maid ye chose +And brought me first. I leave her in thy hand; +Have care on her, till I shall come again +And ask her of thee." So they went apart, +He and his father to the marriage feast. + + +BOOK IX. + +The prayer of Noah. The man went forth by night +And listened; and the earth was dark and still, +And he was driven of his great distress +Into the forest; but the birds of night +Sang sweetly; and he fell upon his face, +And cried, "God, God! Thy billows and Thy waves +Have swallowed up my soul. + + "Where is my God? +For I have somewhat yet to plead with Thee; +For I have walked the strands of Thy great deep, +Heard the dull thunder of its rage afar, +And its dread moaning. O, the field is sweet,-- +Spare it. The delicate woods make white their trees +With blossom,--spare them. Life is sweet; behold +There is much cattle, and the wild and tame, +Father, do feed in quiet,--spare them. + + "God! +Where is my God? The long wave doth not rear +Her ghostly crest to lick the forest up, +And like a chief in battle fall,--not yet. +The lightnings pour not down, from ragged holes +In heaven, the torment of their forked tongues, +And, like fell serpents, dart and sting,--not yet. +The winds awake not, with their awful wings +To winnow, even as chaff, from out their track, +All that withstandeth, and bring down the pride +Of all things strong and all things high-- + + "Not yet. +O, let it not be yet. Where is my God? +How am I saved, if I and mine be saved +Alone? I am not saved, for I have loved +My country and my kin. Must I, Thy thrall, +Over their lands be lord when they are gone? +I would not: spare them. Mighty. Spare Thyself, +For Thou dost love them greatly,--and if not ..." + +Another praying unremote, a Voice +Calm as the solitude between wide stars. + +"Where is my God, who loveth this lost world,-- +Lost from its place and name, but won for Thee? +Where is my multitude, my multitude, +That I shall gather?" And white smoke went up +From incense that was burning, but there gleamed +No light of fire, save dimly to reveal +The whiteness rising, as the prayer of him +That mourned. "My God, appear for me, appear; +Give me my multitude, for it is mine. +The bitterness of death I have not feared, +To-morrow shall Thy courts, O God, be full. +Then shall the captive from his bonds go free, +Then shall the thrall find rest, that knew not rest +From labor and from blows. The sorrowful-- +That said of joy, 'What is it?' and of songs, +'We have not heard them'--shall be glad and sing; +Then shall the little ones that knew not Thee, +And such as heard not of Thee, see Thy face, +And seeing, dwell content." + The prayer of Noah. +He cried out in the darkness, "Hear, O God, +Hear HIM: hear this one; through the gates of death, +If life be all past praying for, O give +To Thy great multitude a way to peace; +Give them to HIM. + + "But yet," said he, "O yet, +If there be respite for the terrible, +The proud, yea, such as scorn Thee,--and if not.... +Let not mine eyes behold their fall." + He cried, +"Forgive. I have not done Thy work, Great Judge, +With a perfect heart; I have but half believed, +While in accustomed language I have warned; +And now there is no more to do, no place +For my repentance, yea, no hour remains +For doing of that work again. O, lost, +Lost world!" And while he prayed, the daylight dawned. + +And Noah went up into the ship, and sat +Before the Lord. And all was still; and now +In that great quietness the sun came up, +And there were marks across it, as it were +The shadow of a Hand upon the sun,-- +Three fingers dark and dread, and afterward +There rose a white, thick mist, that peacefully +Folded the fair earth in her funeral shroud, +The earth that gave no token, save that now +There fell a little trembling under foot. + +And Noah went down, and took and hid his face +Behind his mantle, saying, "I have made +Great preparation, and it may be yet, +Beside my house, whom I did charge to come +This day to meet me, there may enter in +Many that yesternight thought scorn of all +My bidding." And because the fog was thick, +He said, "Forbid it, Heaven, if such there be, +That they should miss the way." And even then +There was a noise of weeping and lament; +The words of them that were affrighted, yea, +And cried for grief of heart. There came to him +The mother and her children, and they cried, +"Speak, father, what is this? What hast thou done?" +And when he lifted up his face, he saw +Japhet, his well-beloved, where he stood +Apart; and Amarant leaned upon his breast, +And hid her face, for she was sore afraid; +And lo! the robes of her betrothal gleamed +White in the deadly gloom. + And at his feet +The wives of his two other sons did kneel, +And wring their hands. + + One cried, "O, speak to us; +We are affrighted; we have dreamed a dream, +Each to herself. For me, I saw in mine +The grave old angels, like to shepherds, walk, +Much cattle following them. Thy daughter looked, +And they did enter here." + The other lay +And moaned, "Alas! O father, for my dream +Was evil: lo, I heard when it was dark, +I heard two wicked ones contend for me. +One said, 'And wherefore should this woman live, +When only for her children, and for her, +Is woe and degradation?' Then he laughed, +The other crying, 'Let alone, O prince; +Hinder her not to live and bear much seed, +Because I hate her.'" + But he said, "Rise up, +Daughters of Noah, for I have learned no words +To comfort you." Then spake her lord to her, +"Peace! or I swear that for thy dream, myself +Will hate thee also." + And Niloiya said, +"My sons, if one of you will hear my words, +Go now, look out, and tell me of the day, +How fares it?" + And the fateful darkness grew. +But Shem went up to do his mother's will; +And all was one as though the frighted earth +Quivered and fell a-trembling; then they hid +Their faces every one, till he returned, +And spake not. "Nay," they cried, "what hast thou seen? +O, is it come to this?" He answered them, +"The door is shut." + + +NOTES TO "A STORY OF DOOM." + + +PAGE 358. + +The name of the patriarch's wife is intended to be pronounced +Nigh-loi-ya. + +Of the three sons of Noah,--Shem, Ham, and Japhet,--I have called +Japhet the youngest (because he is always named last), and have supposed +that, in the genealogies where he is called "Japhet the elder," +he may have received the epithet because by that time there were +younger Japhets. + + +PAGE 425. + + The quivering butterflies in companies, + That slowly crept adown the sandy marge, + Like _living crocus beds_. + +This beautiful comparison is taken from "The Naturalist on the +River Amazons." "Vast numbers of orange-colored butterflies congregated +on the moist sands. They assembled in densely-packed masses, +sometimes two or three yards in circumference, their wings +all held in an upright position, so that the sands looked as though +variegated with _beds of crocuses_." + + + + +THE END. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, +Volume II., by Jean Ingelow + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS BY JEAN INGELOW, II *** + +***** This file should be named 13224.txt or 13224.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/2/2/13224/ + +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. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. 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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/13224.zip b/old/13224.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8b9f7d4 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/13224.zip |